A/N- This is kind of like those 'Countdown to Christmas' stories that are updated daily, weekly, etc. But, this is waay too short to be a true countdown…but it will be a daily update I hope, unless something happens.

Disclaimer- I don't own it.

blah- Writing

Dateline December 22, 1973

There she was, all alone for Christmas. She should've known that it wouldn't all blow away so quickly, that her stubbornness and his sense of pride just wouldn't allow it. Why, she wondered, did they have to fight? Why did they both have to overreact? Why did she insist that he go to Hollywood? In other words, why did she royally screw her life up entirely? To say the truth, she didn't know exactly why. However, she had done what she had done and now she had to pay the price, no matter how miserable it made her.

Her fingers curled around the mug of steaming tea she had just poured, and stared into the murky depths thoughtfully. She seemed to be doing that a lot lately. Whenever she was alone, she would stare off into space and think, just drift off into her memory. Quite often, she would think of him. She would see his smile, hear his voice, remember everything. When she pulled out of her reveries, she would be embarrassed to feel her eyes tear up and to hear her voice sound shaky and unnaturally high. Honestly, she couldn't even sleep without him. It was insane, but God did she need him.

Her last thought had dredged up a memory. She heard, briefly, the sound of a highish guitar, and a voice, George's, singing, "You don't realize how much I need you…" She physically shook her head to eject him from her thoughts, even though the song described her mood perfectly. They had never gotten along, George and she, and her thoughts were already gloomy enough as it were.

Her point, though, remained. It was three days away from Christmas, and she was alone, in no circumstances to remedy that situation. She took a gulp of her tea. The warmth trailed down from her throat to her stomach and it seemed to light a fire in her soul. Standing up decisively, she found a piece of paper and a pen. Sitting back down, she began to write.

As a child, she had never been able to write the yearly letter to Santa Claus or anyone else, for that matter. As such, she decided to write to someone who would never, ever receive said letter. The best thing about it was the fact that she only felt a slight bit foolish about it. It was almost like being a kid again.

Dear Santa,

I guess that I may be just a little bit too old to be writing you, but I quite frankly don't care. I just need to tell someone about my problem.

It's Christmastime. As even those at the North Pole know, my husband and I promote peace, especially at this time of year. You also probably know that he and I are separated. I'm too stubborn to tell it to him, but I miss him like hell, I really do. I also have somewhat, er, fewer friends than he does. And the ones that I do have are planning on spending their holidays with family or were invited by John to celebrate in Hollywood with him. To put it simply, I'm all alone over the holiday season.

Yes, I've heard that there's no place like home for the holidays, but I honestly don't know where home is. You could say that the apartment here in the Dakota is my home but it doesn't feel like home. You also could say that my home is with John but if we were living in a hotel room that wouldn't feel like home either.

I think that I've been a bad girl these past years, Santa. I almost forced John and his ex-wife Cynthia to get a divorce. I caused the destruction of the minimal relationship between John and Julian. I broke up the Beatles, the band that gave John his fame, the one that was comprised of his 'brothers'- Paul, George, and Ringo. Hell, I can't even get along with his family! There has got to be a problem with me, because those three can handle John while tripping on acid but they can't even deal with me for five minutes with a clear head without bickering, and I'm not nearly as bad as John on acid.

To add on that, the whole reason that I think John stayed with me, the Japanese avant-garde artist who's seven years older than he is, was because I was pregnant with his child. I miscarried him in the middle of November. Although John thinks that I'm past blaming myself about that, I still feel that it's my fault. And even then, he could have left me without feeling too bad about it, but he didn't.

The whole reason we came to the U.S. was that my daughter was kidnapped by my ex. Again, he didn't have to do that, but he did. And now, he is wiretapped, stalked, you name it, the government does it to him. He gave up so much for me, and I haven't given a thing up for him. I feel really guilty about that.

I wonder, sometimes, if John came to the same realization that I did, that I haven't given up a thing for him, and that he got tired of that and is slowly leading me into a divorce. I'm afraid that he might not love me anymore. If he didn't, oh so help me God, I would kill myself.

And one more thing- the whole reason that I was so pissed when I learned that he had cheated on me a whole one time was because I was afraid that he would do the same thing to me that he did to Cynthia. I'm the world's biggest hypocrite, but that's what I'm worried about.

Happy Holidays,

Yoko Ono/Lennon

She gave the letter a quick once-over to check for any obvious mistakes. Besides the fact that her writing was shaky and the tear spots in places on the paper, it was all good enough.

Hastily drinking the rest of her tea and wiping her face, she stuffed the letter into and envelope and wrote her address and an address that sounded Santa Claus-y on the back of it. She hurriedly trekked down the sets of stairs that led to the lobby. She ducked out the back door, shoved the letter into the mailbox before anyone from the press could see her, and hurried back into her apartment. She guessed that her letter would end up in a shredder or someone's collection.

Boy was she wrong.