Crack Attack: A Collection of One-Shots and Other Disturbing Shit

White Christmas (Poofless)

The sequel to "Stage Four," centering around the song "White Christmas" as sung by Bing Crosby (see above). Happy holidays!
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I'm dreaming of a white Christmas,

Just like the ones I used to know.

Where the treetops glisten,

And children listen

To hear sleigh bells in the snow.

The sound of the cheesy Christmas song playing through my phone's speaker puts a fragile smile on his face as he finally closes his eyes, his hand barely holding onto mine. He won't admit it, but it's getting harder and harder for him to be awake, and the pain medications do less and less to help him through it. To his credit, anyone else would have given in long ago and just closed their eyes. Not Preston. Never Preston. He never backed down for a moment, even though the war was lost long before we knew the battle had begun. His hand slowly stops trembling as he falls asleep against my chest, pressed as close to me as possible to stay warm. The song plays through five, ten times before the clock on my phone shows that it is finally midnight on Christmas morning, his favorite day of the year.

I study his peaceful, pale face, with his purple-blue lips curled in a gentle smile. I make sure his eyes are closed and his heartbeat has slowed before I reach over and turn the dial on his ventilator, watching the rubber billows forcing oxygen into his lungs slowly deflate. His chest sinks one last time and I feel his pulse weaken, weaken weaken... and stop. I know I'm selfish for letting him go, stroking his thinning hair as he gradually slips away from my grasp. I couldn't watch him suffer any more. It took death wearing down on his body and soul to get him to admit that he needed help, that he needed warmth, that he needed comfort and love. Here lies the world's most stubborn man in all of his selfish glory and undeniable beauty.

I never thought I would mourn Christmas coming to an end. I was never one to celebrate it, not like my extended family does. One oversized, commercialized holiday was always enough for me; why add another one? There is just something about his childish delight and innocent hopefulness that makes it so appealing. He draws me in with his too-bright chestnut-colored eyes and his seemingly endless collection of Christmas hats. Who could resist something that makes him so happy?

He still calls me the Grinch, even after I gave in to his demands and took him out with his oxygen tank to buy a real Christmas tree. If I had ever had a job, it was getting that god damned thing home for him. I spent half an hour tying the rope through his car windows to keep it on the roof of his Prius on the way to his condo, and even longer trying to maneuver it up the stairwells to get it inside. He laughed so hard when I finally got it through the door that he made himself sick with a coughing fit, then he kept laughing afterward. He laughed even harder when I tried to put the fucking thing in the tree stand and realized that it was too tall for his condo, just like I told him it would be. It carved a line in the ceiling and rained needles down on us before I managed to get it back down on its side. I had to use a butcher knife to saw through the trunk to cut the top off while he filmed it and posted it on Twitter for the world to see. He is so proud of that ugly damned trapezoidal tree, even though it looks like it's standing upside down and has the angel tied to its side with twist seals and ribbon. He even moved his bed permanently to the couch so that he could watch the lights and enjoy the fresh pine scent when he thought I wouldn't see him taking his oxygen mask off. He knows he will win every fight against me. He knows I will give in. Even after the whole tree ordeal, he still calls me the jobless Grinch with a smirk and a kiss.

Of course, Preston would be the one to use Scotch tape to fix a sprig of plastic mistletoe to the ceiling over his spot on the couch. How he can still call me the cheesy one after that first stolen kiss? His doctors weren't pleased with our arrangement, telling him that he should 'avoid exchanging bodily fluids' to prevent him from developing an infection with his weakened immune system, advice that they never would have given him if he had had a girlfriend instead of me. He was never one for playing safe, or for following the rules. He never listened to his parents, to me, to the game developers, to the doctors... He made it this far on his own volition, his own willpower. He was at the same time a perpetual kid, still enraptured with a child's endless wonderment, and a grown man, always searching for a hero's brilliant strategy. His plans and dreams all fell apart in front of his eyes, but he never stopped planning, dreaming, scheming.

It feels like I have been here forever, tangled up with him in his mound of blankets and unwinding his collection of cords and tubes in the dim light of the Christmas tree. But it somehow feels like it has been no time at all. It feels so real, so tangible, so sweet, but it also feels like it happened to another person in another place during another lifetime. Two months have never flown by so quickly. He needed me here and I needed to be here with him. He couldn't handle being in the hospice anymore and there was too much going on at his parents' house for him to stay there. They tried to take him from me, to make me feel guilty for taking advantage of him, corrupting him. They didn't see this coming like we did. They never thought that he would choose me over them. They don't understand that I will do anything for him.

I brush his dull, brittle hair out of his face and run my thumb across his ice cold cheek before I press a gentle kiss to his forehead and hold him closer than ever. I can't stop the tears any longer. There is no one left to hide them from. I lace our fingers together and reach under my pillow for the cool, smooth metal hidden there, the sharp edges grating against my quaking fingertips. I unlock the safety, just like he showed me when we took it with us to the shooting range for banter. I nestle my head into the familiar crook of his neck and take a deep breath, closing my eyes and letting his song overtake my mind. I only have one last gift to give him. I shakily hold the mouth of the pistol to my temple and wait for the ending of the song to come, the air catching in my throat as I try to hold it together for just a little longer.

I'm dreaming of a white Christmas

With every Christmas card I write.

"Merry Christmas, Preston."

May your days be merry and bright,

And may all your Christmases be white.