Red Christmas
1: Revelation of Lack of Appreciation

There's a warm fire illuminating the room, while the radio in the corner sings a fuzzy, hard-to-hear Christmas tune. I'm hunched over a piece of paper, composing a beautifully handwritten newsletter to my friends. It's about all of them, how proud I am of the things they have done, and I as well.

"Have… ou… s… f… a merry… litt… Chri… mas…"

I glance at the radio, and sigh a little bit. While shutting it off, I lift a glass of wine near the paper to my mouth, and down the whole thing with a hard gulp. I'm all alone here while they're all drunk together at some party.

They've never really appreciated me, or the things I do for them. Yet and still, I stay with them no matter what they think of me. I lean over from my slouching position again to read what I've written down, ears twitching as the fire pops and crackles.

After two long and grueling years, Tails has finally completed another amazing aerobatics machine - congratulations to him for persevering through all the trial and error!

I laugh dryly to myself while pouring another glass of wine. The liquid spins as I gently rotate the glass in my fingers.

He would have never finished if it hadn't been for my words of encouragement. Of course, my efforts went unmentioned and unappreciated as the rabbit got the first ride.

Sonic destroyed another one of Eggman's bases and saved the world - again.

Sonic takes all the help he gets for granted, you can tell by the look in his eyes when he flashes that dumb smirk - you know, the one before he runs off and leaves everyone choking on his dust. None of us really ever get a thank you, not even a goodbye.

Knuckles and Rouge are expecting their first child; let's keep our fingers crossed for a healthy baby boy, just like they wanted!

Ha. If I hadn't played matchmaker with that impossible pair, they'd be at each others' throats over that emerald still.

I do notice that she gives that shiny rock a strange look every now and then. It's probably nothing.

Cream has recently graduated from elementary school and is now in the sixth grade – congratulations, Cream!

I was there to tutor her in math every night. We stayed up for hours every night going over the same thing, only to have her make a speech about her mother, and her slave of a chao. Yea, congratu-fucking-lations, dumb girl.

Now I'm supposed to be writing about myself. So far, I've only got scribbles and inkblots. I don't know what to write.

I stare at the paper, as if words will magically appear, but nothing happens. After a few minutes, I tightly grip the glass and grit my teeth. I stare at the inkblots on the paper, then at the beautiful cursive above it, and draw it up into my hand. It's crumpled in the action, and I pitch it into the fireplace, which agitates the flame. It roars up as a frustrated yell erupts from my throat, and I throw the glass of wine in along with it.

For a moment, I'm seeing red, and gripping my chair like my life depends on it. Then, something inside my brain suddenly snaps.

I feel different now. I feel…

Free. Nope, not a care in the world.

Standing, I reach up for my coat on the stand aside the desk, and throw it over my shoulders. It's the same silly coat I've worn each Christmas, and the red is fading to a grayish-pink.

Not to worry though. I think I can fix that.

-

Risen, 2007