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Cover Design: Selena Kitt
A Christmas Caroler © December 2009 Kris Klein
eXcessica publishing
All rights reserved
A Christmas Caroler
By Kris Klein
Even as an adult, Christmas had always been my favorite holiday. Halloween ran a close second, mainly because I worked at a haunted house attraction in Chicago the last thA ree weekends of the October, scaring the crap out of people—but Christmas had always been the ultimate, at least to me; each year I decorated my house from chimney to front lawn, mostly with fat, old-fashioned bulb lights and oversized Santa and Rudolph and Frosty figures. Twice my home had even been featured in the local newspapers.
Then came last year. December 22nd to be exact, when my boyfriend of three years, Stephen, informed me he was breaking up with me to pursue a dancing career in New York City. He was gone two days later—but what he hadn’t told me was he’d been cheating on me, with a fairly well-known off-Broadway choreographer who’d been touring with a show in Chicago. Anyway, by Christmas Eve Stephen was a memory, my house was trashed, and I spent my holiday bedding a 19-year-old trick with dyed-black hair and a nose ring, whom I’d brought home from the bars around 3am Christmas morning. By mid-afternoon I couldn’t even remember his name, so I sent him back to the boyfriend he, in turn, was cheating on.
Life was a bitch—now so was I.
This year, my stomach started feeling queasy right after Halloween, and through the month of November I focused on getting to Boston, to visit my family for Thanksgiving. For the first time in my thirty-two years of living, Christmas was something I was dreading. Friend after friend knew why, and the invitations to spend the holidays with both them and their families were fast in coming, even as early as the first week of December. I turned them all down. I was pretty much over Stephen, after a year of off-and-on grieving—but I wasn’t yet over what he’d shattered in me regarding my happiest time of the year. Two weeks earlier or later, and I wouldn’t have associated his betrayal with Christmas itself…and might actually have gotten my decorations down from the attic this year. No—he’d known how much the day meant to me, and had chosen to drop his bomb only two days before. Which was unforgivable, and would now—I thought—always link Christmas in my mind with pain, unless a small miracle came along to revive my holiday spirit.