“SIR!” A fat mall security man with a buzz cut and a moustache wheezes over. “You need to calm down and come with me, or I’m going to have to use this.” He holds up a can of Mace. You almost laugh—rent-a-cop bullshit weapons—but stop yourself. Mace sucks, after all.
Too stunned by what you’ve done to resist, you follow him to the mall security office where he calls the actual police. They arrive fifteen minutes later to take you to the county jail.
“I’ll follow in the car,” Lindsi says, her face riddled with worry.
“There’s no need, I’m the idiot who lost my temper.” You feel your face turning bright red.
“No, I want to,” she purrs. Huh. That’s a little unexpected.
* * *
Click HERE to continue.
You’re not going home with Mom after this week is over. And Lindsi would probably be annoyed if she didn’t have something to open from you on Christmas morning, even knowing you have another gift waiting at home.
You squeeze by a harried-looking mother with a double-wide stroller, force your way past a large, sweatpants-wearing woman in the Auntie Anne’s Pretzels line, and skirt around a crowd of a dozen teenagers simultaneously texting.
Think. What would Lindsi like?
Something expensive. You head into the department store.
You try to ignore the salesgirls screaming from the makeup counters, spritzing overpowering perfume on you, as you make your way to a display you saw on the way in.
Cashmere.
Every girl likes cashmere, right? Plus, the whole family would know you spent some serious—whoa, two hundred dollars for a sweater? You look around, hoping for something smaller—a scarf, maybe, or a 3ʺ × 3ʺ square for petting—but this is all that’s left. And judging from the extremely limited size and color options, even this won’t be here for long.
You know what? Fine. Lindsi will love that you spent a lot on her. The fact that the sweater is yellow, a color Lindsi regularly mentions “looks terrible on all white girls,” doesn’t matter—it’s the thought that counts. Plus, you don’t have time to look for anything else; you’re supposed to meet her in two minutes.
You grab the sweater and head to the checkout.
You really hope this thought will count for at least a couple of blow jobs.
* * *
Click HERE to continue.
Lindsi will understand her gift being at home. If you don’t somehow reverse Mom’s opinion of you within the next couple days, she’ll probably look at you with that sour, who-just-farted face forever. It’s gotta be another gift for the hosts.
Of course, you don’t actually know anything about your hosts. You look around. What store would be best?
There’s a Body Shop, a Yankee Candle, a Wet Seal…
Oh, “Fine Wines and Spirits.” That’s definitely the winner. Who doesn’t like a nice bottle of booze? You’ll pick something obviously expensive, buy the wrapping right at the counter, and totally redeem yourself with almost zero effort.
You beeline for the scotch. Lindsi always talks about how she comes from a “hunting family”—what’s better after a hunt than scotch by the fire? Manly men drink scotch. It’ll be perfect.
You nab a bottle sleeve, write up a card at the counter, and head out to meet Lindsi. You slip it under the tree when you get back.
Ta-da! You’ll definitely score some big points with this one.
* * *
Click HERE to continue.
“Ladies,” you say in your best calming voice. It comes out incredibly patronizing. “No need to get nasty.”
“Thiz bidch juz said she slep with my BOYFRIEN,” Lindsi screams, lunging toward Vicki.
Unsure what else to do, you step between them, trying to restrain Lindsi with an outstretched arm.
She leaps. You lift your hand to get better leverage on her shoulders…
THWAP.
You feel your elbow connect with something hard. When you turn, Vicki’s on the floor, clutching her face. Blood’s pouring through her fingers. Oh, fuck, this is—
“YAAAAHHHHHH!”
You barely register the hulking, bearded man before your line of vision is full of his fist.
SMACK.
The last thing you see as you collapse to the floor is beard hair. So much beard hair.
• • •
You wake with a splitting headache. Something to your right is beeping steadily.
It’s a heart monitor. Ahhh, the hospital. Wonderful. Depending how long you were out—you grab your phone from the bedside table. Yup. It’s Christmas day.
You hear a gentle tap on the door. Maybe it’s a doctor here to cheer you up with meds. Or Lindsi; she might have brought something to apologize for the party. Or Beard Guy—he must have been Vicki’s boyfriend—bringing you a bottle of really nice scotch to make up.
You kind of hope it’s the doctor.
A red hat pokes through the door, followed by a white beard. You repress a scream. It’s not an evil beard, idiot, it’s a Santa.
“Ho! Ho! Ho! Merry—oh. It’s you.”
Why is Santa so disgusted? You squint at him…
“Recognize me? From the gas station?”
Fuck, it’s the hitchhiker.
“I’m sorry about that. It was late, and I’ve had bad experiences with hitchhikers,” you lie. You’ve only ever seen them in movies, but those movies are always terrifying. “I guess I panicked. You understand, right?”
“Oh, sure, I understand.” He walks to the bed, slinging his bag to the floor. “You know who doesn’t, though? The kids here, sick with terrible diseases, who almost missed Christmas because a dog poop like you wouldn’t act like a Good Samaritan for just one day.”
“Dog poop? That’s pretty harsh.”
He squints.
“You know what you need?” he asks.
“What?”
He bends over. Oh, are you going to get a present? He probably wants you to feel guilty, but you totally won’t.
“A lesson!” he shrieks, flipping something over your head. You’re immediately soaked with…you blink, wiping your eyes until you can see him holding…
Ah, a bedpan. Your bedpan.
* * *
Click HERE to continue.
You’re not getting in the middle of that. You step back…
…which leaves a clear path for Vicki’s drunken punch. It lands square on Lindsi’s jaw, knocking her head sideways cartoonishly. Lindsi stares, dazed, too drunk to realize what’s happened.
“Lindsi,” you say cautiously, stepping toward her. You hear Vicki screeching as someone pulls her back through the crowd. “Let’s go.” You rest a hand on her shoulder.
A couple of tears blink through her lashes. She touches her jaw absently, then flinches, obviously confused.
“You give me the keys and we’ll go home—won’t that be nice?” You keep your voice calm. Level. It’s like with toddlers—if you don’t react when they fall, they don’t realize they’re supposed to be hurt, right?
“Okay,” she says, reaching into her purse mechanically. “We’ll go.”
You lead her to the car and somehow manage to find your way back to the house.
It’s empty when you arrive. Thank god; they must all be at services. Which means you also got to miss services.
You lead Lindsi upstairs, pull her clothes off—she doesn’t resist; she’s like a life-sized doll—and tuck her into bed, leaving a glass of water on the table beside her.
That could have been worse, right?
You head into your room, tuck yourself in, and stare at the ceiling until you fall asleep.
• • •
“MERRY CHRISTMAS!”
The entire family shouts it in unison as you shuffle into the living room. You can’t help but smile. They might be strange, and judgy, and in some cases overtly rude, but at least they sincerely love the holiday.
“Is Lindsi up yet?” Mom asks, handing you a cup of coffee.
<
br /> “Oh, I assumed she’d be down already.”
You hear the stairs creak.
“That must be her. Good, we can get started on pres—”
Mom’s mouth drops open.
You turn. It’s just Lindsi in her pajamas, what’s—oh. A massive, purple-black bruise covers the entire right side of Lindsi’s face.
You look around. Everyone’s staring at you.
“Listen, this isn’t what it looks like.” Lindsi blinks. Winks, actually—her right eye is swollen shut. “We were at a party, and Lindsi got too drunk…”
Lars frowns.
“I just wanted to get her out of there; it…”
Dad shakes his head and looks away.
“It’s not her fault, it’s mine; I should have…”
You gulp. Even you hear how wife-beatery that sounds.
“I’m just gonna get Lindsi some coffee,” you squeak, running out to the kitchen.
You hear a cough from the doorway.
Mom is there, and she looks…happy?
She sidles up.
“See this?”
She pulls down the neck of her flannel nightgown. A livid bruise circles her throat.
“Jesus, are you okay?”
“Of course.” She grins conspiratorially. “Sometimes I ‘forget’ the safe word too. On purpose.” She chuckles. “Like mother, like daughter, I guess, huh?”
Oh god. You haven’t actually done anything, but you feel like you should look into couples counseling immediately.
The End.
Six Years Later…
There’s nothing like a VanWhittington Christmas. There’s Mom’s fantastic turkey dinner—she always saves an entire leg for you, “her favorite killer-in-law!” There’s days roaming the woods with Lars, getting sweaty and sore hunting game, then unwinding together with a manly sauna. And of course Lindsi, your wife, always going out of her way to make sure you’re treated with love and respect. You truly look forward to her Christmas cookies. And her Christmas blow jobs.
“Wake up, it’s Christmas!”
Mom’s cheery voice rings along the hallway.
“Mommy, Daddy, wake up! WAKE UP!”
Oh, little Warrington, your pride and joy, the most adorable son who has ever walked the earth. Even though you’re tired, and still foggy after last night’s “bender” with Lars, you’re happy to wake up for your son, the pride and joy of the entire VanWhittington clan. And you’d been worried Lindsi’s kid would turn out like cousin Jimmy. You should have known she was from good stock. Jimmy must be from his dad’s side. How…unfortunate.
You head down to the tree, sitting in your usual place on the loveseat with Lars, your wives at your feet, eager to hand out presents to the children.
“Honey,” you say, rubbing Lindsi’s shoulder absently. She turns to you, eager to please. After all, you are an excellent provider. Let’s give little Warry his special present.”
She smiles adoringly and hands the box to your son. He tears it open. When he sees what’s inside, his face almost splits in two from joy.
“MY LITTLE CROSSBOW!” He jumps up and down, squealing, the child-sized weapon clutched between his pudgy fingers.
“Hmm,” you say, looking at him sternly. “That’s pretty exciting. But is that everything?”
Warrington’s eyes go wide and he dives back into the box.
“AND A BIG BOY BOWIE!! THANK YOU, DADDY!”
“You’re welcome, son.” You pull him onto your lap, ruffling his white-blonde hair. “If you’re good, we can practice today.”
“For my proving?”
“The proving,” Lindsi echoes absently as she stuffs the discarded wrapping into a plastic bag.
“Exactly. You have a lot to live up to, after all. And you can never get started too early.”
Warrington bounces excitedly on your knee.
This. This is perfect happiness. Who needs their own family when they can be part of the VanWhittington bloodline, forever and ever? Hopefully your mother understands that, since contact is strictly forbidden.
You hope nothing about your life ever changes.
The End.
“I’m sorry, it’s really just paperwork, but we’re so understaffed because of the holidays. Would you mind staying here while…I can’t leave you unattended in the waiting area, and the records room is off-limits…” The weedy, ridiculously young cop who picked you up gulps awkwardly and gestures at the single jail cell.
“Sure. Whatever makes this easiest.”
“Oh, thanks!” His voice actually breaks. “I really appreciate it.”
You sit in the cell while he rushes off, muttering, “Intake form, intake form,” under his breath.
A minute later Lindsi peeks her head down the hallway. You wave lazily.
“I just want to say, Lindsi, I’m sorry that I—”
“Shhh, shh.” She steps into the cell, pressing your head against her chest. Since you’re seated, it hits just below her belly button. “Don’t apologize. You were right to hit him; he was over the line. I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”
Wow, that was unexpected.
“Uh, yeah. I mean, I’ll need some Neosporin for these”—you hold up your split knuckles—“but otherwise I’m fine.” That’s a lie; you’re actually terrified your entire hand is broken, but Lindsi seems so cool with this that you don’t want to wreck things.
She sits next to you on the bench, setting a hand on your leg.
“Thanks, by the way,” she whispers.
“For what?”
“For defending my honor.” Her hand slides up a few inches. “It’s hot to see you get all…aggro.” It moves up to cup your balls.
“Oh, uh, sure,” you sputter. “I just hope we can sort this out soon.”
“Not before I get what I want.” Lindsi stands up quickly and pushes your shoulders against the wall. “I want to fuck you.”
“Okay, well, he said it was just basic paperwork, so I’m sure—”
“NOW.”
She sits down on you hard, slamming you fully into the wall. You’d push her off, but her weight has completely thrown out your back. You feel your kidney twinge painfully. You’re helpless to stop Lindsi as she unbuttons your shirt, leaning down to lick a nipple. Jesus, are you going to get prison-raped by your girlfr—
“OH!”
You look past Lindsi.
Of course. Mom is there, hand over her mouth, the picture of horror.
“What’s she doing here?” you hiss-whisper in Lindsi’s ear.
“I called her. I thought she might be able to get you out faster—she knows the chief of police.” Lindsi seems entirely unembarrassed by the appearance of her mother in the middle of her sex attack.
So it’s just you that’s mortified. Again.
* * *
This time you’re tossing Lindsi right under that bus. Go HERE.
Just be cool. Mom must be used to this by now, right? Go HERE.
“MERRY CHRISTMAS!”
Mom’s voice rings through the hallways as people bustle out of bed. You yawn, stretch, and pull a sweater over your pajamas. Time to make up some lost ground.
You troop downstairs with the rest of the family.
“That’s strange,” Lindsi says. “I can’t even smell the pannekoeken.”
“What?” you ask.
“Our dad always gets up early on Christmas to light the fire and make his traditional pannekoeken breakfast,” Lars says. “He only makes it on Christmas. Maybe he’s behind schedule?” He shrugs and continues down the stairs.
“OH!”
Mom shrieks and claps a hand to her mouth. You run into the living room and edge around her, wondering what’s going on.
Dad is half naked in the middle of the room, grinning stupidly at you all.
“Hey, shweedy,” he slurs, swaying slightly. “Juz one secon, I haffa pee.”
He turns, pulls his dick out, and starts pissing on a pile of presents.
“Oh, Jesus,” Lars says, looking disgusted.
“Who brought alcohol into the house? WHO?” Mom turns to glare at all of you, eyes wild.
“I thought…we were all drinking wine last night at dinner,” you say cautiously.
“Yes, wine and beer only. He’s fine with those. For him to be like this…someone must have brought in liquor.”
“Oh.” You nod sagely, but say nothing. Maybe they won’t realize it’s from you?
But Michael, Lindsi’s brother-in-law, is already picking up the bottle sleeve. Dammit, evidence in your own hand!
He points at you.
“How could you?” The look on Mom’s face is so withering that you actually recoil.
“It was an honest mistake.”
“He’s been able to maintain his sobriety for over twenty years. And you ruin it with one thoughtless move.” The whole sentence comes out like a hiss.
“Well…I mean…what kind of sober person can’t even see a bottle of liquor without getting wasted?”
Now everyone’s giving you that look.
Lindsi nods toward the kitchen. You’re happy to follow, if only to get out of pee cleanup duty.
“I’m sorry, Linds,” you say once you’re out of earshot. “I really had no idea.”
“I think you should probably leave,” she says quietly.
“I just thought—”
“I know, it’s not your fault, it’s his, but you should go. Mom will get upset if you stay.”
“Yeah.” You laugh hollowly. “As though she could be more upset with me than she already is.”
Lindsi frowns.
“You’ve never seen Mom upset,” she says.
Oh, Jesus.
You sneak out of the house and drive home in silence.
What are you getting into if you stay with Lindsi? You thought your family could be difficult, but these people…and she clearly likes spending time with them. But how can you dump her now? When you’ve destroyed her dad’s sobriety? And she helped you escape?
Choose Your Own Misery Page 24