For most people, Christmas is the best excuse to spend a lot of time with family and friends, going out shopping or traveling, and spending more money than usual. But they forgot that, for others, is a hard reminder of their loneliness and sometimes a perfect encourager for disaster.
I used to spend Christmas in two different places, first with my 'dad' (I get goosebumps every time I think about him) and then with grandma and mom. I also regretfully used to prefer dad's home much more because his was bigger, warmer, and he spoiled me nonstop with clothes and toys. As a child I was so indifferent to the hurt looks in mom's and grandma's faces when I rudely demanded to spend more time with dad instead of them, and only realized it later in life.
Too late in life.
I let him buy me with gifts and food. I let him isolate me from everyone because I'd get hurt according to him. And I let him convince me that I was weak, even to this day.
In September 13th, when I was 12, I remember taking my new camera to school for the first time. I was so proud of it, and my classmates also were impressed because they asked me if they could look at it the whole day. After school, some girls even asked me to take pictures of them while practicing on their volleyball club, and I complied.
I was so drunk in other people's attention that I also went to the computer's lab with them to download the pictures. They were grateful and I was really happy, even though I knew I was getting home 'late' by my father's standards, but I believed he would forgive me as I was his dear daughter.
I was wrong. He was panicking over a confused me, interrogated me and took me to my bedroom. Or rather, he locked me up. Initially, I got even more confused but accepted my situation and waited for dad to calm down and let me go, but he never did.
Then a whole lot of time passed and I, getting desperate, started to scream. To this day I still don't know why any of our neighbors didn't call the police despite the noise I was making but maybe dad had convinced them I was just throwing a tantrum. Nobody in that kind of neighborhood would even suspect something remotely awful like that was happening.
When I literally lost my voice, I started crying. Dad came into my room, hugged me against my will and tried to calm me down assuring me this was 'for my own good' and that 'he'll always protect me' and some stupid part of me believed him. I loved him, relied on him.
The rest of the week I missed school and I stayed locked in my room, my dad bringing in my meals and only letting me out a few times per day to go to the bathroom. More than once I thought about using one of those chances to run away, but I was too coward and I feared too much the consequences of failing.
A few days later, I thought I heard a woman's voice from afar. My mom's voice. But I was crying, so I thought I imagined it, and also had started to forget her real voice for not seeing her since a long time ago.
In September 27th I heard some commotion outside, a couple of masculine voices (my dad's among them), and someone forcefully opening my room's door. A scared and teary-eyed me locked gazes with a surprised police man.
From then on, I was a turmoil of emotions. I didn't know why I was taken to a police division for child protection, nor why I was then guided to a psychologist and checked by a doctor, but the most shocking thing was meeting my mom. She cried for me, and at the moment I didn't know why.
Only after some time, and thanks to therapy, I understood her reason to.
I lived with grandma for a while, until it was decided that my mom would get sole custody of me. My dad, meanwhile, was too busy fighting charges against child abuse and (unfortunately) came out free of any consequences.
But the damage was done, and I wasn't going to go back to him, ever.
Sometime later I found out I had been 'kidnapped' because a teacher at my old school was getting suspicious of me missing so much, and called my grandma to check up on me. Thanks to that teacher I was safe with mom, but not for too long.
Mom's death was on December 23rd, that same year. She was on her shift at some hardware store and was supposed to be home by 8 P.M. but never showed up. At first, grandma tried to reason it by saying maybe mom was making some last grocery shopping for Christmas dinner, but by 10 P.M. we both were already worried.
Grandma was about to go out and investigate, but a call to our landline stopped her. That was the first time I saw her incredulous look, like she was hearing someone speaking garbage on the other side.
"This man just said Leah (my mom) is dead" Grandma told me, clearly offended.
I don't blame her, because I reacted the same way. Mom couldn't be dead.
The man, apparently a police man, told her she was ran over by some unknown person and they still were chasing after them. Both grandma and me ignored it and went to her place of work anyways, waiting to find her hopefully.
We only found a lonely, closed store.
Neither of us could sleep that night, despite my attempts. The next morning, we received a second call from the same police man, saying the person responsible for running over my mom was already identified as Daniel Hersey, the victim's ex-husband. My dad.
Only then I think we both started to believe my mom was really dead. And when a police car came to pick us up, we already knew she was.
Dad´s death was on December 24th, less than a day after mom´s. After running her over, he escaped and hid somewhere before being found by the police in the early morning. Was shot to death for resisting his arrest and trying to attack with some 'unknown' weapon, which I suspect was some kind of magic trick.
It´s a mystery to this day.
That was the first time I didn´t celebrate Christmas, and haven´t since then.