The first day of Christmas – Part 1

Christmas is Bruce’s special time of year, a time he shines, but there’s always a shadow…

Part 1 of a Christmas short story. Enjoy.

Bruce tried to ignore the aches and pains that afflicted him from top to bottom. Sunlight, low, warm, and golden, streamed into the lounge and caressed his lower limbs. Unexpected brightness, reflected in the French windows, was dazzling when his head occupied one particular position. Standing upright required more strength than he currently possessed. He felt unbalanced. Unsteady. Even more so because the lounge carpet from previous winters had gone completely, replaced by some slippery faux-wood substitute.

Off to one side, Max sat on the floor, legs tucked up, and stared at a small heap of boxes, muttering under his breath. “So just where the fuck are the fucking tree lights?” He let out a groan and flopped backwards, arms out wide. “Jeez. I fucking hate Christmas!” Max’s shocking electric blue quiff stood out against the pale wood grain. The blue clashed with a red Christmas pudding jumper – bought specially by his mum – and tight purple jeans.

Bruce blinked several times in succession. It always took a while to reacquaint himself with festive bling. He carefully flexed every extremity to make sure the room’s warmth reached as far as it could. Bliss. What colour had Max’s hair been the previous year?

Nothing out of the ordinary came to mind. Instead, Bruce relived all-too-vivid memories of a weeping, snotty-nosed Max yelling into his phone before throwing it against the wall behind the TV. The festive season that had started out so promisingly ended in a dismissal for Bruce that bordered on cruel. Rough, uncaring fingers hurriedly stripped him of everything before he was consigned to a cardboard box and the garage’s dark, lonely chill.

A huff escaped as Bruce attempted to straighten his spine. These days, cold and damp did their worst to an ageing, cranky frame. A crick in his neck felt permanent; other joints creaked ominously and some had a looseness that didn’t bode well. Getting old was no joke.

Max still lay on his back. He now held a different phone from last year’s at arm’s length. The screen was angled to capture his face. Bruce caught sight of an eye-roll worthy of teen Max from several years ago.

The young man sighed loudly. “It fucking sucks being here for Christmas.” The comment was apparently aimed at his phone.

A pause followed, during which Bruce listened intently but heard nothing.

“Yeah?” Max continued. “Well, you don’t have my mum on your case every fucking day.” A scowl marred his remarkably stubble-free face. “When are you gonna get a job? You should go out more. There’s a new housing association place open on the High Street. Go and get your name on their list. It never fucking ends.” His torso bucked slightly in frustration.

This time Bruce overheard a low rumble – no words, more a sensation.

Max coloured a pinkish red that clashed with everything. A reluctant smile surfaced. He squirmed a little, looking away from the phone.

Only a few beats late, his mum, Sharon, emerged from the kitchen. Bruce watched, breathing in the luscious scent of mince pies that wafted through. That was more like it.

She rubbed her hands on an apron decorated with grinning cartoon reindeer. “Max, darling–”

Startled, the young man dropped the phone, rolled over onto his stomach, thereby concealing the screen, and glared up at her. “Fuck, mum! What now?”

There was a pause as she took in her son. “One of your uni friends?”

Max’s glare continued a moment longer before he looked away. “Kinda.” The blush was back.

One corner of Sharon’s mouth twitched. She looked Bruce’s direction. “How’s the tree decorating going?”

A sigh of theatrical proportions followed. “I can’t find any lights.”

His mum bent to ruffle the electric blue quiff. “I threw them out last January. Several lamps were cracked and the wire looked damaged in places.”

Bruce shivered. He wasn’t remotely surprised – those memories of being stripped would haunt him.

Another sigh – of frustration, this time – from Max. “You didn’t… like… think to buy another set?”

“Sorry, darling, I obviously forgot.” A timer pinged insistently from the kitchen. Sharon turned in that direction before looking back briefly with a smile. “Why don’t you find something you like online. My treat.”

Her son shrugged, or as much as he could while lying on his front. “Why bother?” Max turned over and sat up. “I mean, what’s the point? Just look at it.” A finger pointed straight at Bruce. “That tree’s only fit for the bin. We’ve had it for freaking ever.”

The shock made Bruce shiver. Yes, he understood life was finite, but he never expected treatment like that. Threats. Contempt. Disdain. His posture sagged, limbs drooping floorwards. Was this how it all ended?

Sharon was nowhere to be seen. Presumably she’d retreated to the kitchen and was occupied in rescuing mince pies from the oven or whatever else the timer heralded. Bruce lost himself in memories.

His unveiling, however many years ago it was now, to squeals of excitement from Max and his older sister, Emma. The reverence with which they straightened out Bruce’s limbs and made him stand tall. Fierce arguments about which ornaments made him look his best. The gasps and huge smiles when Sharon finally switched on the equally new tree lights.

Bruce sighed, his whole body seeming to join in. He’d felt on top of the world – a central, starring role in that year’s festivities. Gradually, the lustre faded. Fewer presents, more sulks, and the feeling he was there on sufferance. Had he become irrelevant? Something that spent most of the year taking up valuable room?

Max sat, huddled over his phone, tapping, swiping, and pinching in and out. He stopped. “That’s so sick.” The awe in his voice puzzled Bruce. Maybe he wasn’t hearing right. The young man swayed towards the kitchen and called, “Mum?”

“I’ll be back in a minute, darling.” Sounds of washing up drifted into the living room

Max continued anyway. “I’ve found some black tree lights. There’s a Goth vibe this year.”

Water gushed from a tap and gurgled down the plughole. Silence.

Sharon’s puzzled voice followed. “Black?” She stood in the doorway.

“Yeah. Lights, wire, everything.”

That intense satisfaction in Max’s reply made Bruce let out a long breath. Kids. And parents with more money than sense. One year, they draped him in a mile’s worth of blinking, flashing, disco-themed lights. The migraine which resulted lasted on and off until New Year when Max, drunk on rhubarb gin, tripped over the power transformer and brought Bruce to the floor. Bruce grimaced at the memory. He was sure some of his lingering joint pain came from that night. Still, at least the disco lights had died a most satisfactory death.

Bruce tried to catch the last of the sunshine; the crick in his neck pulsed. That weakness was Max’s fault as well. His and Emma’s. Bruce felt his shoulders tighten. Which idiot purposefully placed the best cracker alongside his own crowning star? And then let two hellions fight it out for the spoils. The spat lasted less than a minute. Long enough.

Max and his mum stood in front of the tree. Max pointed at something on his phone’s screen. “Black lights on a black and purple tree? Man, I can’t wait for that shit.”

Sharon’s eyes widened. “When you have your own place, darling, that’d be great. For now, I’d prefer something more traditional. Colourful.”

“Boring.” A pout advertised her son’s frustration.

His mum grinned. “Yes, Max. Boring.” She gave Bruce a once-over. “There’s nothing the matter with this tree that a little tlc won’t put right.”

“Yeah?” Max pointed. “It’s lop-sided. And a mess. Look at those branches.”

Bruce attempted to assume a pose – a reminder of his former glories. All the aches crowded back in, especially on his left side which had been mashed up against the garage wall, stuck in between the unused croquet set and a random piece of wooden fencing.

One of Sharon’s hands, gentle and warm, touched Bruce. A few judicious tugs and careful probing brought some relief in his chest area. Bruce took a deeper breath than usual and relaxed a little. He felt more himself – less consumed by the travails of old age.

Sharon nodded to herself. “Yeah. As I thought. Now the tree’s had chance to warm up, it’s easier to pull the branches into shape.”

“If you can be bothered.” Max glowered at Bruce. “It’d be so much easier to get a new one.”

Will Max and his Mum get a new Christmas tree? Will Bruce survive? Part 2 to follow shortly.