You Better Watch Out

Disclaimer: This story contains references of drugs and substance abuse. Reader discretion is advised.

December 24th.

Not a fond day for a guy like me. It was the night I almost lost everything, many years ago.

The name's Timothy. Timothy Allen. Lately I've been feeling... regretful about not telling this story to anyone, or, publicizing it in any way, so I've decided it finally needs to come out.

This is the story of the worst night of my life, rewritten.

It all began thirty nine years ago, in 1983. I was nine. I'd been a good boy all damn year, even eating every last vegetable on my plate for 362 days. I was the definition of good kid. I even treated Joe Clump nicely, and he abused alcohol and tried to beat me on several occasions. Standard village drunkard stuff.

Christmas Eve finally rolled around, and I was dying to see what I got the next day. Biggest thing on my list was the legendary Nintendo Entertainment System. I eagerly looked at the shapes of the presents all day long. And then... bedtime.

Call it fate, karma, bad luck, whatever, I absolutely could not sleep. Now that I think about it, maybe it was a good thing. I didn't know what was going down that night.

After two hours of trying my hardest to sleep, it was 10:00 p.m. and I rolled out of bed to watch TV with my parents until I slept. Mom was out immediately after I supposedly went to bed, falling asleep after downing her third bottle of beer. Dad was "working late" for the third time that week. I was too naïve to understand he was having an affair with his assistant, and when he was home, he smoked 24/7.

It was around 10:30 p.m. and a rerun episode of Fantasy Island was playing on ABC. My parents didn't usually let me watch this show, but there were a few times I could, this included. I was minding my own business, watching the big kid programming, when something clattered in the main room.

Being the stupid, insignificant little bastard I was, I went to investigate. A big, fat guy in a red suit was climbing from the ground in front of the chimney. Stupid me ran up and yelled "Santa!"

"T-the he-hell is this bastard doin'?" Santa responded as I hugged his leg. I looked up and saw his eyes go blood red.

"You little bastard. You dirty little bastard! Whaddya think you're pullin' here?! Think you can mug me like any other pushover?! Like any weakling on the streets?! I ain't gonna let'chya do that to me!" he said. He tossed me into the couch and I hit my head on the wall. I started to cry when Santa picked me up again, carried me to the middle of the living room and started shaking me around and spinning.

"You think... You KNOW that just 'cause you've been good ALL DAMN YEAR means YOU think YOU can SHOW IT OFF?! I AIN'T GONNA STAND FOR THIS, YOU LITTLE BASTARD!" he yelled. "AND JUST CAUSE I TOUCH ONE DAMN BLOCK OF COCAINE MEANS I'M A BAD EGG, DON'T IT?! DON'T IT, YOU LITTLE BASTARD?!"

Without being able to think clearly, I kind of nodded, an action I regret now. He roared in my face and threw me into the tree. As I painfully climbed out he went feral, and dashed into the hallway. Before he left, he told me about the game.

"You better watch out, bastard... Santa's comin' to play."

I got up and grabbed the flashlight from the kitchen immediately. Terrified, I waddled up the stairs to my parents' bedroom. Damn bad decision the more I think about it. They were awful parents, but even I wouldn't willingly inflict him on them. It made it worse knowing I did it on accident. I'm just glad he didn't hurt them.