A Christmas Story

A Christmas Story 

The sound of a singular piano note echoed through the small, beaten up house and the blinds for the only window, shuddered. A lone man stood in front of the piano, pale face gaunt and blue eyes sunken, his black hair lay pasted to his head, unmoving. Then after a moment of hesitation his fingers began to fly, tripping over the ivory keys and dancing across the black ones. Beautiful music continued to play, then like an animal, the piano let out a strangled cry and fell silent. The man slumped forward, fingers trembling and shoulders shaking. He opened his mouth and said in a voice barely used, "I know you're watching." 

The shadow of a person scuffled back then slowly, it crept forward again and the face of a small girl appeared, her brown eyes wide and blonde hair stuffed into two messy pigtails, "What's the matter papa?" She stepped forward, a ragged doll clutched tightly in her grubby hands. A second passed then the girl dropped the doll and ran to the man, she collided into him and wrapped her arms tightly around his waist. 

The man looked down at the little girl and his lips curved up into a small, strained smile. "Nothing, Lucy, nothing is the matter." Then he unlocked Lucy's hands from his waist and started to play the piano once more, the same tune echoing endlessly throughout the house. "Of course nothing is the matter...what would be the matter?" He said to himself, trying to deny his obvious pain. His icy blue eyes lifted up from the piano keys and found the torn picture sitting in a cracked frame on the top of the piano. There were supposed to be three people in the picture, two people on one half and a third person on the half that was torn away. Tears crept into the man's gaze then he tore his eyes away from the photo and back to the piano, his fingers tracing and retracing each note. 

Three years before, the picture had not been torn in half, three years before, there had been three people, not two. But that had been three years ago, when Lucy had a mother and a father, when Lucy lived on Penworth avenue, the wealthiest street in Edinburg, in a beautiful Victorian home with laughter at every corner. Then on Christmas day, at two A.M., the crash happened and she disappeared, the red haired lady in the old picture, Lucy's mother. Some said she was running away from the reality of her situation, unable to cope with the fact that she had a daughter, others said that she was different, that she saw things. Either way, everybody, including Lucy, knew that it had not been planned. 

Lucy looked up at the old photo and then stumbled over to the doll she had dropped. Lucy grabbed the doll by her red pigtails and glanced back at her father, he was young, only twenty five, but already his black hair was greying and his frame was thin and unhealthy. Despite being only three, Lucy learned fast, already she understood what was happening, she understood the pain and the hurt. She had seen her father go through nights, drunk and broken; playing loud echoing songs with a feeling so raw she could feel her own heart tearing itself away from her chest. 

She stepped away from the room and strode confidently to the black door, staring back at her dauntingly. The girl took the brass doorknob into her hand and twisted it to her right, she walked out into the blinding light. Cars sped across the crystal snow, leaving heavy tire marks. Lucy shut the door behind her and walked down to the corner of the street then crossed the cracked cement and muddy snow. People pointed, a couple of thin kids in rags stared but she ignored them and continued to walk, determined to reach her goal. Golden Christmas lights wrapped themselves around the trees like snakes and twinkled. Lucy's doll dragged in the cold snow but she took no notice, instead, she walked into a rose garden, dropped the red haired doll and began to gently tear stems of red and orange flowers off, the petals glowing like flames on a dark night. Blood dripped down her arms and stained the girl's sleeves but she ignored the pain and continued to pick the stems and pretend that the thorns tearing into her didn't exist. She needed to do this and this was the only way for it to happen. 

He went to sleep early, his head bent over his arms, ragged breathing filling the grey room, and a blanket thrown carelessly over his shoulder. Earlier he had drawn the notes to his song on the wall of the room, then erased them, unable to keep the notes on the wall. It was a law for him, nothing could be written down, everything had to be remembered, ever since That Day. If he couldn't remember, then neither could he forget, but if he forgot then everything, all would be lost. He would be lost. Without her memory he was nothing. 

Lucy came back later, when the sky was dark and the moon had risen high above the towering buildings and city lights. She walked into the dark house, a bouquet of roses held tightly in her hands, the thorns, picked off, one by one and a basket of candles in her other hand, the red haired doll resting with the candles. She walked to the piano and began to set everything up, she lined up the candles, took a torn photo from her dress pocket and placed it next to the one framed on the piano. 

Three hours later, Lucy gently shook the young man and he awoke, his eyes blurry from sleep and his hair tousled. It was the next day already; two o'clock in the morning on the twenty fifth of December. Lucy looked at her father and then pointed to the flickering candles and the two vases of roses, then she pointed to the picture on the center of the piano and said, "Merry Christmas papa..." Lucy swallowed and then iridescent tears began to roll down her cheeks. 

The man looked at the two pictures, made whole once more, tears fell down his face, he clutched Lucy tightly and whispered, "Merry Christmas Lucy." He looked at the eyes of the red haired woman whose face mirrored that of Lucy's doll and murmured softly, "Merry Christmas Celine..." He reached forward and gently touched her forever smiling face.