literature

Dear Santa's Workshop

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Dear Santa’s workshop,
Please may I speak to the man in charge, the big guy in the red suit.

You see, Santa, my Guardian died this morning and I couldn’t help but think how weird life is, how it just ends and that’s it. They’re gone and there’s just this empty space left that can’t ever be re-filled. By anyone. Personally, I’ve never been afraid of death. I see it that it’s like being asleep. You’re not really conscious of the fact until you wake up; only, you don’t wake up so you’re never conscious of the fact you’re dead. You’re mind just shuts down and you don’t exist ever more, you don’t even know you ever existed. One last breath, one last heartbeat, and one last thought process and then that’s that. No more suffering.

See, it’s staying alive that I find scary, because you are conscious of what’s going on and there’s nothing you can do about it. You watch that last breath exhale, feel that last heartbeat pump, and witness that last thought extinguish, and then you just keep watching, and watching, and watching, and it doesn’t stop. The car skids to a stop, the driver gets out and comes over to you, waves his hand in front of your face, but all you see is the still hump in the middle of the road. It doesn’t go away, even though it’s not really there anymore. You think about how they said ‘I love you’ that morning, or how they gave you that one last cuddle the night before, and I bet those thoughts are going to stay with you until you don’t exist anymore either. Those painful, painful memories.

That was when I remembered you were magic. I remembered when I finally stopped looking at the disfigured lump in the road and focussed on the man waving his hand in front of my face instead.

“Is that your daddy, little girl?” he asked, sounding pretty hoarse with shock himself. He had a gash on his eyebrow, but otherwise he was okay, which I was glad about. “Is it?”
I looked over the lump’s broken body, his mangled legs that could no longer chase me like he used to when I was little, and missing  jaw that would no longer kiss me goodnight, and shook my head: “My Guardian.”

My Guardian. The lump. My Guardian? The lump?
Did it really make a difference anymore? He was gone.

When his twisted body was sent to the morgue and I was allowed home for a brief time, I went to my bedroom and started to write this letter. The silence in the house was unusual, comforting. He would no longer chase me and kiss me goodnight. See, I wanted to thank you for that, Santa, for finally answering my last Christmas letter since no one else has ever listened. It’s even ironic, how you twisted his body like he twisted my childhood. This year, though, I want to keep it simple.
Amnesia.
Last night I was watching this really weird film clip about child abuse and I had a nightmare. I wake up this morning to found out my dog's died. All in all, it's been a sucky weekend, and this was all I could think about while writing my entry for the letter-to-myself promt. So, this is what happened.

I know the writing's rough and doesn't fully make sense due to the way it switches and chnages and things. But I did it on purprose as I didn't want it to make sense as I felt it more appropriate. Also, I would like to take a moment to mention the great work of the NSPCC, and how they need your help this time of year more than ever to help children in these kind of situations have a nice Christmas too :)
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