Uhh, I don't know what I was doing, I was Yogscast-obsessed at the time I wrote this.
Most young children attempt to stay up on Christmas Eve to see Father Christmas. All except one little boy, who sat perched on the edge of a couch, kicking his stubby legs as if he had too much energy to contain, and quietly watching the door, with big, curious eyes. This little boy had never believed in Santa Claus. When his mother would ask him why, he would shrug his shoulders and say it just didn't make sense. No, this boy was not staying up for his gifts. He was staying up for his father.
This strange little boy's father had been on a long-term business trip for work. What company, the little boy didn't know—his mother had told him it was a big, wealthy corporation, and that he would work there when he grew up, in the science division, just like his dad. And the little boy believed it, he worked hard in school so that he could get into the company when it was time. The only thing he wanted more than the A's he got daily was his dad, who never seemed to be home. When he was home, the little boy had to fight for his attention over all his brothers and sisters. Finally, when it was his turn, he would bombard his father with rapid-fire questions about the place he worked for; what they did, what they made, why couldn't he ever know anything about it. Most of the questions his father brushed off with a laugh, and didn't bother to answer at all, though it was obvious that his father wasn't answering the questions on purpose. As if the information was classified—or top secret.
Four months and sixteen days had passed since his father last stepped foot into this threshold. He had counted every minute. It had been this little boy's birthday, and for the first day in two years his father only missed it by about a month. His father had propped his gift, a pair of too-big goggles, on the little boy's head, and promised to be home for Christmas, a miracle in the eyes of the young boy. The boy's dad had also promised 'an extra-special gift', which would brand this Christmas forever, for his father rarely had the time to buy gifts, much less ones that were special, or that were actually given on the right day. Yes, this would have been a special christmas indeed.
If only his father had actually shown up.
The little boy slumped over, refusing to believe that his father was not coming. This would not be the first Christmas that he had missed, just the only one he had promised to be present for.
The boy's mother had already gone to bed, having already given up on getting the stubborn young boy to sleep. The boy shook himself awake again, and sat up straight, staring at the door once more. His sleep deprived mind registered a chopping sound coming from outside. He jumped up from his seat and ran up to the door. Reaching up high, he grasped the doorknob and sprinted barefoot out into the snow to see a low-flying helicopter come ever closer, and more importantly, his dad leaning out of it and waving energetically. It was too dark to see the expression on his face, but the boy assumed he was smiling. The young boy excitedly waved back, jumping up and down, oblivious to his rapidly numbing feet. As the helicopter got lower to the ground, the boy's dad seemed to jump from the helicopter, somehow surviving, with the snow piled up in heaps along the ground. The young boy noticed how his father had seemed to teeter uncertainly before he fell, as if someone had pushed him out. The boy ran and hugged his dad, who seemed to be looking at the helicopter. The little boy seemed to notice this, and he stared at the helicopter with interest. His ever-inquisitive mind noticed a capital 'S' on the side of the helicopter, colored blue, orange, and white. He saw a white piece of cloth fluttering in the wind, trapped in the helicopter door. Suddenly, the boy's father grabbed his hands.
"Where's your mother, and sisters," his father croaked, staring up into his son's eyes, begging for an answer.
"Mom's inside, sleeping—" the boy's answer was cut short by his father staggering to his feet and running towards the house, which the helicopter was still headed for.
"Lucy!" he screamed, running into the house mere seconds before the helicopter collided with it.
Fire. That was all the boy could see. The house lit up like it had been doused in petrol, and fire consumed the building. The boy still stood there, mouth open in a wordless scream. He didn't even know he was crying until he felt tears sliding down his cheeks. His mind picked up tiny details in the inferno before him.
How the fire hadn't spread farther than the house, and sat at the edge of the snow, not even attempting to challenge it.
How the roof had collapsed, condemning anything inside it to an early death.
How the helicopter's label still shone through the fire, perfectly fine, as if it had been specially designed to be fire-proof for this exact reason.
A charred piece of cloth fluttered to the ground a few feet in front of the boy. With a jolt of realization, the boy knew that this was the cloth he had seen, dangling from the helicopter's door handle. He walked forward slowly, and picked it up with shaking hands. It was a miniature lab coat, darkened and slightly smoldering at the edges. The boy felt the back of his hand brush against the label at the collar. Hands trembling, he turning the lab coat over and stared at the label with big, watery eyes.
Merry Christmas, Duncan! Love, Mummy and Daddy.
His hands began to shake so much he could barely hold the coat. Ignoring the smoldering edges, the boy put on the lab coat and faced the blazing ruins of his one true home for the last time.
Then he turned around and fled into the night, goggles perched on his head and lab coat on his back; away from the logo of the world-renown company that had destroyed his life.
The fire seemed to scream in his face;
Love, Sips Co.