Disclaimer: I own nothing…as of now.
Merry Christmas
They were at it again. Shouting and bumping and shattering glass-it wasn't unheard of in their home. He just thought they were past it.
"-and you spend it on that? You lousy excuse for a husband-"
"It was just a one-night thing! It's not like you haven't bagged a salesman or two along the way-"
The raven-haired child awoke, rubbing the sleep from his reddened eyes. The world seemed somewhat fuzzy, at first glance. He wondered whether or not it might have been from that crummy-tasting brown liquid his dad bet him twenty bucks he couldn't down the night before. But he did. The child didn't remember much after that, just darkness, and that no one ever paid him his winnings…
"…that's not the point, Anthony! I don't care if it were a one-night thing, or two nights, or ten years! I care that you spent fifty G-d forsaken dollars on a prostitute instead of on your son's-"
"Well that's nice. Every man just wishes he wife would care more about cash than if he cheated on her with a fucking whore!"
All he wanted was for her to show one spec of rage, some minor degree of jealousy-anything to show him that one meager particle of her being felt betrayed. That's how married people should feel. That's how he would, or did.
"You need to show some restraint! How am I supposed to raise the mistake if I don't have any money?!"
"You're one to talk! I don't see you saving your cents when you go out and buy enough schnapps to get an elephant buzzed!"
The preschooler pressed his hands against his ears, trying to stop the throbbing from the volume of the colorful discussion downstairs. His parents' fights weren't usually this loud.
"…You drove me to it! Always working, never helping with the accident, always wasting your paycheck on the next pair of legs you see,-how am I supposed to deal with it all?!"
"I don't know, Jessica. Maybe you should just get off your lazy ass and get out of my life!"
Anthony didn't want this. When he was younger, he envisioned a home with a spouse that loved him, kids that adored him-and what did he do? He got some drunken girl pregnant at a bar and married her to make it seem 'socially acceptable', as she said. He couldn't afford college with the baby's expenses, so he got some crappy, low-paying, blue-collar job, and came home every night to the cries of a neglected child whose mother never lifted a pinky to help him.
"…I can't believe you! You…you…"
"Run out of adjectives, dear?"
She responded by taking a long, drawn-out sip from her lipstick-stained glass, ingesting the remainder of the vodka within. That's all she cared about, really; the drink. And the aging man knew that without it, she would have walked out on him a long time ago.
"You disgust me."
He knew that was the wrong thing to say. But he couldn't help it. Years of unhappiness, endured under the pretense of being 'for the benefit of the unwanted', had taken their toll on him. It was almost impossible for him not to antagonize her, after all the daily grief she gave him.
"You son-of-a-bitch!"
"I think that title belongs to the boy, don't you?"
His title having been called, the words somehow making it through his hazed consciousness to be processed by the lagging brain, the four-year-old shakily tried to balance on his feet.
"-a son-of-a-son-of-a-bitch!"
"So what? My mother is a bitch!"
Why had he decided to stay home for Christmas? The muscled adult had thought that maybe this year, after so many weeks at peace; they might have had their first civil holiday meal. But that wasn't possible, with Jessica. Nothing was ever easy with her.
"-maybe you shouldn't have knocked one up!"
"Oh, I promise you; I wish I hadn't!"
The toddler grasped the railing as he made his way downstairs, trying his best not to collapse in dizziness.
"Oh you-boy?"
Mr. Harris watched as his klutz-child, surprised at this direct reference, tumbled down the last few stairs, bursting into tears. He stared in detestation at the pathetic sight. How had his son turned into such a pussy?
"Alexander? Guess what Santa did with the money for your Christmas gift!"
Mr. Harris's life was screwed. A testament to his careless personality and drunken frivolity. But it wouldn't have been, if not for Xander. It really was all the boy's fault. He deserved some sort of compensation.
"Jessica," The drunken man declared, "Wait just a sec-Santa did actually have something he wanted me to give you." He beckoned to the drowsy one.
The dark-haired babe, however intoxicated, was able to understand his father's meaning in this phrase, and thus, rushed over to his side.
"Here you go, son. Direct from Santa to you." With one quick, fluid motion, the spiteful elder punched the boy hard in the face. "Merry fucking Christmas, kid."