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imported>Mai sentry
(Created page with "I don’t hide the fact that I hate Christmas. Call me a proverbial Scrooge, insult me to no end, but every year I feel a dread greater than anyone who hates the holiday seaso...")
 
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I don’t hide the fact that I hate Christmas. Call me a proverbial Scrooge, insult me to no end, but every year I feel a dread greater than anyone who hates the holiday season could ever claim.
 
If you know me personally, you’d assume it’s because of my younger brother’s disappearance, and you’d be right for the most part. It happened one Christmas morning when by all rights, the two of us should have been sitting by our tree opening presents and making treasured childhood memories. Instead I was treated with a day of police frantically searching our house and neighborhood while questioning my distraught parents.
 
They questioned me too of course, but as a ten year old girl I didn’t have much to say. I told them that he and I had gone to bed, excited for what the next day had in store for us, and that was the last I saw of him. He just never came down to open his gifts, and that’s when my mother discovered his room was empty.
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It was the first year I had openly stopped believing in Santa Claus. I was a strange and cynical child, much to the concern of my parents. To tell you the truth, until that fateful night I had never really been a believer in Santa Claus. I mostly just played along to please adults, but that year I was tired of all the acting.
 
That’s one of the many ways we differed so much, my brother and I. You see, Chris was a young, energetic, and curious boy. I remember the year he was taken was also the one where he had found where our parents were hiding our unwrapped gifts weeks ahead of time. He refused to tell his own big sister what she was going to be getting though. Figures, I guess.
 
More importantly however, being three years younger than me, he was still very much a believer. My flat denials of the existence of Santa Claus only served as a challenge to him, and he was determined to prove otherwise.
 
We were heading up the stairs to bed when he got my attention. “Stay up with me!” he said as he tugged at my pajama sleeve. “I’ll show you, he’s real. We’ll catch him in the act! I bet we’ll be the first ones to have ever done it! And I’m sure he’ll give us all kinds of stuff when we do.”
 
I sighed. “I’d rather just get some sleep Chris,” I told him. “You can go on believing if you want, but I don’t have to just to have a good Christmas.” I always tried to avoid being such a damper on his spirit, and I thought convincing him to forget his harebrained schemes would be better than waiting up half the night just to see his disappointment.
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