DISCLAIMER: Anything Alias related exists because genius burns for a man called JJ and co and so it rightfully belongs to him and not me. Sigh. So don't sue me because there's nothin' to gain! I wish I could come up with something that good though :) Perhaps one day I will, (I wish!) but for now, genius flickers so you'll have to make do with this :)
SUMMARY: I don't know if anyone remembers this story and if anyone's still interested in reading the next chapter coz I posted this story up ages ago. But for anyone who wants to read it, Chapter 3 is now up and it's Jack's POV. Jack sits at home on Christmas Eve, alone and lonely. Someone offers to make it all better but will Jack accept their offer?
TWO SILENT TEARS
CHAPTER 3
It's Christmas Eve yet again and I find myself sitting on the couch, with a beer in hand, staring at the grey wall so fiercely that I'm surprised I haven't bore a hole into the wall. So, there you have it. That's the limit of my Christmas spirit. The lights are all off in my house so passer-bys would be forgiven if they thought I was asleep. I know they'd be thinking something along the lines of what a miserable, gloomy old man who must live there to be asleep by 7pm.
Truth is, I'm very much awake. I'm watching these passer-bys and notice the frowns they make as they walk past my darkened house. I don't blame them. I know that the rest of the houses in my street are adorned with Christmas lights and other fancy decorations that make the street light up with happiness, joy and warmth. And then there's my house. Boring, dull and drab. I guess it sort of spoils the atmosphere.
I ask myself bitterly- who cares? It's not as if anyone's ever done anything nice for me at Christmas. No-one gives me presents. No-one asks me to go carolling. No-one wishes me a merry Christmas. Why then should I decorate my house and walk the streets, pretending that I love Christmas? I'd only look like a fool.
Yet I remember when I was a little boy I did pretend to love Christmas. It seems so long ago now. I guess it is. My mother had come from a large family, where Christmas was the best day of the year. She would tell me these long tales about her childhood Christmases. The way she described them, it was like one of those sickeningly sweet Christmas scenes out of one of those sappy soap operas, where there's the huge Christmas tree, with tons of presents piled underneath and a long table topped with plates and bowls of delicious delicacies. Near the table is a large, roaring fire where the grandmother sits in her old, rocking chair telling squealing and squirming children the Christmas story. The adults sit at the table, eating, pretending to talk when in fact, they're either listening to the grandmother or looking lovingly at their children.
However, I really wanted to experience this sickeningly sweet Christmas. Just once, so I'd be able to relate to all the tales my mother had told me about how fun Christmas was. But I never did experience one. The main reason for this was because of my father. Though he believed in Christmas, he didn't have any Christmas spirit. I loved my father but I couldn't understand why he didn't at least try to make Christmas fun- for my mother's sake and mine at least.
So though my father wouldn't make Christmas fun, my mother tried for years. She'd prepare nice dinners and bake lots of cakes but even though I tried to eat as much of the food as I could, a lot of it just went to waste. I really appreciated that she tried so hard but I don't think she ever knew. Eventually, she just gave up. I didn't blame her. It must have been hard for her to stay merry when my father was the exact opposite.
When my mother gave up, I thought that I'd try to make Christmas fun. Maybe my father would listen to me. I asked him to take us out somewhere. A restaurant, a friend's place, anywhere. He would always say he'd think about it but I quickly learnt that this was his polite way of saying no. I then found out what my mother had experienced these past years. My father only knew how to make Christmas forgettable. My mother and I realised that if we stopped trying and dreaming for a fun Christmas, then we'd have no high expectations to be shattered. In this way, the pain of another boring Christmas having gone by wasn't too bad.
After Christmas, when I went back to school, the teacher would always insist that every student tell the rest of the class what they did during Christmas. I imagine that her Christmases were the sappy soap opera Christmases. She wasn't the only one though. All my friends experienced my ideal Christmas too. I would sit in my chair, waiting for my turn, overcome with envy. But when it was my turn to get up and recall my Christmas, I would lie and describe to the class what each student had already described- the ideal Christmas. I know it was a lie but I had heard the ideal Christmas story so many times that it didn't always seem like such a lie.
As I became older, I merely acknowledged Christmas. I didn't celebrate it. Christmas became just another day on the calendar that was over within 24 hours. Eventually, I stopped acknowledging Christmas altogether and I didn't care. It wasn't any big loss. At school, I didn't lie anymore. I would tell my friends the real Christmas that I had had. I saw the pitiful glances but I was beyond caring what other people thought.
I would be invited to Christmas parties but I would always lie and say that I was already invited to someone else's Christmas party. I didn't want to go because I knew I wouldn't be able to party with my lack of Christmas spirit. My friends would just end up being disappointed so I didn't want to spoil their parties. Of course, while my friends were partying, I was at home, sitting on the couch, drinking a beer and staring at the wall.
Yet there were a few years in my adult life when I didn't comfort myself with the fact that Christmas would soon be over because I didn't want it to be over. For the first time in years, I actually felt like celebrating Christmas. I had a beautiful, loving wife and an adorable baby girl who depended on me and the only thing I knew was love. Christmas seemed like the perfect time to share that love and so for six years, the power of love turned me into a completely different man.
Each Christmas during those six years, Irina would prepare the most delicious feasts and arrange the most wonderful decorations around the house and organise the most fun-filled Christmas parties that I'd find myself counting down the days until Christmas at certain times of the year. Irina's love of Christmas reminded me of my mother's love of Christmas and I promised myself that I wouldn't let either woman down.
And then there was Sydney. She was the most lovable, gorgeous baby and my love for her knew no bounds. I made sure that her Christmases were perfect. I still remember the anticipation I felt towards her first Christmas. Each day during December, I'd go to a shopping centre after work and buy her a present. One day it would be a book and the next day it was a toy and after that it was clothes. The Christmas tree that year was cluttered with packages and parcels of all shapes and sizes.
One of my most cherished memories is still Sydney's first Christmas. I'll never forget sitting under the tree that Christmas, holding a squirming Sydney on my lap, helping her to undo the wrapping and ribbons on all the presents. I'll never forget her clapping and squealing as each present came out of the box. And I will never forget the huge smile she gave me when she held up a teddy bear that I had bought her. It was bigger than her and she looked at me with those beautiful, big eyes of hers and said "I wuv daddy." Tears of joy sprang to my eyes.
Six years later, there were more tears. But these were not joyful tears, they were bitter ones. Tears of anger, tears of grief, tears of hatred. My wife was gone and without her, there was no more happy family. Though my love for Sydney hadn't changed, I couldn't face her anymore and I hated myself for it. I felt like I had let her down by not preventing her mother's death and so I thought it was best if she forgot about me.
Years passed and I was adamant she had. There were never any cards, any phone-calls, any visits. I went back to spending Christmas like I always had. Alone. But this time, it hurt. It hurt like hell. Many Boxing Days, I'd wake up with a massive hangover.
And now remembering all these memories have made me realise that I've turned out just like my father. The man I hated for ruining Christmas is the man I've become. I feel ashamed now. How did I ever let myself come to this? Why didn't I try to stop myself? Looking at the beer that I'm holding in my hand, I've decided that I can stop. I will stop. I'm not going to get drunk this Christmas. I've had one beer and that's enough. I'm going to go to bed and...
Ring ring, ring ring. Ring ring, ring ring.
That can't be the phone. It's Christmas. No-one ever calls me.
Ring ring, ring ring. Ring ring, ring ring.
It's definitely the phone. I know I should pick it up but I can't seem to move. Who would want to call me on Christmas? A faint suspicion comes to mind. It can't be. It just wouldn't make sense.
Ring ring, ring ring. Ring ring, ring ring.
"Hello? Jack Bristow. Who is this?"
I'm pretty sure I know who it is. There is a pause on the other end of the phone and I barely dare to breathe.
"Dad? Hi, it's me, Sydney."
My suspicions were right. My daughter. My beautiful baby girl, now all grown-up, is calling me at Christmas-time. Calling me. Tears are flowing down my cheeks. I can hardly believe it. My mind is spinning with memories but a certain one comes to mind. A little girl with a big teddy bear and an even bigger smile.
"Dad? Are you there?"
"Yes, I'm still here." I don't know what to say. What would a normal person say if someone called them at Christmas? "Merry Christmas honey." That's it. In amongst the happy tears, I feel like screaming at my brain. Why do you have to be so cold? Your daughter is calling you for the first time ever and all you can say is Merry Christmas? And you wonder why no-one sends you Christmas cards!
"Dad, are you even listening to me?" There seems to be a bit of agitation in her face. That's not very good. "I asked you if you want to come over to my place? Francie and Will are there, Dixon too, and a few other people. I just thought you might like to come...if you're not too busy or anything."
Now there was silence from my end of the phone. I was being invited to a Christmas party. Me. Jack Bristow. Who only five minutes ago had been sitting on the couch, drinking beer and staring at the wall. I was filled with joy and wonder and shock and amazement and so many other euphoric feelings. In my mind, I could hear pre-Christmas conversations from twenty years back. "Sorry I've already been invited to my other mate's party." "I can't go, sorry, I've got so much work to do."
Now I could hear "I just thought you might like to come...if you're not too busy or anything." I was being given my chance. I could either correct my mistakes from the past and perhaps start a new Christmas tradition or forever confine myself to miserable Christmases. I could accept and spend a Christmas with my daughter for the first time in over twenty years or I could refuse and go to bed.
"Dad?"
I wasn't busy, I didn't have anything to do and of course I wanted to spend Christmas with someone other than myself. I knew what to say but I couldn't bring myself to say it.
"Dad? Are you there?"
If I didn't reply in a couple of seconds, she would hang up and I'd lose any chance I had of a merry Christmas. I'd only confirm to her that I was a cold person. Say yes, Jack. Just say it.
"I'd love to come Sydney. I'll be there in half an hour."
"That's great Dad. I'm really happy that you can come. I'll see you then."
I could hear the happiness in her voice. I knew I had made her happy. And yet she had made me happy too. More happier than she'd ever know. As I put down the phone and sat slowly on the couch, I realised the great burden Sydney had lifted off my shoulders. She'd reached out to me. She'd invited me, not out of necessity but out of love. She'd given me a chance to redeem myself at a time when I had needed it the most. She'd made me realise how much I just wanted to belong. And for that, I could never repay her enough.
Driving through the merry streets watching people laugh and dance and sing, it finally dawned on me how much I had missed cooped up inside my dull, drab house. All these years, this magic had been occurring right outside my very door and yet I had never wanted to be part of it. However, times were going to change. No longer would I let Christmas pass me by. No longer would I stare at my walls, feeling sorry for myself. I was going to enjoy myself.
Two silent tears rolled down my cheeks. One for the Christmases that I had lost. And one for the Christmases that I had just found.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thankyou so much for reading and I apologise to anyone who liked this story because I sorta forgot about it. Well no, I started writing Jack's chapter right after Vaughn's but then I lost lots of it and got a bit dispirited and didn't write no more. I still want to do more characters coz I still have ideas so please review and tell me if you'd like to see more character's POV's done. Also, I know Christmas is long over but when I started writing this series, I planned to do each character's thoughts around Christmas-time. Like I said, I'm still prepared to do other characters but maybe I should change the Christmas theme. Whatever your opinion, please review. Please?