It’s the screams I like the most. Those gut-wrenching, ‘my god, what has happened?’ screams. They’re almost primal by the time they’ve escaped from the mouth to my ears. That sound makes my heartbeat quicken in anticipation. That sound gives me goosebumps. That sound keeps me going.
I never set out to walk this path, but here I am. I liken myself to being at a crossroad–one side good, the other bad. Both sides I have visited and both sides I enjoy, although one side is quickly becoming my favorite. My reaction to those first screams I heard was a hint I was crossing over to the dark side. The way I crave those screams now, and find myself looking forward to them, all but confirms there is no going back.
And it was no surprise really; the dark side had been waiting for me for a while now.
Those boys could have been kinder to me, shown me a little empathy. They knew I was poor. Hell, we all were. I don’t think there was a kid at that school that wasn’t living below the poverty line, but for whatever reason, they targeted me. With a surname of Claus, it wasn’t long before it was changed to ‘Poor’, the two words somehow rhyming in their simple little minds. Robbie Poor is what they called me, and it stuck till the day I left school. I don’t know if it was my footwear, hand me downs from my brother that were about three sizes too big, a tattered moth-eaten uniform, scraps of bread for lunch or my pure need to just have a friend. I wasn’t greedy; I just wanted one. One singular friend would have done it. But no.
Maybe it was my willingness to go with the crowd, my eagerness to prove myself as one of the boys–even if that meant embarrassing myself in the process–or my desperation to have someone like me that shone through, making me unlikable or just plain annoying. I tried so hard to hide it, but it always came out. And just like home, revealing my true self only resulted with me being picked on, beaten up, and having no one like me. My lousy parents never liked me and neither did those lousy kids.
I was aged thirty-five when I found out my secret, and of course, I kept it to myself. Not that I had anyone to tell anyway. I was still friendless, both parents were dead, siblings long gone, and my self-confidence was that shattered, I didn’t know how to talk to a woman, let alone have a wife. Nope, I was the only one who knew how big my discovery was.
How big I was.
I started off with the best intentions. I really did. But soon enough, I began seeing my old tormentors on my route. I’d see them in their beautiful homes, with their equally beautiful wives and cute, furry dogs. They had it all: cars, pools, the latest appliances and most importantly friends. I’d see friend after friend stopping by, laden with food and expensive bottles of wine. I’d hear them laugh as they enjoyed them together.
It infuriated me.
They had crawled their ways out of poverty’s clutches, while I fell behind, rotting away in them. They were horrible, vile children, who had no doubt grown into horrible, vile adults, yet here they were, living a perfect lifestyle, unpunished for their horrible deeds of the past, while I lived a sad life of solitude, loneliness, and wretched sorrow. How was this fair? How was this right? How could I let this go year after year and not do something? And for a long time, I kept myself in check and did just that.
Until I didn’t.
I’ll never forget the screams when Harry’s wife discovered his body right by the Christmas tree, minus his throat. Or Robert’s, or Chris’s, or Stewart’s.
After I finally snapped, the more I picked off, the easier–and more enjoyable–it became. Every year, I’d make my list, making sure to visit the naughty ones last. Every year that list got bigger. The bullies who made my life hell in school slowly died off but were quickly replaced by the ones who helped make my life miserable in the years following school. The list was growing by the year.
Ever since I found out I was the new Santa Claus, a role inherited when my absent grandpa passed away, I made sure to visit my chosen victim every Christmas Eve, right after I’d finished my present drop for the kids of the world, always making sure to take extra care of the poor ones. And every Christmas Eve, after the deed was done, and another name was crossed off my list oh so quickly and violently, I’d wait nearby, often in the backyard, inhaling a much needed cigarette, savoring the last moment of silence, waiting for that scream. That scream signals it’s all over for another year; my last gift has been discovered, and for a minute, that leaves me feeling a little down. But as I round up my reindeer and set off for home, I know it’s not the last time I’ll hear it.
And it’s that promise of another scream that keeps me going.
—
Belinda is a lifelong fan of reading stories and after years of procrastinating, has finally turned her hand to writing them, with her favorite genre being supernatural/thriller themes. Belinda lives in Australia with her family.
Nice, BB. Thanks for the story.