Merry Christmas! My dog dug this out of the ground one day, so I dusted it off and decided to use it. :P I can only guess he took it when I wasn't looking, and only gave it back to me for Christmas. Because that's what every dog does, right? O_o

The holiday spirit and stress are almost over. I wrote this about a month ago, Merry Christmas. :P

One day ago, snowflakes danced in the wind, landing and sticking to almost every surface in Springfield. It was a beautiful sight, setting the perfect Christmas mood. There was even pine cone scenting wavering from the wind, reaching inside every nostril it touched, spreading the spirit.

Now. Now there was a pink hue quickly fading away on one side of the sky, a starlit night on the other. The glittering balls of fire were slowly coming out of their rest, making themselves known in groups. Cassiopeia was happily gazing down at the small life forms on Earth from her perch in the sky; Andromeda had her arm reached out to guide those who are lost in the darkness of the night. Even Perseus had his sword extended, a defiance against the darkness.

Both of night and evil.

They all came out in perfect alliance, dancing their forbidden ballet, to the perfect symphony nobody but they could hear. I sat in silence, staring up at these treasures. My perch at the window was perfect, the spaces between bars allowed a nice headrest.

However, the wind was starting up again, bringing about it the icy chill of anticipation, like something big was going to happen. Maybe they'd finally kill me. All of those times I've escaped, tried to murder Bart, and the rest of his family, why shouldn't they?

Even when I had the fake funeral. I do suppose I go a little "out" with my plans. But when I went through that phase after the funeral, finally coming back to reality, I was completely alone in the cell. One of the prisoner guards laughed at my confusion, explaining how my wife and mother were put into a women's prison, how Gino was put into Juvenile Hall, how my father and brother were just begging for a new cell. They are now in another prison altogether.

It has been four months since I have seen any of them, since I switched faces with my old cellmate to extract my revenge upon Bart.

The wind stung my face at the window; I went back to my bed and sat down.

I suppose it isn't his fault. Krusty was just too adored throughout the world for my hidden crime to remain that way. Technically, if we are to play the blame game, it was Homer's fault for stepping on my foot, my fault for crying out.

Bart simply pointed that out.

And if I had known that Selma was his aunt, I'd have broken it off immediately. However, when he figured that one out, it tipped me off the edge.

We all know what ensued, now don't we?

But it was in Salsiccia that I knew—er, thought—that they were in my life for a purpose. Even when I was halfway around the world they found me. And they twisted my life into a sticky, glutinous mess once again, someone or something wanted me miserable. At least I wasn't alone that time.

Francesca and Gino were good to me, and I, in return, was good to them. But when we got to jail, before I went into that dreaded Bart-induced phase, things got viscous. Gino even turned to Cecil for guidance, and both, as it turns out, have a great deal in common.

Francesca and I turned cold to each other, on the other hand. We bickered like Cecil and I did as children, it was that bad. I thought it would pass over time, to which it didn't. This went on with us for about two, three days before my phase began.

Now, because of my mistakes, all of my family members are in jail; and all of us hold grudges against one another in pairs. I at least know all of them hate me.

"Terwilliger! You have a visitor," A prison guard barked at me; another unlocked my lonely cell.

In silence, I got up and followed them to the visitor's room.

I never talked anymore. Never really moved unless forced to, with some exceptions. They all called me "numb," "oblivious to the world." I preferred the latter. There were some things men did to themselves, some things they didn't realize they were doing until it was too late.

I am one of them.

Now, I am paying. I don't care what those Simpsons say about me, I just don't care anymore.

We arrived at the door. They ushered me in; there was one person at the far end of the row. As I arrived, I noticed a smaller form sitting next to her.

She gave me a warm smile. "Hello, mia cara.* We have-a much, eh, catching up to do, don't we?"

"**Ciao, Papa," He looked up at me shyly. "Merry Christmas."

I felt my eyes widen. "Francesca? Gino?"

When you know a man has suffered for his crime more than necessary, give him a second chance.

*-Mia cara = my dear.

**-Ciao = Hello, hi (etc…)…