But everyone expects it to be about Christmas. Because it’s Christmas eve and I’m Santa, only I’m dead tired of Christmas and myths and people’s expectations. I have it bad but Atlas has it worse, he holds the world upon his shoulders and he can’t even go pee. This year I’ll dress in orange, I tell him, and he looks at me in awe. You’re such a rebel, he says, then he sighs, his shoulder is killing him, he shakes his arm and an earthquake shakes Europe.
Rudolph is bored like I’m bored. He longs to wander in forests. When he kicks my butt and I fall onto the ground, when the elves run to my rescue screaming and the alarm goes off like there’s a big disaster, when the doctor asks if I hit my head but I can’t answer because my mouth is open wide, right after he sticks my broken tooth back in place, then I know that it’s now or never, that it’s my chance to escape. I nod. I hit my head hard, I say.
The doctor asks questions, and I don’t answer, because concussions do that. He runs some tests, eyes me up and down, he asks, why orange, and it’s because I need change like people need change, and when people need change, everybody says, go ahead, try new things, but when I do, they go like, you can’t do this or that or anything, but I don’t speak aloud. I shrug instead.
He nods like it’s all clear now, he says I have a lot on my mind, he wonders who put them there. I tell him he’s wrong, my mind is empty. He says, talk now or else, he pauses and stares at me, then he forgets and doesn’t complete the sentence. Or else what, I remind him. He raises his eyes while I remain silent, he says, or else Christmas is lost. I have nothing against Christmas but perhaps this isn’t a bad idea, I think, but I don’t talk now either. I bow my head and stare at the floor.
The doctor asks, what’s next? I cry a little and the truth bursts out, I have dreams too, I want to paint. He laughs and says I can’t go 'ho ho ho' in tears, then stands up and points to the window. I follow his gaze and watch a new Santa in a bright red outfit holding a large pack of presents. They replaced me so fast, I say. He laughs again, he says, people can’t know your needs unless you speak.
He signs some papers, then he says, you’re discharged, and he winks my way, because he’s bored too, he’s had enough, and we hold hands, close our eyes, take a big breath and we jump together, like those angels who fall from the sky, from myths and into reality, and this isn’t a Christmas story, but it’s Christmas already, and we are free and visceral and real.
Mileva Anastasiadou is a neurologist, from Athens, Greece and the author of "We Fade With Time" by Alien Buddha Press. A Pushcart, Best of the Net, Best Microfiction and Best Small Fictions nominated writer, her work has been selected for the Best Microfiction anthology 2024 and Wigleaf Top 50 and can be found in many journals such as the Chestnut Review, Passages North, Necessary Fiction, and others.
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