I hate Christmas.
I hate the way everyone is happy, everyone but me. I hate the way the snow turns everything white, so easily stained. I hate the cold. I hate the cheer. It hurts, you know, when everyone is happy, everyone but happy. It's like the entire human race decided to rub your face in your misery by all being content. I hate the way young couples are holding hands, and old couples, and children run screaming through the street.
I used to love Christmas. Not that I ever got presents, not until four years ago at least. But the holiday merriness is infectious, even in the slums. At this time of year, if someone smiles at you, or waves hello, you just have to smile back. The rich greet the poor, the powerful embrace the poor.
The snow was so beautiful, providing a palette for the world, a clean slate on which to start. The bells ring melodiously, providing background music for the peaceful world.
I hate Christmas now.
I cry at Christmas, remembering my family. Remembering how we used to take delight from each other's companionship, despite not being truly related. A gang of thieves we were, with Beck as our father, with each other as brothers. We used to have a feast on Christmas, a feast! For a month, we scrimped, saving for the holiday, to buy a pound of ham and two oranges. We bought it because you can't, just can't steal food for Christmas. On the Eve, Beck would carefully give each of us a slice of meat and an orange section. If we were lucky, we even got milk!
On the holy day, the nine of us would have snowball fights, and build forts and snowmen, make snow angels. No work that day, no picking of pockets, no walking of roofs. We spent Christmas as a family.
God, I hate Christmas.
I hate the snow, so easily stained crimson. I hate the relaxed atmosphere, so easy to let down your guard. I hate the happiness and smiles, because of my anguish. I hate the families, because I am all alone.
We were a family, once. But my family is dead. I told them, beggedthem not to go to the market that day, that a Christmas feast wasn't worth it. What it was, I had no idea, but there was a feeling, a hunch, that the trip would be disastrous.
I stayed home, a coward. Beck and his seven other thieves went for the yearly delight of purchasing our meal. They never came back.
I followed them, finally.
God, the snow stains so easily.