Christmas story 2020
Blood Pudding
Chapter One: Beneath the Mistletoe
I'm dead.
That's what I believe. — But now, reconsidering, I realize that I can't be dead, since dead people don't believe they're dead. I don't mean that they believe they're alive; I mean they don't believe — at all.
There's no believing past dead. There's just The End, the end of the story. There's just — dead.
That's what I believe, anyway. But I can't know, can't be sure. I'm not dead, after all.
I just believe I am.
How did I end up dead, or believing that I'm dead?
I guess there's a story, — there has to be a story; there's always a story, right? — with a kind of beginning, a kind of middle, and a kind of end. Mine ends in a kind of strange oblivion, one in which I'm dead. Or believe I am.
Just now, I'm sorta blank on the beginning and the middle.
I open my eyes and see things. I am cold, wet, and, above me, is a sprig of mistletoe. It's hanging from a string, dangling, like me. I hear a Christmas carol in the distance and it sounds off-key. Or maybe it's me.
I'm off-key. Maybe.
An arm moves and I hear a groan. It comes from my mouth: it's mine and the arm's mine too. The groan's off-key. Definitely. My groan. I taste something metallic, salty, and I realize it's blood. Mine. I touch my stomach and feel warm wetness there. My middle's pudding, blood pudding.
And pain. A stab of it, a stab wound. Deep. I probe the wound and hear another groan. Hemorrhage. The pain intensifies; the mistletoe blurs. My head hurts.
I'm not dead — but I'm dying. As I Lay Dying. William Faulkner. Saw that book once on a shelf at an airport somewhere far, far from here. — Maybe in Iceland? — Yes, Iceland.
What was Faulkner doing in Iceland? What was a copy of Faulkner doing in Iceland? Bourbon on ice.
A drink. I'd like a drink, even a drop of water. As I Lay Dying.
What am I doing as I lay dying — here? In Los Angeles?
I try to recall how I came to be dead. Or to how I came to believe I am dead. — But I can't be dead, since I can't be dead and believe I am dead. And I can't recall anything. — But I feel dead. I must have for a long time, felt dead, since feeling dead seems familiar, not the novelty you'd expect. Or feeling dead felt familiar until...until I was resurrected. Until I was resurrected only to die here, or to lay here dying. Dying, beneath a sprig of mistletoe.
Beneath mistletoe, and surrounded by pine or the scent of pine.
And then memories begin to return to me. Damn. You wouldn't think I could feel worse but I do.
Worse than dead.
I suss out the words of the Christmas carol as my consciousness dims, The Holly and the Ivy.
The holly bears a berry
As red as any blood
And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ
To do poor sinners good
The holly bears a prickle
As sharp as any thorn
And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ
On Christmas Day in the morn
The holly bears a bark
As bitter as the gall
And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ
For to redeem us all
As bitter as the gall: they're the last words that really register before I die. Or before I lose consciousness.
From the inside, it's hard to tell them apart...