A Certain Holiday

The problem started in January, a bitter month where the holidays have passed, but warmer weather is yet to come. Christmas break was always solemn, even though my family was intact, pockets of silence filling the room. My mother prepared the turkey slightly frozen as usual, a prim look on her face, shriveled up into a small puckered smile. It had always been just my mother, irritatingly flaky father and their only son, Ollie. Our house was much too big, devoid of any pets or welcoming decorations. Our floors were antique maple-wood, cleaned once weekly with another layer of employed helpers’ chemical supplies. Dad often arrived home at ungodly hours of the night reeking of cigarettes and cheap whiskey, mumbling something about a business affair as he handed another wad of cash over to my mother.

Our family practically hibernated during the holidays, never vacationing or going on outings. I would sit in silence, contemplating the sounds around me in a haze of insomnia, or occasionally go to the library, crouching in the stacks and staring at the words on the page as if they were written in a foreign language. The empty void stared deep within my soul during these lapses in activity, finding nothing but a husk of bones, rotting away in a stationary position.

Luckily, my oblivious aunt and her two children unexpectedly arrived the day after Christmas, bringing last-minute gas station gifts and a whole lot more conversation throughout the household. Thaddeus was the oldest, with his sister still being a toddler and practically illiterate. He was naive and sheltered by the looming figure of gifted education, never experiencing the burn of watching eyes upon his tender skin. In any manner, a change of pace wasn’t exactly a bad thing, especially since I’d barely communicated with anyone in a long time. He at times comforted my soul, confessing cheeky secrets in the dark with the laugh of a cherub.

He was a ball of uncontrollable energy, messing up my perfectly arranged piles of clothes, insisting that it would make my room cleaner. Most of all, Theo made me laugh, soft little tendrils of hair sticking up all over like a baby chick as he told some extravagant scenario about how he stubbed his toe on the stair’s wooden landing and proceeded to make some sort of silly face which his mother promptly took another photo for her never-ending scrapbook.

Winter break was almost over, but the weather stayed persistent. Any time spent even an inch into the outside was greeted with the bitter sting of hypothermia and tingling fingers like they were filled with TV static. It was near the time to attend school again, and I was less than thrilled.

“Olivier.”

My mother stood in front of me, dangling a freshly washed school uniform. It bothered me that the fabric was wrinkled although it had been ironed. Mother was a diligent woman, keeping most of her intelligence stored behind a stormy expression of mild happiness mixed with annoyance.

I nodded in response, my dry and chapped lips barely parting. Motioning for me to grab the blazer, my mother dropped it halfheartedly into my hands, stiff blue pants drooping like a wilted flower onto the ground. Myself, Olivier, the prodigal son, forgotten at the hands of his parents, left abandoned although still surrounded with family. A tragic scene, like something from the poetry books of deceased authors. Best not to dramaticize real life, though.

Far from suddenly, Teddy approached me from behind, putting his tiny warm hand on my shoulder and saying something that blurred out from my hearing. Probably reassuring me that everything was going to be great. Was he going to be there? He asked me if it was fun. I mumbled some gibberish about something or other. To him everything was… Amazing. Whatever happy world he lived in I couldn’t quite grasp.