I want to explain to everyone that I have the mind of a four year old. I can barely stick with one story and when I'm hit with inspiration, I write and I write and I kind of suck because then I lose that inspiration and I'm stuck with a half-completed story that I end up hating. It's a cycle.
But this hit me when I had the plotbunny months ago. October, really. And it was actually Derrick's point of view, but Chris fit the mold so much better and let me tell you how much I've fallen in love with him just by writing him this way.
I promise that this won't suck. I've already compiled a list of songs that will make this story up and the first is mentioned below. I'll eventually make a playlist on 8tracks when I finish finding them all.
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Skinny Love, Bon Iver
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"How do you feel today?"
"It's raining," he says. And it is. The droplets of water are hitting the window he's sitting next to and he watches them in fascination as they slip and slide and dive and fall down the glass. He remembers when he used to think they were racing with each other; whoever got to the bottom first wins. Whenever he was in the car, he'd cheer them on and time would fly and the car ride would be over before he could even think about uttering are we there yet? Now he sees them again, and they kind of look… pathetic.
Dr. Loni adjusts his glasses. "Big storm. Supposed to come up from Florida."
"Hurricane?"
"Aftermath." He knows his therapist is only humoring him, but there's not much he can do. "Chris," he insists. "How do you feel today?"
His eyes never leave the window, trained on the storm clouds and rain and the melancholy feeling of the world outside. "Fine."
"Fine?" Dr. Loni repeats, scribbling something on his notepad. Chris can only imagine what it says – pathological liar, bad with feelings, isolated. He really likes to think he's none of those things, but he knows he is – he just puts up a front. He's surprised it's held up this long; not many people can see through him. "I know you're not."
"You don't know anything," Chris bites back.
"I know enough about you to know that you're not as fine as you say you are."
"Weren't you the one who said therapy doesn't work?"
"Well, yes." He pauses. "But that doesn't –"
"Then why are you pushing me?" Chris can feel the sting behind his eyes. He blinks, eyelids shut tightly. If there's one thing that Chris Plovert does not do, it's cry. He'll be damned if he let himself shed tears for anything. Even this.
Dr. Loni sighs. "I'm not pushing you, Chris. I'm just trying to understand."
"I don't – you won't understand." For the first time, he looks over at the older man. Dr. Loni is nothing but a scrawny, middle-aged man with a beard that doesn't suit his face. He always looks like he's scrutinizing everything, even the way fruit are placed in a bowl, and he most likely is. "Today is probably the worst day of my life."
Chris doesn't want him to force him to say any more. Those nine words were a stretch, even for someone who's been in this office for nine years. But he knows deep down that there are more questions for him to answer; the clock hasn't struck yet. He still has a little more than a half hour left.
"And what's today's date?"
He asks this question every year.
And every year, Chris wants to get up and leave. Dr. Loni's full of shit, he thinks, because he damn well knows what the date is. Everyone in the country knows what day it is. Everyone with a fucking calendar knows what day it is.
"December twenty-fourth."
Christmas Eve. The day Chris' life practically ended – no. The day it did end. Nothing's ever been the same since then.
His family's been torn to shreds. His father moved out on them two years after it happened, sent them an invite to his wedding (out of spite, Chris likes to think, because his dad's a coldhearted bitch), and conceived two beautiful, perfect children – two beautiful, perfect, very much alive children. His mother works two jobs and she might be pulling the night shift at some twenty-four-hour grocery store because she – they – don't have enough money to afford living in White Plains, Westchester anymore.
They moved after it happened but that didn't change anything. They're still the same broken family, no matter where they settle down. There just aren't that many people to pity them here. Not everyone knows. It's just the way he likes it.
Dr. Loni writes something else down. Probably no emotion, blank, empty. Chris agrees with all of the above.
"What does that date have to do with you?"
Everything. "Santa comes tonight, doesn't he?" And he wants to laugh at how morbid he sounds. "Gives presents to little children, eats their cookies, drinks their milk."
"If you believe in that, yes. But that wasn't my question. What does December twenty-fourth have to do with you?"
Chris licks his lips. He doesn't understand why he asks this annually. He knows him well enough, he said that earlier. He doesn't need to do this. But he does.
"Nine years ago, my family moved here."
"Right. What happened that you needed to move here, Chris?"
He stares down at his burned hand, flipping it over to look at his palm. Veins run in and out of the red, black skin; it's raw and ugly and disgusting. "Why do you do this to me, Dr. Loni?"
"Do what?"
"You know what I'm talking about." Chris' voice is quiet, low. "You make me relive it. I don't understand. Aren't therapists supposed to help? You only make me feel worse. I thought we would talk about something else today but you always force me into recounting my experiences on the one day when they're so potent."
"I'm trying, Chris, to help you."
"No, you're not – tell me, Dr. Loni, have you ever lost a family member?"
He nods. "There comes a time when all you do is lose them."
"Did you ever lose one when you were barely old enough to walk to school by yourself?" Chris continues. He doesn't know what's gotten into him this time. "And this family member was two years younger than you and you loved her so fucking much that it hurt to be away from her for six hours a day? Did you help her with her homework and sneak her cookies when your mother said to wait until after dinner? Did. You?"
Dr. Loni's at a loss for words. His mouth is open but nothing comes out and Chris can't help the smirk that's forming on his lips. He's masochistic. Other people's discomfort – more so, their misery – makes him feel a little better about himself, makes him feel less alone.
"Did you go to sleep on Christmas Eve and promise to wake her up so you two could go spy on Santa?" His voice cracks. His throat constricts. "Did you set your alarm for three in the morning only to be woken up at eleven thirty? Did Christmas come and the only thing you heard was your sister's screams?"
"Chris, I don't think you should be speaking like this. It's not good for you –"
"See?" Chris snarls. "It didn't happen to you. You don't understand. Therefore, you can't help me." He spares a glance at the clock: five fifteen. "I don't know about you, Dr. Loni, but I think our time is up."
He stands abruptly, snatches his coat from the closet and shrugs into it. The older man hasn't moved, hand moving quickly across his pad – crazy, angry, depressed. Chris slams the door shut behind him, startling a girl sitting in the waiting room. She looks up at him, stares.
"Dr. Loni will probably see you soon," he says, trying to keep his voice as neutral as possible. He's unsure if he sounds hysterical or not by the way she frowns, but he shakes it off. "My session ended early."
And he's gone, barely wishing the receptionist a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, fleeing the building altogether.
His car's parked in the same spot it's always been ever since he passed his road test. He forces himself into the driver's side and gets himself the hell out, taking the long way home so he can think.
Dr. Loni's always been a bit of a prick. Chris has seen girls like the one he spoke to before come out of his office, tears streaming down their faces and cheeks red with embarrassment. He's never liked that – he's supposed to make them feel better about themselves; they're not supposed to feel worse. It's always up to Angela, the receptionist, to make them feel decent again and she gives out lollipops and stickers like they're at the pediatrician and she writes out birthday cards and makes everyone feel good.
He's never pushed him this far though. It was only a matter of time, he guesses, because he's never been this angry in his life and he's never spoken like that before. Again, he feels the hot tingle of tears and the taste of pennies in his mouth, but he swallows hard and blinks repeatedly until it's gone.
His windshield wipers are doing shit to help him see clearly. It makes sense that it's raining. Today's the only day of the year where he wishes he could crawl into a hole and die. While everyone else is celebrating Jesus' birth and the beginnings of winter break, he's desperately trying to keep himself together – he's the only one in the family who can't break down.
His mother… she's a wreck, even if she hides it well. Their kitchen is stocked with so many baking supplies and their fridge is covered in recipes she's been collecting since July. She hasn't touched any of them. That's what today's for. He's guaranteed to walk into his house and smell something baking – peanut butter cookies, red velvet cake, chocolate mousse pudding pie. It's the only way his mother can cope.
But when the clock strikes twelve, the sink is piled with dishes, and they're out of something, he hears her crying herself to sleep.
Chris is left to clean up after her, make the house spotless. He even decorates the tree for her, makes it shine like it used to.
He parks in the driveway, locks the door, steps into a huge mountain of snow. His jeans are soaked up to his knee but he doesn't care. Instead, he pushes his front door open. The smell of pound cake reaches his nostrils. He wishes that he could feel his mouth water, but he can't. Barbra Streisand's crooning softly throughout the house. Something's not right. He doesn't hear his mother cheerfully singing in the background, pretending to everyone and everything, including herself.
"Mom?"
Leaving his wet shoes on the mat, he pads into the kitchen to find that she's not there. Bowls upon bowls are shoved in their sink; the faucet is covered in batter. On the table, there's molasses cookies, cakes of every shape and color, cupcakes decorated like candy canes, gingerbread men.
There's a pan on the island, surrounded by a mess of sugar, ginger, cinnamon, and butter. A recipe lies flat on the table, stained with tea. He reads it, wondering what went wrong when he comes across the fifth ingredient – three cups flour.
He turns. The container of flour sits on the counter, top off. He peers inside. Empty. On the ground is the measuring cup and sprinklings of the white powder. He smiles grimly. They ran out of flour a little too early this year.
Barbra Streisand stops when he ejects the CD. He can hear his mother's sobs from down here, loud and desperate. It tugs at his heart, brings it down to his feet, but he can't go up there – he has to stay strong. For her.
So he slaps on yellow gloves, grabs the sponge, and starts scrubbing.
Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas plays from the radio.
Hours later, he finds himself in the living room, stringing popcorn like garland – they used to do that once upon a time – and hanging ornaments all around their tree. It's a shining, shimmering mess of fake happiness when he steps away and surveys it. It takes all of his willpower not to tear it down, branch by branch.
He keeps it – because that's what she would've wanted – and digs into the box once again.
Her stocking is in his hand and, fingers shaking, he hangs it above the fireplace in between his and his mother's. Three is better than two, he thinks; it makes him feel a little more homely.
He shuts the light off and climbs the stairs, knowing that later, when his mother composes herself and pulls the presents out of the closet in the basement, that her stocking will be filled. Come tomorrow, they'll exchange these gifts and he'll have to pretend that he doesn't see the third stocking, full of random toys a five year old would like, and candy that he'll inevitably eat when he can't take it anymore.
In the dead of the night, the letters glitters just like they did when they made those stockings. The lights on the tree reflect them and they sparkle like she would if she were still alive.
Sammi, it reads, in the messy scrawl of three year old who finally learned how to spell her name.
