Jim
A.N.: I decided to kill this story early, seeing as there wasn't much of a response on the last few chapters, and it's Christmas Eve, already. I'd also like to preface this chapter that, in my mind, this is not a reason that Moriarty turned out so evil. This is simply his version of the major milestone. Enjoy!
I fight down an instinctual chuckle as I pointed the camera through the slats in the closet doors. Sally was making fun of me today for talking about Santa. She said he wasn't real; I guess I'll show her.
The grin that I've been wearing for the past several minutes drops from my face when I hear footsteps coming down the stairs. The chimney leads directly into the living room; Saint Nicholas wouldn't need to take the stairs.
Perhaps he opted against the chimney. We'd lit a fire in there in the afternoon, so there might still be some smoky smell left.
"We should tell him," my father's voice says in a whisper. The door slats don't allow me to see him, so instead I angle the camera to see him, better. "Sally Donovan made fun of him, today. He told me, he did. 'I'll show you,' he said to her. 'And then you'll have to kiss me in front of the class, because I'll have won the bet.' He's got no maturity, he hasn't."
"Well, at this point," my mother responds. They're carrying some things: lots of packages, in all different colors. "I'm afraid of what he'll do. You remember how he acted after one of the older kids teased him. Philip, was it?"
"Philip Anderson, yeah. Made him sing on front of the whole class." There's no way. They wouldn't lie – not to me. "There's still no excuse for not knowing the truth. He's 13, now; he should know by now that Santa isn't real."
"Still…"
"Still nothing" dad says with finality, placing the last present beneath the tree. "Tomorrow, we tell him. We tell him we buy the presents, put them there, everything. He should know."
"And then what? What if he-"
"If he freaks out like he did because of Philip, then we take him to a good psychiatrist and see what's what."
Tears are filling my eyes, at this point. They lied to me!
They're heads whip around in shock as I come out of the closet for the second time.
"I'll feckin' kill you for this! You lied to me! I can't believe you, you bolloxses!"
"James!" mom screams, hiding behind dad. I'm just about to do it, but something stops me.
Sounding from the upstairs bedroom is the only Christmas present I value, right now. My sister's crying, probably because she can hear mom screaming. I can't kill them, not when little Jane's still so young. I can just about kill, right now, but I can't raise a child on my own.
I end up making some jerky movements before storming off to bed, scaring Jane even more with the slam of the door.
After several minutes, mom comes upstairs, opening my door and standing in the threshold.
"Get. Away. From me," I command, my threat from earlier still on my voice. Just before she closes the doors, I add, "And you'll never lie to Jane like that. She'll know it's you from the very first – from the first moments she can speak, she'll never have the word Santa on her lips, except to curse him out. Never."
Her breath shakes, but she doesn't reply. All she does is close my door and let me alone with my thoughts.
For a while, I consider just taking Jane and leaving, parents be damned. At least she wouldn't be lied to.
No. For all I know she'd turn out like me. It was hardly a secret that I could…overreact a bit. Plus, what if she got sick? It wasn't like two kids could pay for a doctor. What if I got sick? Then she'd be left alone, on the street, at the mercy of the homeless men and women.
As I thought about it, I began to get a sinking feeling in my gut that, on the front of her fragile sanity, anything I did wouldn't matter.
A.N.: I'm not a fan of the swearing in this, but it definitely fit the character better. I'm not entirely sure about how I did writing Moriarty's character, let alone as a child. What do you think? Nailed it or failed it? Thank you for your time, merry Christmas, happy New Year, and GOD BLESS!