12 Deaths of Christmas

by Paul Sating

  Chelsea glanced at the Snowman, sprawled open on the couch and, in that split second, felt something she rarely ever felt.

  Hope.

  Rushing across the bedroom, she changed into her only pair of jeans and a sweater, grabbing her jacket on the way back to the living room. The world outside faded into white as snow fell. The shopping trip was going to be cold as the Snowman’s love. She didn’t care. A shopping trip meant a few minutes of feeling alive again.

  He was still asleep. Chelsea shoved his shoulder. Once. Two times would get her a fist to the gut. “Hey! Wake up.” Her tone was moderate, appropriate. Or that punch would surely come.

  “What?” the Snowman spit into the pillow.

  “I need cash.”

  “Fuck off.”

  “Come on, Eddie!” she slapped her thigh. She wanted him to see that she was upset. She wanted him to see that she was alive. “Just give me—”

  Chelsea didn’t finish the sentence. The Snowman vaulted to his feet. Before she realized he was standing, his fist was flying toward her head. A thick thud made the world swoon and then she was falling over the torn arm of the recliner. Her back hit the chair arm, the part where the cloth cover was worn away years before and most of the stuffing ripped out by the Husky they used to have. The Husky that Eddie took off the leash when he was supposed to be walking it. The Husky Eddie allowed to run into a neighborhood where the rich people in Olympia lived, the sort of people who saw dogs like that and kept them, and put chips in their necks, and took them for monthly grooming. Probably even some doggie daycare shit too. She never saw the dog again. Chelsea loved that dog, a lot more than she loved Eddie.

  “You stupid cunt,” spit foamed in the corner of the Snowman’s mouth, “don’t you ever call me that again!”

  Chelsea leaned up on an elbow, holding the side of her face that felt as if it was on fire. “What? ‘Eddie’? That’s your name, isn’t it?” It felt good to poke him from the safety of the other side of the chair.

  “Don’t do it, bitch,” he snarled. “I’m the mother fucking—“

  “Snowman, I know,” she finished for him. In a million years Chelsea hadn’t imagined she would provoke him like this. But, goddamn, this felt good. Really good. The Snowman waggled back and forth like a toddler who was about to piss his big boy undies. His usually narrowed gaze was wide with irritation and disbelief. Who was the last person to stand up to him? Chelsea wasn’t sure anyone besides Eddie’s junkies ever dared to speak to him like she was now.

  “Are you fucking joking?” Eddie lunged over the chair to grab her. Chelsea scurried backward, out of reach, into the kitchen. It was a bad decision; the kitchen was an open area except for the four-chair table placed dead center in the small room. Still not on her feet, it was simple for Eddie to get to her. Enraged, he quickly closed the space between them. “You fucking cunt. I’m going to fucking kill you.”

  Then Chelsea did something that pushed him over the edge, threw him into a dizzy rage unlike any she’d seen and wasn’t even sure he was capable of.

  She laughed.

  It was easy. They were fighting and Eddie was pissed. Again. And this time over the all-important issue of ruined eggs and her calling him by his actual name. It was as ridiculous as it was jaded. No other couples acted like this, not even the coke addicts that came around from time to time, trying to score a free flight from Eddie.

  But not her and Eddie. This was them; this was how they were. Chaotic fragility.

  “Are you fucking laughing at me?” Eddie knocked over one of the chairs.

  Chelsea’s lips trembled all on their own.

  He closed the distance.

  Chelsea backed up.

  Eddie raised a fist.

  Chelsea flinched and cowered against the counter cupboards.

  “I oughta kill you,” he threatened. He was close; his stale breath fell on her in a thin film. “You know that, bitch? I oughta kill you.”

  Then Eddie grabbed her by the throat and Chelsea knew he would do it.

  He squeezed.

  She gasped.

  Chelsea didn’t want to show him that she was afraid. He’d threatened to kill her a thousand times. Before her fall, she never imagined a world where she’d be okay with being threatened by anyone. Times changed when life stripped you of options and dignity, she guessed.

  Here she was now, serving as a warning to those who made poor life choices. She never thought she’d die because of them.

  Eddie’s grip wasn’t relaxing. Her throat felt thick, like those times when she’d partied too hard and urgently needed to evacuate a stomach full of booze and pills. Chelsea opened her mouth to draw a breath she desperately wanted, but nothing came.

  Eddie pulled and she scrambled to her feet before he ripped her head from her shoulders. They were face-to-face now. Chelsea grasped for anything that would ground her to the world. The countertop was cool. Wet. Her hand slipped, stabbing the basin of the sink, sending jolts of pain up her elbow. She couldn’t even cry out.

  Eddie’s face closed in on hers. “I’ll fucking kill you.”

  In that moment his eyes burned with the desire for blood, there was no question about that. He was going to choke her until she was gone and he was free. He’d crush her windpipe like he enjoyed crushing beer cans he spent nights emptying when they were too broke to snort some of their extra inventory.

  Chelsea knew she was seconds away from blinking out of the world in the middle of a shitty apartment in snowy Olympia, Washington. Memories of her life in Los Angeles, back when she was flying, flickered across the big screen of her mind. She’d almost been someone. Now she was about to become a faceless statistic, another number in a domestic violence report sitting on some enervated cop’s desk.

  Chelsea’s hand, still in the sink, bumped the handle of the pan she’d burned the eggs in. The black iron wrapped itself inside her fingers. The handle was sturdy, so unlike anything else in her life. She brought it up in a quick, shallow arc. The side of the pan connected with Eddie’s face. A satisfying clonk filled the small kitchen and Eddie collapsed in a heap against the table. It shuttled a few inches across the floor, sending one of the chairs toppling over.

  He’s going to kill me, Chelsea reminded herself, looking down at the man who always followed through on the promises that benefited him while ignoring any that didn’t. Hundreds of nights of sobbing herself to sleep served as her evidence that he gladly failed her over and over.

  And in that second of reflection, she knew everything she needed to know to make this life-altering decision. If she didn’t kill him, he would finish his work when he regained consciousness.

  Chelsea jumped on Eddie’s chest, raised the pan, and brought it down on his head. The first strike was the most difficult, but she’d swung it out of instinct to survive. The second swing was much easier. It was a strike filled with rage and revenge, the toll she’d paid for his self-loathing and addiction. Nothing more than any animal would want for itself. She needed to respect herself enough to realize that. And it was easier with each subsequent thunk against his head.

  Under the assault, Eddie didn’t move, didn’t cry out.

  Each swing delivered freedom.

  She felt lighter, knowing that the only thing separating her from finding the person she used to be was dying here on the kitchen floor. When he was gone she would find his hidden case of drug money. It wasn’t a fortune, but it was enough to get her away from this decrepit life and buy her time to figure out what she was going to do next.

  Snow piled up on the small balcony. A full-blown storm now. By the time Eddie’s face had turned to mush, Chelsea knew she needed to act fast. She had to find the money and escape. The city would start shutting down if it wasn’t already, and their roommates would be home as soon as the city bus could bring them back.

  Eddie was dead. No amount of egg pans to the face was going to help her escape. So Chelsea spent the next few hours tearing apart the apartment. Under a set
of loose floorboards by the television cabinet, she found what she was looking for. Two olive green military bags stuffed to the top with cash were jammed into the narrow space. Ones, fives, and tens. Thousands of dollars!

  A new life.

  Chelsea snagged the bags and loaded the new BMW Eddie never let her drive. He bought it six months ago and she’d never even sat in the driver’s seat. It was his baby, he told her whenever she had ‘the guts’, as he said, to ask permission to drive it. Now she was taking it. He couldn’t protest and this would convince the cops of a robbery if the money and the car were gone.

  It was exciting to spit in the face of the man who’d ruined her. Even if he was already dead.

  Chelsea loaded the money and her single bag of clothes, leaving everything else she owned behind.

  There was one last thing to do.

  Dispose of Eddie the Snowman.

  The snow was falling fast, which worked to her advantage. People hid from it, remaining inside, making it easier to get his body to the car. The most difficult part was dragging him to the elevator—thankfully it worked again, enough tenants complained to finally get the landlord moving again—and out to the car. By the time she’d loaded him into the trunk and slunk in the driver’s seat, her hair was matted to her face. Her chest heaved, filling and emptying in gradually-decreasing breaths. Chelsea’s heart rate slowed enough to convince her it was excitement and not death she was feeling. Finally composed, she pulled away from her personal hell.

  She didn’t stop until she was east of Tacoma.

  Out here the cities curved away toward Canada.

  Out here, people spread as far and wide as the Cascade Range took them.

  Out here, up in the hills, she could get rid of Eddie.

  In her previous life, she skied. A lot. During college, Chelsea spent weekends chasing thrills with the money her parents sent her every few weeks. That was when she was an athlete, young and healthy, with an ass that drew more gawking than the last ten years combined had.

  She was at home in the mountains, like she’d never left. But she wasn’t here to ski; she drove these winding back roads to find a place remote enough to dump Eddie.

  The snowstorm chased her all the way out of Olympia and continued its eastward path. She needed to be back to sea level before it hit the mountains or she’d be stuck. The BMW was shit in the snow, a lesson she learned as soon as she raced away from the apartment and almost side-swiped a pedestrian.

  A trailhead stretched toward the road, emptying into a small area where hikers and hunters parked their vehicles before heading into the mountains. No cars dotted the parking area. Chelsea didn’t want to test her luck. It was dusk and getting darker with each passing second. She needed to be out of the woods before darkness descended. A parked car would raise suspicions. A parked car here when night fell would draw someone from law enforcement.

  The sight of Eddie’s broken body assaulted her as soon as she opened the trunk. The drive was relatively short, less than two hours, but it provided her with an opportunity to mentally cleanse herself of what she’d done. Seeing him like this was an uneasy reminder of the cost of her freedom.

  Pulling Eddie’s body from the trunk required two free hands. She took a deep gulp and got to work. Eddie’s cologne drifted into her nasal passages, reminding her of the times he would lay on top of her and grunt himself to satisfaction while she was tripping.

  She wasn’t going to miss him.

  His head bobbed against a raised arm as she yanked him, step-by-excruciating-step, up the path. His particular shade of death became more prominent by the minute. Chelsea’s stomach heaved. Eddie’s demolished cheek and collapsed eye socket made her gagging worse. He deserved nothing less. Maybe he shouldn’t have fed her volatile drugs, getting her hooked, and secluding her from everything in her life that made her happy. If he’d let her live, maybe she would have let him.

  Eddie deserved every bit of this and she deserved the spiritual and financial windfall that was coming her way.

  No remorse. No regret.

  Chelsea’s feet slipped out and she landed hard on her ass, making her shout in pain. Glancing over her shoulder, she exhaled; the trail gained elevation quickly. There was no way she could get him up another fifty feet. Eddie’s corpse was heavy and uncooperative and she tired quickly after the adrenaline of killing him flushed from her system. Years of abusing her body weren’t helping either.

  This was going to have to be the spot.

  A steep drop off beckoned. Chelsea couldn’t see how far down it went in the fading light, but it was steep enough to meet her needs. She didn’t have to pull him up the mountain; all she had to do was drop him over the side of it.

  Inching him toward the edge, Chelsea’s lungs burned. Her thighs quivered. The plan was to get to Seattle tonight and buy an expensive hotel room, the most expensive she could find that would take cash. But her life of exciting flings would have to wait another night. Tonight she’d have to find something close and start her elevated experience tomorrow.

  Falling to her knees next to Eddie’s body with all the energy she had left, she shoved.

  Eddie’s body rocked forward and then back toward her. Chelsea gave a cry of frustration that sounded odd against the silent mountains. He wasn’t going to deny her this. He wasn’t going to get his way this time.

  In that brief second, she screamed with all the pent-up rage and pain of wasted years, slamming into him with every bit of force one hundred and forty pounds could muster. When Eddie the Snowman rolled over the edge, Chelsea cried.

  His body tumbled, slowly at first, and then picked up speed as it descended. She watched his corpse tumbled down the slope. Even bouncing off trees didn’t stop the momentum created by the pitch of the mountain.

  Chelsea remained on her knees, at the edge of the trail, gasping for breath. She didn’t need the dying daylight to ensure Eddie was gone for good; she could hear him falling. Branches cracked. Twigs snapped. Thumping as his corpse bounced off hard snow-covered mounds. Down and down Eddie tumbled until she no longer heard him over the cleansing wind.

  Only then did she stand and begin living again.

  Eddie was gone from her life.

  ***

  Four years old. How is he four already? Where had the time gone? It seemed like just yesterday that she and Jerrod found out they were pregnant, and now she was watching Jacob, the light of her world, race around the kitchen.

  “Mommy, can I have one?” Jacob tried to stretch on his toes to peek over the counter.

  Chelsea laughed. “No sweetie. You’ve already had three.” Jacob was a ravenous boy. The fact that her mother kept feeding him brownies wasn’t one of her better ideas. Chelsea didn’t blame her. They’d missed so many years of life over the fallout that was so distant now as to be a dream. This was them enjoying being a family again, so unlike that time before.

  It was another lifetime. I was a different person.

  More than a decade removed from that drug-induced hell she’d survived with Eddie, her life was hers again. The money helped. A lot. It paid for a small home in Shelton, where real estate was cheaper. It paid for a drug treatment program she completed on her first attempt. It paid for some of her education, but not all. Tuition was ridiculous!

  Erasing her previous life was so much easier but also so less rewarding than carving her professional path. The only people who missed Eddie were probably the roommates she’d left behind, though their perpetual high probably prevented them from thinking too much about him. Cops came around once, within a few weeks of her leaving. They had a difficult conversation; not because it was difficult to lie to them—it wasn’t—but because she was suffering through miserable withdrawals. They seemed more interested in getting her the help she needed than they did tracking down drug-pushing scum like Eddie. The treatment center was, at times, worse than living with Eddie. But she’d gotten through it and came out a whole person, ready to make up those lost years to those she
’d hurt.

  Like Mom.

  Cynthia made reconciliation a breeze compared to what Chelsea had just been through. The Snowman and a treatment program lacked the one attribute her mother possessed in abundance: love. They’d erased years of pain with long conversations, filled with a few hundred tears and even more hugs. Cynthia didn’t ask much after Chelsea explained that she’d left Eddie for good. And now Chelsea understood why. Some things were too painful for a parent to bear.

  It all paid off. She had been clean for years now, held a four-year degree, and married to Jerrod. And she was a mother now. A mother! Success after success came for them. It was a fairytale, the past decade. They opened a cabin resort outside of Mt. Rainier’s national park, to which she was about to return.

  She was the different woman she always wanted to be.

  “You be good for Grandma,” Chelsea smiled, kneeling to get to Jacob’s level.

  “I will, Mommy.”

  Her mother patted Chelsea’s hand, loosening its grip on Jacob. “Go, before it gets dark.”

  Chelsea stood and hugged her. “Are you sure you’re okay with this? Keeping Jacob for this long?”

  Cynthia laughed. “Oh, please. A week is nothing. Plus,” she wagged a finger at Chelsea, “you and Jerrod deserve the cruise. You’ve been working too much. It’s time for you to relax for a bit. Enjoy it.”

  They shared a final hug before Chelsea kissed Jacob one more time.

  Waving goodbye to the two outlines of people, one large, one tiny, standing in her mother’s door squeezed her heart.

  The disappearing house encouraged her onward even as the evening began to shroud it.

  The drive was short, but the night was quickly blackening. And it was snowing again, as it had been for weeks. Starting in late October and, two months later, the snow still hadn’t abated. Every year since moving to the mountains they’d had a white Christmas. This one would be no different.

  And she loved every minute of it. So different than the dreary Christmases in Olympia.

  Chelsea was excited. It took more than money to operate the business. In fact, money was the thing that launched the business, it didn’t maintain it. Almost overnight she had to become a receptionist, booking clerk, groundskeeper, and plumber. Those were the real skills that kept the cabins booked and patrons returning season after season. And working for two years straight without a day off had worn her down. The business was fulfilling but exhausting, and this cruise was long overdue.