The Savage Brothers | ✓

CHAPTER 24.2: Savage Santa

CHAPTER 24.2: Savage Santa

B R Y A N

The celebration was crazy—good crazy. Disco lights were attached for the kids to dance on; food and drinks were abundant in long tables at the far side wall; balloons and Christmas decorations made the whole room bloom to life; and chairs were now all over the place thanks to Bob's insane games.

There were parents who watch, but not much. They laugh as they watch their kids play and have fun. And the kids were amazing. Not only were they nice, but they're fucking angels.

I have to admit that at first I was shocked to see some in a wheelchair, others have IV's connected into their skin, and many have with visible veins line their bald heads because of chemotherapy. But what did I expect, anyway?

I've seen movies featuring kids with needs like them, but it's not the same when you're with them. In real life, it's much more intimate and a humbling experience, I have to say.

I helped Bob organizing the kids for the whole event. Kids call him Bobbie, and they laugh how silly they nicknamed him. We danced, we played, we laughed, and we ate. We prayed too, care of Bob.

It's surprising how strong the faith these kids have, because I know I didn't have the same faith when I was their age. They believe they will be cured. And if joining them will help speed up that process, I prayed with them.

The kids were fascinating to be with. There were 40 in the room, but there were three that were memorable to me.

Cara—a sweet six-year-old who loves to hug, is very talkative, and an avid reader of books with magic and dragons in them. She couldn't stop hugging me all throughout the games, and my cheeks hurt from smiling at her so much. God, she's adorable.

Bob said Cara was diagnosed with AML. Knowing that, I hug her even more.

When I was introduced to the kids, it was Cara who raised her hand to ask a question. "Why is he wearing that, Bobbie?" She pointed her tiny finger at my shades. Then at me: "Mister, are you blind?"

Conner is a badass. He's so competitive and almost wins every one of Bob's games. Loud and funny, we two get along pretty fast. (Just like his friends, I call him Con-man.) It's not hard to get to know him considering he's got to be the nosiest kid in the room. Noisier than the blaring music. But, hey, that's what made him so much likable.

Conner's suffering from hemophilia. Bob informed me that if ever he injures himself, he will bleed for a long time. Ironically, Conner is an aggressive player for an eight-year-old. (He is obsessed with action films—and he kinda blames them for it.) That's why Bob made his games simpler and less physically demanding.

And then there was Markie. Timid, reserved, and doesn't even participate in any of the games. But he does take interest in music. I can tell by the way his eyes close while he listens to me play. As well as when he opens them, there's a familiar glitter that shines passion. The way his foot taps to the beat, his head bop to the rhythm, it's a way to connect to him.

Music. He loves it as much as he loves staring.

I didn't see it at first, but his attention was its peak when Bob strummed his ukulele. What a Wonderful World. Bob told me that he played it every year because the kids just love it. And the kids were thrilled—like they haven't heard it before.

"Hunter syndrome," Bob explained to me once about Markie. "He's a bit shy because he's insecure about how he looks..."

Markie has a distinctive coarseness in his facial features. One of them is having a prominent forehead. Bob informed me that Markie's been suffering from skeletal abnormalities that's why his height may not grow further.