i think i killed my friend

24 december 2005

it's christmas tomorrow. which makes today christmas eve. i was baking cookies with my mum. or trying to help her to bake cookies. it's going to be for santa. i have been a really good girl this year and i hope santa knows that. he is going to come tonight! i'm so excited. i decorated the cookies with my utmost effort with colours and marshmallow. he's going to love it. i'm just upset i can't get to see him. mum says i won't be able to get any presents if i saw him. i'm not going to risk that. i'm going to go to bed early so that i can wake up early on christmas to open my presents.

my mum cleaned up the baking stuff and packed the cookies. she then started preparing dinner. our family's dinner on christmas eve is as extravagant as christmas day's dinner. i watched her as she chops and fries and marinates and stirs and whisks and grills and roasts and all sorts of other stuff i don't know how to describe. it's fascinating to see the dinner table comes to life.

by the time she's done, i was famished. i was more than ready to settle into my chair and eat the table away. my mum stopped me and said we have to wait for my dad. i pout and walk off. i cozied up with blanket by the fireplace and diligently prayed dad would come home soon. but we waited and waited. my mum's face is turning solemn. she looked at me, trying to keep a smile on her face. she got up and hide herself in a room, phoning my dad. i could hear shouting hidden as whispers. hateful words thrown back and forth but i couldn't understand them.

i continued to cuddle up by myself by the fireplace and stared sleepily out the window. the snow were falling like the skies were crying. i tried my best to keep myself awake because i have to have that dinner. and just when i was about to fall asleep, i saw a figuring emerging from the snow and walking towards my door. it sways and sways and then bang rudely at the door.

my dad's home. drunk. flushed. necktie losen. winter coat staggered loose.

we sat at the dinner table and i think this is the most unhappy christmas eve dinner we ever had in my five years of life. i don't know if i should be thankful for the snow outside that blanket our words and silenced the scrape of our forks and our chairs.

my dad got up and whispered i can't do this. my mum tightened her grip around her utensils. she said leave. and he did. and i didn't know back then but he was never going to come back.