`The more things change....'
The snow fell from the sky like a light sugar, covering the earth in a white powder. The young figure stood tall against the bitter winds, face numbed from the cold sting. His hands were jutted deep within the pockets of his coat, giving them some protection against the wind.
In the back of his mind he could hear his cape flutter in the wind. Feel the spandex stretched across his skin, his mask hugging snugly against his face like a warm security blanket. But there would be no capes tonight. No spandex. No mask. No feats of wonder or daring acts of amazement. Just one night, alone: A boy alone with his thoughts and alone with the snow.
Christmas time should never have to be spent alone, he thinks. But that's the way it was. Somewhere, a continent away, his father and step-mother were skiing or sipping from some heated beverage and getting drunk on life, leaving their son to fend for himself on this, the most holy of holy nights. Same as before, same as it had always been.
That is, until recently. Until recently he had never known what it was like to string decorations, or sing Christmas carols, or even exchange gifts. His other `family' changed all that. He closed his eyes, and recalled with deep nostalgia the all the sights, sounds, smells, tastes, colors, and love that should be associated with Christmas. It was almost like he was there now, sitting on his comfy chair, Bing Crosby playing in the background as the others argued and bantered and did what normal teenagers should do when around other normal teenagers. And he would just smile, taking it all in, and relishing the only Christmas' he had ever known to be merry.
But then he opened his eyes, and sighed, his breath pluming like smoke from a chimney. That was then. That was a life he n o longer belonged to. This was his life now: Brentwood. The cold. The loneliness. Christmas with the only family he had ever known; himself.
Merry Christmas Timothy. Love, Timothy.
`The more things change....'
*************
Things had certainly changed sine their first Christmas, but change, as someone had said "is the spice of life". A fire crackled with warmth as Bing crooned about how he was dreaming of a specific weather front to go with this day in particular. Cookies, slightly burnt and half-eaten, wafted through the kitchen and across the halls and to the living room, where packages and presents were neatly arranged under the tree, their wrapping paper glimmering like polka- dotted stars against the orange flicker of the fireplace.
Seated at the base, pajama-knees brought up to his chest, eyes wide as dinner plates and grin bright enough to block out the sun, was a young boy, brown mop-top and snow-pure soul. He cradled in his hands one large, neatly wrapped present, blue ribbon wrapped around and tied in a neat little bow on the top. He looked back to the pair seated on the couch behind him, and flashed a gracious smile towards them.
The pair was neither old, nor young. The man appeared to be reaching at least his fifties, though his hair was dignified silver. Beside him sat a beautiful woman, who, herself, was no spring chicken. They were neither married, nor romantically involved. Nor was this shaggy-haired lad their son. But, in the loosest sense, they were a family. And they all loved each other just the same.
The boy tore into the present with all the care of a glass cutter, slipping the bow off in a gentle manner, tearing the paper at its crease. It wasn't customary for him to take his time, but life was funny like that.
He finished opening the gift, and squealed gleefully at the sight of some new item to take up his time and attention. He again glanced back at the pair seated behind him, who smiled on approvingly. These were all gifts from them (he wouldn't get anything from `Santa' for at least another couple hours).
As he reached for the next gift, he noticed his shadow dancing on the wall. In a flash it seemed as though he could see himself burst aflame, the sounds of his screams wailing the back of his mind as he recalled a trauma no child should ever have to endure, fear and anguish threatening to bury him like an avalanche.
But the fear, like the thought, left as soon as it came. After all, that was another life, another person. Not a normal child, with a normal life. Not Bart Allen.
Carefully he opened his next present, as the snow continued to fall outside....
*****************
He had lost track of how long he had lay there, in the snow. His limbs were stretched outward, as if he was going to make a snow angel. But his thoughts were far from such holiness.
He gazed upward, yellow eyes focused on the charcoal grey of the night sky above, the snow falling gently around him, tickling his skin like the end of a feather. But he didn't feel like laughing. He felt like crying. He felt like dying. Focusing on the falling flakes he imagined they were stars, and he was sailing past them on his cycle, rippling muscles tense with excitement of the next challenge that awaited. Screaming into the soundless void of space, he welcomed any challenge, any idiot that thought they could stand up to the Top Teen.
Then his thoughts shot back down to the cold frosty Earth, as he came to an equally cold truth: He was stuck. There was no going back to space, no going back to that life. And worse, no fragging.
He sat up, dusting the snow from his coal-black hair as he looked around him. The trees were covered in a thick blanket of freshly fallen snow, as the wind whistled through the wilderness. Somewhere in the distance he could hear the sounds of bears hibernating (or maybe that was his stomach). It really wasn't all that bad, he supposed. There was a quiet beauty, as sickening as it seemed to him. And this whole `Christmas' thing seemed decent enough, even though the thought of having to listen to one more hokey song about Santa coming down `Santa Claus Lane' made him want to blow a very large crater into a very small planet.
Off in the distance, near the headquarters, he could see a pair of arms flailing in his direction, and a soprano voice call out to him.
"Hey Slo-Bo," it cried out. "C'mon in, we're opening presents. C'mon, or you'll catch a cold."
Cold? *psh* Yeah, right. But the thought of getting gifts for doing absolutely nothing at all was more than enough incentive to lure him inside.
Guess there was something to this whole holiday thing after all. So, rising to his feet, he make his was inside for another round of sappy seasonal songs and luke-warm eggnog....and mounds of presents.
Above it all, riding in the wind, was the sound of a whisper. It was a faint whisper, barely audible as anything but a winter breeze. But it was there nonetheless. And if anyone had taken the time to listen, they would have heard it was the whisper of a child. A sweet child, neither greedy for presents nor crying for help. Just a pleasant whisper in the wind. If you listened closely, you could here that child whisper to all the land.
"Merry Christmas," it whispered. "Merry Christmas."
Merry Christmas.
The End
The snow fell from the sky like a light sugar, covering the earth in a white powder. The young figure stood tall against the bitter winds, face numbed from the cold sting. His hands were jutted deep within the pockets of his coat, giving them some protection against the wind.
In the back of his mind he could hear his cape flutter in the wind. Feel the spandex stretched across his skin, his mask hugging snugly against his face like a warm security blanket. But there would be no capes tonight. No spandex. No mask. No feats of wonder or daring acts of amazement. Just one night, alone: A boy alone with his thoughts and alone with the snow.
Christmas time should never have to be spent alone, he thinks. But that's the way it was. Somewhere, a continent away, his father and step-mother were skiing or sipping from some heated beverage and getting drunk on life, leaving their son to fend for himself on this, the most holy of holy nights. Same as before, same as it had always been.
That is, until recently. Until recently he had never known what it was like to string decorations, or sing Christmas carols, or even exchange gifts. His other `family' changed all that. He closed his eyes, and recalled with deep nostalgia the all the sights, sounds, smells, tastes, colors, and love that should be associated with Christmas. It was almost like he was there now, sitting on his comfy chair, Bing Crosby playing in the background as the others argued and bantered and did what normal teenagers should do when around other normal teenagers. And he would just smile, taking it all in, and relishing the only Christmas' he had ever known to be merry.
But then he opened his eyes, and sighed, his breath pluming like smoke from a chimney. That was then. That was a life he n o longer belonged to. This was his life now: Brentwood. The cold. The loneliness. Christmas with the only family he had ever known; himself.
Merry Christmas Timothy. Love, Timothy.
`The more things change....'
*************
Things had certainly changed sine their first Christmas, but change, as someone had said "is the spice of life". A fire crackled with warmth as Bing crooned about how he was dreaming of a specific weather front to go with this day in particular. Cookies, slightly burnt and half-eaten, wafted through the kitchen and across the halls and to the living room, where packages and presents were neatly arranged under the tree, their wrapping paper glimmering like polka- dotted stars against the orange flicker of the fireplace.
Seated at the base, pajama-knees brought up to his chest, eyes wide as dinner plates and grin bright enough to block out the sun, was a young boy, brown mop-top and snow-pure soul. He cradled in his hands one large, neatly wrapped present, blue ribbon wrapped around and tied in a neat little bow on the top. He looked back to the pair seated on the couch behind him, and flashed a gracious smile towards them.
The pair was neither old, nor young. The man appeared to be reaching at least his fifties, though his hair was dignified silver. Beside him sat a beautiful woman, who, herself, was no spring chicken. They were neither married, nor romantically involved. Nor was this shaggy-haired lad their son. But, in the loosest sense, they were a family. And they all loved each other just the same.
The boy tore into the present with all the care of a glass cutter, slipping the bow off in a gentle manner, tearing the paper at its crease. It wasn't customary for him to take his time, but life was funny like that.
He finished opening the gift, and squealed gleefully at the sight of some new item to take up his time and attention. He again glanced back at the pair seated behind him, who smiled on approvingly. These were all gifts from them (he wouldn't get anything from `Santa' for at least another couple hours).
As he reached for the next gift, he noticed his shadow dancing on the wall. In a flash it seemed as though he could see himself burst aflame, the sounds of his screams wailing the back of his mind as he recalled a trauma no child should ever have to endure, fear and anguish threatening to bury him like an avalanche.
But the fear, like the thought, left as soon as it came. After all, that was another life, another person. Not a normal child, with a normal life. Not Bart Allen.
Carefully he opened his next present, as the snow continued to fall outside....
*****************
He had lost track of how long he had lay there, in the snow. His limbs were stretched outward, as if he was going to make a snow angel. But his thoughts were far from such holiness.
He gazed upward, yellow eyes focused on the charcoal grey of the night sky above, the snow falling gently around him, tickling his skin like the end of a feather. But he didn't feel like laughing. He felt like crying. He felt like dying. Focusing on the falling flakes he imagined they were stars, and he was sailing past them on his cycle, rippling muscles tense with excitement of the next challenge that awaited. Screaming into the soundless void of space, he welcomed any challenge, any idiot that thought they could stand up to the Top Teen.
Then his thoughts shot back down to the cold frosty Earth, as he came to an equally cold truth: He was stuck. There was no going back to space, no going back to that life. And worse, no fragging.
He sat up, dusting the snow from his coal-black hair as he looked around him. The trees were covered in a thick blanket of freshly fallen snow, as the wind whistled through the wilderness. Somewhere in the distance he could hear the sounds of bears hibernating (or maybe that was his stomach). It really wasn't all that bad, he supposed. There was a quiet beauty, as sickening as it seemed to him. And this whole `Christmas' thing seemed decent enough, even though the thought of having to listen to one more hokey song about Santa coming down `Santa Claus Lane' made him want to blow a very large crater into a very small planet.
Off in the distance, near the headquarters, he could see a pair of arms flailing in his direction, and a soprano voice call out to him.
"Hey Slo-Bo," it cried out. "C'mon in, we're opening presents. C'mon, or you'll catch a cold."
Cold? *psh* Yeah, right. But the thought of getting gifts for doing absolutely nothing at all was more than enough incentive to lure him inside.
Guess there was something to this whole holiday thing after all. So, rising to his feet, he make his was inside for another round of sappy seasonal songs and luke-warm eggnog....and mounds of presents.
Above it all, riding in the wind, was the sound of a whisper. It was a faint whisper, barely audible as anything but a winter breeze. But it was there nonetheless. And if anyone had taken the time to listen, they would have heard it was the whisper of a child. A sweet child, neither greedy for presents nor crying for help. Just a pleasant whisper in the wind. If you listened closely, you could here that child whisper to all the land.
"Merry Christmas," it whispered. "Merry Christmas."
Merry Christmas.
The End