A Christmas Story

It is not arrogance which leads me to claim that ‘selfless’ is a word that countless others have used in direct reference to my person. I say it is not arrogance, because such comportment on my part was, and remains, the result of dire necessity. I realize how strange this may seem, but rest assured that all will be revealed in the following account.

I once had a brother two years my elder. At the time of the events in question, we were both quite young (I had only recently reached the age of seven).

It must be remarked from the outset that, while there were some positive attributes which could have been—and occasionally were—observed within my elder brother and myself (we were, for instance, both agreeably handsome, bright, and endearingly ebullient when the mood struck either of us), the exhibition of any particular aptitude for empathy certainly wasn’t among them. We observed, day after day, our poor mother and father straining fervently so that we would want for nothing, and yet we never aided either of them. In fact, it shames me now to realize the extent to which we only served to exacerbate their difficulties with our unceasing mischief and ingratitude. Ours was a modest home; when the winters were especially unforgiving, our mother made sure whatever spare sheets there were went to our beds, while she and our father shivered throughout the night, and during meals she always saw to it that ours were the largest portions, despite how thin and frail she was herself. We never offered a word of thanks, instead shrieking out ungratefully that the chill remained, that we hungered still. Our poor father was also never spared so much as a moment’s peace, for after returning home from a grueling day’s labor, he was harried ceaselessly by our whooping and hollering and running about. Even the cat suffered for our restlessness, undergoing countless physical and psychological torments enacted for our own perverse amusement. Such behavior grew especially intolerable during the yuletide season, a time defined by good cheer and charity toward others. Previously, my brother and I observed the festivities by decrying shrilly how dissatisfied we were with the gifts we had been given, despite knowing full well that whatever we were offered, meager though it was, had had to be sacrificed stringently for well in advance.

This time was to be different. One Christmas eve, seeming to be excessively wearied by our regular behavior, our father sighed heavily and pointed to the birch branch that rested just above the fireplace. For as long as my brother and I could remember, this decoration had been in its present position, displayed in a fashion more befitting a sword than such a seemingly modest piece of wood.

“Do you know what this is for?” our father asked, and then, no doubt recalling that my brother and I had frequently used it to beat the cat, hastily added, “What this is really for?”

We did not.

“Tonight, you will learn,” he said.

And he laid his hand across his temple, as one who has reconciled himself to the gravest of sentences. Our mother stood off in the corner, weeping.

My brother and I knew not what was meant by all of this, nor did we care—we continued on with our fiendish racket until we had exhausted every ounce of our diabolical energy. Then, we went to our beds.

The sound that woke us some time after we had closed our eyes could have come from the deepest cavern of Hell. It seemed not only the roar of a fearsome beast, nor the moans of myriad souls in torment, but some disturbing combination.

Seconds after this horrifying emission, the front door was thrown open. My brother and I looked at one another, but were so frightened that we could not utter a word. And then we heard them—hard, rumbling steps that went from the entrance, halting just before our bedroom door.

The door creaked open . . .

I could not look up, and yet I had to.

The birch branch that had rested above our fireplace was brought forward, and in an instant its wielder leapt forth, immobilized my brother upon the bed with one hand, and began to strike him with the branch held in the other.

The movements were so quick that I could not adequately discern the assailant, but from what I could interpret of his features, he seemed positively inhuman. The terrible cry that had first awoken us resumed, now mingled with my brother’s pathetic screeches and pleas for mercy.

And I swear I saw droplets of blood leaping forth from my brother’s back, so forceful were the blows.

Then, the assault ceased.

My brother lay whimpering on the bed. To my horror, the attacker turned slowly towards me.

Gazing down upon me was a figure so hideous it could have been the Devil himself.

Words cannot depict the terrifying visage that to this day remains irreversibly burned into my memory, its insidious, twisting horns, the yellow eyes at once so animalistic in their diminutive size, and yet so fearsome, so pitiless.

Turning away, the beast seized my brother from the bed and threw him upon its back.

My poor, poor brother!

How he wailed, how he moaned, how he called out for mercy again and again—as he was carried off to a place where there was none.

And so, dear reader, now you have the whole, terrible story. Suffice it to say the ordeal reformed me. I was spared, and yet as even the most casual glance at the new birch branch that replaced its predecessor above our fireplace reminds me, if ever I allow myself to regress to anything less than an absolute paragon of tireless self-sacrifice and goodwill, I will have to suffer the return—of KRAMPUS.