(Cries) This was done because I h a t e the holidays. No, not just Hanukkah…all of it. Everything about December. From mid-marking period report cards to Christmahannukwanzaadan to New Year's. I only like my birthday…so I decided to do something from Jazz's point of view that pretty much sums up my feelings.
SUMMARY: One g i r l is not what she seems on the surface. Feelings bubble under her surface, and this time of year, the most joyful one, she snaps with utter anger towards it. SLIGHT AU. DRABBLE.
DISCLAIMER: no. NO, DID YOU HEAR ME, YOU FREAKING DUDE?
RATED: T for my temper and Jazz's language.
It's Not Fair
It's not fair! I never get to celebrate ANYTHING. I'm buried under too much freaking work to do anything. All I ever do is fulfill my parents' dream to become what they thought I had potential for. They wanted me to be the freaking model child I was trying my best avoiding to become. They shoved my dreams, my dreams of being a psychiatrist, out the window and told me study the academic books I had read so often that I have it memorized word for word.
I h a t e the holidays, no doubt about it. I've only got one thing to look forward to: my birthday. The only thing I really like about it is that I'm a year older. Other than that, not much is different then. It's just me getting older while no one cares. Everything I ever do is just to make my parents happy because once it's not their happy little fairy world, they boot people out of their life, like they did with Danny last year when he exposed himself.
They threw him out because it was their job to hunt and catch, not his. He was stealing their thunder, and they didn't want that. So, they kicked him out. Onto the streets. Not just that, but on Christmas Eve. I tried to stop it, but they threatened to do the same and literally threw me in my room to study for the SAT's—which won't come up 'til two years later. I wouldn't even be in ninth then!
But it doesn't matter. Because the holidays suck like crap and all I ever wanted to do my entire life was destroy anything red, green, blue, white, or any other G-ddamned holiday colors. I don't even like the New Year's. Everyone forgets about me, and doesn't even tell me when the ball in Times Square is lowering.
This particular Christmas night, I snapped. I couldn't take it anymore. My parents didn't want the best for me. They wanted what they thought would get me where they liked, and that wasn't it. They were driving in the car back from a particularly horrible and suckish Christmas party down the highway, about 100 feet from our house.
"Jazz, have you studied for the college entrance exams? Speaking of which, have you listed the top five colleges you want to go to and where you want to major and minor?" asked my mother. "And it'd better not be your psychology crap." She shuddered.
"Have you created a schedule for your high school life, your college life, and adult life? Have you figured out which academic camps to go to?" asked my father.
I bit my lip as tears streaked down my tears. "No, I didn't." My mother jammed on the brakes and stopped right there in the lane, not even bothering to move to the strips of road used for emergencies only.
"What?" she asked quietly but powerfully. I cried harder, biting just as harshly.
"I didn't do any of it."
"Why not? We are doing this for your future, Jazzy!"
"No you're not! You're working me on Christmas! I never get a break, I don't have a life, I've rarely been given much of anything beyond necessities, and I want to go freaking Hell because this biotch," I raged, pointing to myself, "deserves to go there."
My parents stayed silent.
"What the freaking hell are you waiting for? Get the damn car moving!" I shouted angrily, tears streaming freely. My parents frowned.
"Young lady, you must listen to us, and you can't tell us what to do!" I cursed them off and ran right out of that damn car. I headed for home; it wasn't that far.
When I got in, I slammed the door closed and locked it. But I quickly drew a picture of Santa Claus, a menorah, the candleholder for Kwanzaa, and wrote in "Ramadan" because I didn't know any symbol for it—but I wouldn't be surprised if my parents expected me to. I grabbed a red marker and jammed it repeatedly so hard on the paper that when I finished, my universal "no" sign looked more like b l o o d. I added this touch to the symbols and words. Then, I grabbed my orange marker and wrote in large, harsh, bold letters exactly what I told them in the car. "F"…"U"…"C"…and add that letter…"YOU". I taped it up on the front of my door for my parents to admire—they always said to improve my artwork.
I grabbed every damn thing that reminded me of the holidays and broke it. I broke it with no mercy, yelling with rage. All this crap reminded me of the pain, the anger, everything that I suppressed all this time. I wanted it to d i e. I wanted it to burn. I wanted it to break. I wanted it to bend to my will, just like I wished my parents would, just for this holiday.
"Jazzy?" I heard my mother call through the door. I frowned, grabbed my recently horribly dented music stand, which reminded me of a menorah, and tossed it with all my strength at the door. I repeated exactly what was on the picture.
"What's wrong?" asked my mom. I yelled with an unnatural volume that even I noticed.
"Mom, you tell me to study for the SAT's when I'm seven, seven, G-ddamn it, and you ask what's wrong? You tell me to prepare my schedule for life, and you ask what's wrong? Mom, you want to know what's wrong?" I muttered, getting closer to her with every word. By this second I was in her face. She didn't faze at all, just like her.
"YOU!" I shouted in the same voice and not only slammed the door, but cracked it and knocked it off one hinge.
The rest of that night, and every other freaking holiday I could think of, I locked myself up in my room. I turned off the lights. I crawled into bed. I hugged a recreated teddy—I had destroyed Bearbert in rage.
And I wept.
Once, I swore I could hear Danny out there and willed with all my heart to be with him.
Fin
Yup. Well, I don't have the guts to do that, but I really want to. My parents don't go to such extremes, but yes. This is true. Yes, I rarely get gifts. Yes, I barely celebrate any holidays because I never have time for it. And yes, I am extremely angry. (Cries really hard) Now, my freaking schedule and life is why I officially am the Jazz I've portrayed here.
And don't tell me it's out of character. I said already it was a slight AU, the AU being that her parents are more attentive and care more about her future than anything. They shove everyone who doesn't match their vision. And Jazz, because she hasn't studied psychology as much, cannot tame her own thoughts, only, more or less, decipher the actions of others. Please excuse the language, but it really got my thought across better.