"Wasted Day"
A Resident Evil Writers - Holiday Challenge story
by Bethan
I haven't celebrated Christmas for five years. What's the point? I'm not a religious man, so it's just hypocrisy. Oh, they say, but Christmas is for family. I haven't got one. And I don't like turkey, I'm not much of a drinker, I have no one to exchange gifts with, and I'm practically drowning in work. Give me one good reason to celebrate this ridiculous, over- commercialised, pointless, cheap excuse for a holiday. Go on.
Although I am in danger of sounding like a young version of Scrooge, to me Christmas is a complete and utter waste of a working day. With the company in the precarious position it is, it hardly seems right to give everyone the day off. We don't let them go home, of course, but they can stay in their bunks and have parties in the packing room and make a dreadful mess of everything. I wouldn't agree to it, but apparently some idiot put it in their contracts.
And so it was that on December 25th I sat down to lunch, wondering if I had been stupid enough to give the staff the day off, too. I have to eat, you know.
To my surprise, Harman doddered in, clutching a package under one arm and pushing the luncheon trolley.
"Merry Christmas, Sir Alfred," he volunteered, smiling benevolently at me.
I felt my stomach tighten involuntarily. I was sure I had told him not to talk about it. "I don't celebrate Christmas," I muttered, glaring fixedly at the table.
"I know, Sir Alfred, I know. Not for five years. It's just. you've been awfully sad lately, and I thought this would cheer you up."
I glanced at him, a sneer already halfway to my lips, and saw the fragile hope blooming on his face. The sneer faded. Sentimental old fool. He knows I hate Christmas, I always have done, even back when I had a family to celebrate it with.
"Thank you," I said quietly. "That will be all."
He hovered uncertainly by my side, torn with indecision. I pursed my lips, and did my best to ignore him. I didn't know what he was doing, or why he was dithering, and quite frankly I didn't want to. I just wanted my lunch.
"Yes?" I asked eventually, unable to put up with his wavering any longer. Still he made no effort to speak. "What? Do you want to sing carols together? Put up all my Christmas cards? Or maybe," I continued, leaning forwards with an unpleasant grin, "maybe we can celebrate the good old days. You know, when the family went destitute, my mother ran away, and my father and sister died?"
I regretted saying that afterwards, but it was fun at the time. He looked absolutely heartbroken.
"I'm sorry sir. I meant well."
"I'm sure you did," I conceded. "Just let me be, Harman. Any attempts to 'cheer me up', as you put it, will do no good whatsoever. I can guarantee it," I added.
Still he looked crestfallen and uncertain, and it was putting me off the thought of my food. I glanced at my plate anyway, hoping that Harman hadn't decided to instill some of the Christmas spirit in me by sneaking some turkey or roast potatoes into my meal.
"What on earth is the matter, Harman?" I exploded. "Is there," I began, realizing how little I actually knew about my butler, "some trouble at home?"
He smiled softly, and shook his head. "Well, I'm not sure if this is appropriate now, seeing as you made your feelings so clear on the subject, but." he averted his gaze and handed me the package from under his arm.
It was quite large and bulky, and felt like a book. I immediately felt embarrassed for my previous outburst.
"I'm sorry, Harman. This time of year is hard for me," I said. Lies, lies, lies. The entire year is hard for me; Christmas is just a small despicable part of it. Still, it seemed to make him feel better.
"I understand, sir. It's not much," he said, indicating the gift, "but I thought you might like it. Uh. I'll be going now. I'll come back and bring afternoon tea, if you like."
"Yes, yes, that will be fine," I said flatly, turning the package over in my hands. I had the strangest feeling that I had forgotten something, and as I looked up into Harman's tired face I realised what it was. I hadn't thanked him for the gift.
"Thank you," I said.
He gave me a wavering smile and unloaded the last things from the trolley, before creeping out in silence. I watched him go, thoughtfully. 'Merry Christmas', indeed. Such a ridiculous cliché. The idea that Christmas is a 'merry' time of year was outmoded and idiotic. Nobody even used the word merry anymore. And people only bought gifts so they would get something in return, and so people didn't sneer at them for being selfish. I tugged at the wrapping on my present idly, if only so I could tell Harman later that I liked it, whatever it would be.
1 How I despised this day! If it were a normal, sensible day I would be going down to the lab to see how things were getting on, and then catching up on the paperwork in my office. Not sitting on my own in a terrible mood mortifying my servants and with nothing to do for the rest of the day but sit and sulk about the pointlessness of the world.
Strange, I thought, removing the last of the wrapping paper and giving it a reproachful glance. It had robins on it. What they had to do with Christmas was a mystery to me. Something about having blood staining their feathers, which is imbecilic, as I'd like to see a bit of blood altering the genetic coding of an entire species.
The present was. an album? I opened it gingerly, and was greeted with page after page of photographs. My mother and father and sister smiled at me (or at least eyed me coolly) from every page; in the library, in Antarctica. and there was my mother at graduation, and on her first day at work with my father. And there was me, in a few of them. I seemed cheerful, for whatever reason.
It was touching, if not a little unnerving. My throat went dry, as the flood of memories stored carefully in some far off portion of my brain threatened to burst its banks and engulf me completely.
There was a little note on the inside cover.
Sir Alfred, this is just a little gift to let you know that you're not alone. With the greatest respect, Scott Harman.
Hah! Of course I was alone, I had never been more so! I was alone and I would be forever, and I wouldn't be able to hold out much longer because all the pressures were piling up and up and I was beginning to forget. To forget. To forget who I was.
Burning hot tears pricked at my eyes and I rubbed at them furiously with the sleeve of my jacket. How dare Harman send me this, something that told me the opposite of what he had hoped, that told me that I was alone, and would be left to fend for myself until I cracked completely.
My vision blurred as tears started rolling freely down my face, with no regard to my anger or my feelings or the fact that I didn't want to show emotion in front of the staff - even though I was alone - or that I had a lot of work to do and I really had not got time for feelings, or emotions, or tears.
And yet, despite my sadness and my fury, I was smiling.
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A Resident Evil Writers - Holiday Challenge story
by Bethan
I haven't celebrated Christmas for five years. What's the point? I'm not a religious man, so it's just hypocrisy. Oh, they say, but Christmas is for family. I haven't got one. And I don't like turkey, I'm not much of a drinker, I have no one to exchange gifts with, and I'm practically drowning in work. Give me one good reason to celebrate this ridiculous, over- commercialised, pointless, cheap excuse for a holiday. Go on.
Although I am in danger of sounding like a young version of Scrooge, to me Christmas is a complete and utter waste of a working day. With the company in the precarious position it is, it hardly seems right to give everyone the day off. We don't let them go home, of course, but they can stay in their bunks and have parties in the packing room and make a dreadful mess of everything. I wouldn't agree to it, but apparently some idiot put it in their contracts.
And so it was that on December 25th I sat down to lunch, wondering if I had been stupid enough to give the staff the day off, too. I have to eat, you know.
To my surprise, Harman doddered in, clutching a package under one arm and pushing the luncheon trolley.
"Merry Christmas, Sir Alfred," he volunteered, smiling benevolently at me.
I felt my stomach tighten involuntarily. I was sure I had told him not to talk about it. "I don't celebrate Christmas," I muttered, glaring fixedly at the table.
"I know, Sir Alfred, I know. Not for five years. It's just. you've been awfully sad lately, and I thought this would cheer you up."
I glanced at him, a sneer already halfway to my lips, and saw the fragile hope blooming on his face. The sneer faded. Sentimental old fool. He knows I hate Christmas, I always have done, even back when I had a family to celebrate it with.
"Thank you," I said quietly. "That will be all."
He hovered uncertainly by my side, torn with indecision. I pursed my lips, and did my best to ignore him. I didn't know what he was doing, or why he was dithering, and quite frankly I didn't want to. I just wanted my lunch.
"Yes?" I asked eventually, unable to put up with his wavering any longer. Still he made no effort to speak. "What? Do you want to sing carols together? Put up all my Christmas cards? Or maybe," I continued, leaning forwards with an unpleasant grin, "maybe we can celebrate the good old days. You know, when the family went destitute, my mother ran away, and my father and sister died?"
I regretted saying that afterwards, but it was fun at the time. He looked absolutely heartbroken.
"I'm sorry sir. I meant well."
"I'm sure you did," I conceded. "Just let me be, Harman. Any attempts to 'cheer me up', as you put it, will do no good whatsoever. I can guarantee it," I added.
Still he looked crestfallen and uncertain, and it was putting me off the thought of my food. I glanced at my plate anyway, hoping that Harman hadn't decided to instill some of the Christmas spirit in me by sneaking some turkey or roast potatoes into my meal.
"What on earth is the matter, Harman?" I exploded. "Is there," I began, realizing how little I actually knew about my butler, "some trouble at home?"
He smiled softly, and shook his head. "Well, I'm not sure if this is appropriate now, seeing as you made your feelings so clear on the subject, but." he averted his gaze and handed me the package from under his arm.
It was quite large and bulky, and felt like a book. I immediately felt embarrassed for my previous outburst.
"I'm sorry, Harman. This time of year is hard for me," I said. Lies, lies, lies. The entire year is hard for me; Christmas is just a small despicable part of it. Still, it seemed to make him feel better.
"I understand, sir. It's not much," he said, indicating the gift, "but I thought you might like it. Uh. I'll be going now. I'll come back and bring afternoon tea, if you like."
"Yes, yes, that will be fine," I said flatly, turning the package over in my hands. I had the strangest feeling that I had forgotten something, and as I looked up into Harman's tired face I realised what it was. I hadn't thanked him for the gift.
"Thank you," I said.
He gave me a wavering smile and unloaded the last things from the trolley, before creeping out in silence. I watched him go, thoughtfully. 'Merry Christmas', indeed. Such a ridiculous cliché. The idea that Christmas is a 'merry' time of year was outmoded and idiotic. Nobody even used the word merry anymore. And people only bought gifts so they would get something in return, and so people didn't sneer at them for being selfish. I tugged at the wrapping on my present idly, if only so I could tell Harman later that I liked it, whatever it would be.
1 How I despised this day! If it were a normal, sensible day I would be going down to the lab to see how things were getting on, and then catching up on the paperwork in my office. Not sitting on my own in a terrible mood mortifying my servants and with nothing to do for the rest of the day but sit and sulk about the pointlessness of the world.
Strange, I thought, removing the last of the wrapping paper and giving it a reproachful glance. It had robins on it. What they had to do with Christmas was a mystery to me. Something about having blood staining their feathers, which is imbecilic, as I'd like to see a bit of blood altering the genetic coding of an entire species.
The present was. an album? I opened it gingerly, and was greeted with page after page of photographs. My mother and father and sister smiled at me (or at least eyed me coolly) from every page; in the library, in Antarctica. and there was my mother at graduation, and on her first day at work with my father. And there was me, in a few of them. I seemed cheerful, for whatever reason.
It was touching, if not a little unnerving. My throat went dry, as the flood of memories stored carefully in some far off portion of my brain threatened to burst its banks and engulf me completely.
There was a little note on the inside cover.
Sir Alfred, this is just a little gift to let you know that you're not alone. With the greatest respect, Scott Harman.
Hah! Of course I was alone, I had never been more so! I was alone and I would be forever, and I wouldn't be able to hold out much longer because all the pressures were piling up and up and I was beginning to forget. To forget. To forget who I was.
Burning hot tears pricked at my eyes and I rubbed at them furiously with the sleeve of my jacket. How dare Harman send me this, something that told me the opposite of what he had hoped, that told me that I was alone, and would be left to fend for myself until I cracked completely.
My vision blurred as tears started rolling freely down my face, with no regard to my anger or my feelings or the fact that I didn't want to show emotion in front of the staff - even though I was alone - or that I had a lot of work to do and I really had not got time for feelings, or emotions, or tears.
And yet, despite my sadness and my fury, I was smiling.
Enjoyed the story? Join us at Resident Evil Writers at Yahoo! Groups
http://groups.yahoo.com/group/residentevilwriters/