“But this story has a happy ending. After learning what had happened to this longtime volunteer, hospital workers took up a donation. Not only is this Santa getting the gift of freedom this Christmas, but he’ll have thousands left over to make the season bright.”
The man comes on, still wearing his Santa suit. You weren’t wrong; that smile is too wide. Creepy. Skin-suit-makery.
“I’m just grateful people I care about know I never would have done this. And grateful that I’ll have even more money with which to brighten the days of the sick and the needy.”
It’s almost over. Soon you’ll be able to breathe easy—
Lars walks in.
“Hey, isn’t that the guy you had me call security on yesterday?”
Mom, Dad, and Lindsi turn to you, mouths dropping open in horror.
“Umm…maybe?”
The End.
“I’m so sorry about my mom,” Lindsi says for the fifth time, swinging into a spot at the far end of the mall parking lot. You know you ought to be happy to get a little exercise over the holidays, but fuck that—why even have holidays if you’re going to ruin them with walking?
“It’s fine,” you say. The more you think about it, the less you care what Lindsi’s mom thinks. You’ll only be here another couple days. If things work out with Lindsi, you might just insist on holidays with your folks…forever.
You head inside. The mall is absolutely glutted with people. You try to move as little as possible, deep breathing to calm yourself, while Lindsi flits around picking things out.
“Oooh! Lars loves this cologne. Bear Hunter. It’s so manly.” She heads over to a stack of sweaters. “And Dad loves plaids. Oooh!” She dashes to a display of gaudy costume jewelry. “You wouldn’t believe it to look at her, but Mom loves glitzing it up.”
“Okay.” You grab the rhinestone-studded bracelet to look at the price.
Woof.
“That’s really nice, but I hadn’t planned on spending quite so—”
“Spending? No, don’t worry about it, I’ve got these. Just put your name on them.”
“Lindsi, there’s no need to—”
“Please. I’m the one who asked you to come for Christmas—you should be on a beach somewhere! Besides, I feel bad that they’re being such jerks. I want you to knock their socks off with the presents. It’s on me.”
“Well…” You suppose you should feel emasculated by your girlfriend picking up the tab, but you don’t. Not even a little. It’s awesome living in more gender-equal times.
Lindsi pays and you head out into the main section of the mall.
“OOOOH!!”
She’s jumping up and down and pointing over the crowd.
Oh, shit. At the mall Santa Claus.
“Can we, sweetie?” She leans against your shoulder, looking up at you with big, pleading eyes. “I love Santas.”
She has been acting nice, buying all these gifts for her family.
But it’s a fucking mall Santa. On Christmas Eve. How much can she ask of you?
* * *
If you want to suck it up as a thank-you to Lindsi, go HERE.
If part of your totally progressive gender stance is not being able to stomach full-grown women sitting on “Santa’s” lap, go HERE.
Lindsi whips into the mall parking lot, ignoring the honks of cars she nearly collided with.
“Fucking pussies,” she mutters under her breath.
“Yeah, learn how to drive, right?”
Lindsi sneers at you, shaking her head dismissively.
So much for solidarity.
You putter through the parking lot in stony silence. Every space is full—of course, it’s Christmas Eve. The idea of heading into a mall any day of the year makes you cringe. The idea of dealing with it today, with Lindsi like this…woof. Just woof.
Were there signs before now that she was this volatile? Or should you give her a pass because it’s family? Whatever—either way, it sucks to be around her. If you enter the mall together, one of you is leaving minus an eye, and you have a sneaking suspicion it’ll be you.
What else can you do, though? How can you divert Lindsi’s hatred away from you?
* * *
If you want to come on to her, so she’ll feel less weird about earlier, go HERE.
If you want to offer to get a drink—or ten thousand—somewhere, go HERE.
Your eyes flutter open to fluorescent tube lighting and a stained drop ceiling. Where…
“There’s our little patient awake!”
You turn your head slowly—it feels like someone has replaced the interior of your skull with wet sand—and see a fat nurse smiling aggressively as she checks some IVs.
“You did great. And don’t worry, you didn’t even say anything embarrassing!” She chuckles. It’s more soothing than it should be.
“How long do I get to stay?” You’re not sure what drugs you’re on, but they make you feel warm and soft, like your body is made of down comforters.
“Oh, a coupla days.” She plumps your pillow. “We’ll take real good care of you. It’s Christmas, after all. Oh, that reminds me—I have a little something for you.”
She reaches into her pocket. Is it a present? What kind of presents do they give in hospitals, painkillers? That would put this in the running for best Christmas ever.
“Here you go. Ring if you need me, okay?”
She places a folded paper on the table attached to your hospital bed. Maybe it’s a prescription for the pain pills?
No, it’s a bill. An astronomically high bill. Three hundred and eighteen dollars for latex gloves? How many pairs did they use?
A note’s attached. Cheery, loopy writing reads, Your insurance might cover some of this—make sure to call them after New Year’s! Merry Xmas, Doris.
Aww, that was nice of Doris. It could be the morphine talking, but this isn’t the worst Christmas you’ve had. Room service on call, no expectations from friends or family, limitless Jell-O. Depending on how your insurance shakes out, it might wind up being one of the best.
The End.
Your eyes flutter open. The fluorescent tube buzzing overhead is garishly bright, searing an oblong bar into your retinas. Where are you?
“You’re awake.”
Lindsi sounds pissed. Did you get too drunk and make out with someone? No, that doesn’t make sense. The last thing you remember is making gingerbread. Then…
“What happened?”
“You passed out. It completely ruined the gingerbread houses. Which are basically the most important element of VanWhittington Christmas.” She sighs exaggeratedly. You think she’s rolling her eyes; it’s hard to tell with the Geordi La Forge bar of sightlessness.
“So I’m…in the hospital?” That explains the IV. They must have you on some pretty serious meds for you not to have guessed this already.
“Yeah. They had to do emergency surgery on your kidney. Apparently it was ‘beyond repair.’ So now you’re not only passing out at the drop of a hat, you’re a one-kidney. Which is just…” Lindsi shakes her head, mouth pursed. You think you hear her mutter “inferior.”
“Wait, I only have…they took my…” Holy shit, you must have hit it hard. What will happen now? Will your pee come out half as fast? Your vision blurs; the horrible possibilities are fucking with your blood pressure.
“Anyway, call when you’re better, if that’s not weeks from now.” Lindsi stands.
“Wait, you’re leaving?”
“Uh, yeah.” She tilts her chin down, aggressively. “My family is upset enough over how much time I’ve already wast—spent here. They’d never forgive me if I let your…weakness completely wreck Christmas.”
“But you’ll come by later?”
She’s already out the door.
A few seconds later you hear a tentative knock. Thank god; for a minute you thought Lindsi had been serious with the you-losing-a-fucking-kidney-is-pissing-me-off act.
A man in a Santa suit peeks in, a stuffed v
elvet bag in hand.
“Ho, ho, ho, Merry—oh, it’s you.” He narrows his eyes. Shit, it’s the guy from the gas station. He was coming to Little Hampshireton to volunteer at a hospital? You really thought he was looking for people to turn into furniture.
He stomps over and slams something on your bedside table.
“There. Exactly what you deserve.”
It’s a lump of coal.
A few minutes later you hear another knock. Maybe he’s relented? He’s supposed to be charitable, right?
“I heard you’re awake.” A fat nurse steps inside, cheeks rosy pink and soft-looking. At least she’ll be nice. “I thought I’d drop this off so you can start studying up. Now that you’re down to one kidney, you need to be more careful.” She drops a stack of papers on your bedside table and waddles out, whistling.
It’s a list titled “Things to avoid.”
Excessive drinking
That was expected. Still, disappointing.
Beach volleyball
Huh. That’s specific. Maybe sports in general are going to be off-limits from now on?
Clams under 3 oz. in size
Flavorful cheese
Amateur improv troupes
You flip through the list.
There are twelve more single-spaced pages.
Well, at least you have a lot of alone time to start reading up on this…
The End.
“Oh, whoa, I think you have the wrong idea.”
“Do I?” His eyebrows waggle mischievously.
“I wasn’t there to cruise. That guy was just bitter because of the hitchhiking thing. Which doesn’t seem very Christian. But yeah, I’m straight. Like, exclusively.”
Lars pulls his hand back, frowning.
“So you panicked over a guy who was trying to give sick children Christmas presents?”
“You have to understand, it was dark, and I was tired…”
“He is literally the least threatening person I’ve ever seen.”
“Sure, in a Santa suit, but he was wearing a very…brightly colored button-down, and…”
Lars wrinkles his nose in disgust.
“Point is, it was a misunderstanding. But don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone you’re gay, I swear.”
“Who the fuck said anything about me being gay? Last I checked you’re the pussy that can’t even swing an axe.” You’ve never heard Lars swear before, or seen him look so…big. Which is saying a lot, since he’s always absolutely massive.
Luckily, he seems to have said his piece. You ride the rest of the way home in stony silence.
The doctor ordered bed rest, so you don’t have to go to mass with the family. You’re nervous about what Lars is saying in your absence, but the longer you lie there, cozy under the comforter, the harder it is to care. What could he say without implicating himself?
You drift off to sleep, certain everything will look better on Christmas morning.
* * *
Click HERE to continue.
You know what? Doesn’t matter. Better to have Lars on your side; the rest of the family dislikes you enough without him saying you hate cancer kids or whatever.
Eventually, he pulls his hand away, but the entire evening, he’s friendlier than normal. After you tell a lame joke about “elves with benefits,” he laughs uproariously, slapping you on the back like you’re a comic genius. Whenever you look up at dinner, you catch him staring at you intently, until he blushes and looks away. He even asks if you want to chop wood with him, which you can tell drives his brother-in-law Michael insane, like it’s that exciting to swing an axe again.
The weirdest thing is…you like it.
It’s like you have some special in-joke, an exciting secret no one else understands. There’s something exhilarating about it. Something thrilling. Something…sexy.
It makes you wonder: are you gay? It hasn’t occurred to you before, but they say sexuality is a sliding scale, right? What if you’ve been gay all along and just never encountered the right person? Or what if you’re not gay-gay; you’re just gay for Lars? That could be a thing, right? Maybe you were so closeted that it took someone as perceptive as Lars to see it. Which is weird, since you always thought your college roommate knew you pretty well.
Should you go after Lars?
Is he even gay?
You’ve never felt so confused in your life.
The next night at dinner, you’re seated across from Lars. The candles in the center of the table throw soft light onto his chiseled features. Being with someone so manly would make you manlier. But he’d be tender, you can tell. He’s probably got the most amazing abs under that flannel shirt.
You keep staring, fascinated by the prospect of Lars. You’re unsure what you want from him, whether you want anything from him, or whether you’re imagining the whole thing.
One thing you do know, though: you’re going to have to stay with Lindsi until you can sort this out…or find a way to get closer to her brother.
The End.
You strip and head into the sauna.
Lars bends over you to stoke the coals, junk swinging remarkably near your face.
Apparently he’s pretty at ease being naked. You resist the impulse to cover yourself with your hands. A guy who had played sports wouldn’t care if another guy saw him naked, right? Plus, Lars must know his dick is way above average. If you had that dick you’d swing it too.
He sits on the pine bench, spreading his legs wide until his knee touches yours. The space is pretty small.
Is he looking at your…you must be imagining it. Or maybe he likes to size himself up, too. That’s reassuring, the idea that a man as obviously gifted by nature as Lars has to compare himself. It makes you like him even more, something you hadn’t thought possible.
“This is nice,” you say.
“Very nice.” You feel more of his thigh pressing against yours. Okay, you’re definitely not imagining it. He’s staring straight at your dick. Is he…smiling?
“Thanks for bringing me here.” You try to sound casual, like you haven’t noticed.
“It’s something I like to do with people I…care about,” Lars says, voice rougher.
He’s moved so close you can feel your ass cheek touching his. In the steam, his body is glistening like some kind of oiled god’s.
“Oooh, looks like someone’s…excited.”
Fuck, when did you get an erection? Why is it getting harder at the sound of his voice? Are you…
“Can I…touch it?” he asks.
“Yes. Please.” Wow. That was unexpected. Have you been gay this entire time? Are you gay for Lars? What is happening to you? You feel Lars’s strong grip and moan with pleasure.
“What about with my mouth?”
“Yeeeeess,” you groan. Lars grins greedily and gets to his knees, his blond head disappearing in the steam of the sauna.
• • •
Lars walks up behind you at the breakfast table and pats your shoulder…then rubs his hand down your back—one swift, soft motion—to your tailbone.
Now that you’ve slept on it, you’re certain you’re not gay.
Actually, you were pretty sure the moment Lars came on your leg and you almost screamed out, “GROSS.” You’re usually not that testy right after cumming yourself.
Once everyone else has filed out, he draws his chair closer, near enough that you feel his breath when he whispers in your ear.
“I understand if you want to keep Lindsi around. It’s easier—why do you think I’m married? Besides, it’s a good excuse to keep coming back for visits.” He flicks his tongue around the inside of your ear. It arouses you slightly. Dammit, you’d been so sure about this.
“Oh, uh, okay,” you mumble, not quite managing to keep the fear out of your voice.
“I like it better that way,” Lars pants. “Being each other’s secret.”
“Yeah, secret is good,” you say. Your upper lip is sweating.
“Anyway, I’ll m
ake sure Jimmy sleeps downstairs tonight. Then I’ll give you a special Christmas present.”
In spite of yourself, you’re intrigued. Maybe you were right the first time, in the sauna. In that you’d been wrong about yourself your entire life, that is.
“Oh?”
“I like to call it…Turkish delight.”
You simultaneously shudder and shiver. You’re 80 percent certain you’ll lock the bedroom door. Well, maybe more like 60 percent…
The End.
Hands shaking slightly, you train the sight on where you assume the deer’s heart must be. Would a head shot be better? Can arrows even pierce a skull?
Wait, what are you thinking, you can’t kill a…
You sneeze powerfully. You’ve always been a cold-weather sneezer. You look up, expecting to find that the animal has been startled away.
Nope.
The deer has collapsed in the snow, bright red spurting up into the air over its head from a spot in its neck. You must have hit the jugular.
It bellows in pain. It’s literally the worst sound you’ve ever heard. Its legs twitch. You have to at least put it out of its misery. You run over, reloading the crossbow with one hand as you whisper to yourself, “Mercy killing. Mercy killing.”
As you near the animal, it thrashes in fear, spraying your face and body with a huge stream of blood. You try to aim for its head, but can’t get a grip on the crossbow. Your hands are too slippery.
It bellows again.
Jesus Christ, you have to kill this fucking animal to end its fucking dying.
You toss the crossbow aside and grab the knife. Closing your eyes, you slice across its throat. It feels like cutting an especially gristly steak.
You open your eyes.
Now what?
You’ve already killed the thing; you might as well win Lars’s stupid game. Weeping openly, you scoot around in the bloody snow. With another swift slice of the knife, you open the deer’s abdomen.
Choose Your Own Misery Page 21