Worst Christmas ever: not for Little Knight viewership

Katie Karlen, staff writer

At a mere 6 years old, my hair held back by a brilliant red bow, my pudgy cheeks were tight with tension. I had recently drawn on my first grade desk with my favorite indigo Crayola Crayon and as it was very close to Christmas day, I feverishly hoped Santa would overlook that slight misdemeanor and bring the few presents I wished for. There were 39 to be exact, most of which cost approximately $50 a piece (though I wasn’t quite sure what currency they used in the North Pole).

If things went wrong with the fat man, my Christmas tree already sheltered a cornucopia of gifts from my parents so my chunky fingers would have something to rip open on Christmas morning. With four days till the big shebang, I proceeded to check on the condition of my gifts: the first 14 boxes untouched, my eyes popped and jaw dropped when I saw the last one.

My shock twisted into anger: shaking, I balled my fists, watched my knuckles turn white, and gasped for breath. Incapable of drawing my eyes from the corner of the thin, rectangular box, I readied myself to scream. My mother came running and I pointed to the cause of my fury. The shiny foil wrapping paper was missing: the dirty, low-life culprit happened to be in my sight as well.

My three and a half year old sister sat grinning by the foot of the couch, the missing piece of shiny foil wrapping paper lodged between her teeth, now saturated with drool. I lunged for her throat: instead I caught my mother’s arm straight across my chest. Smacking the ground, I broke out in sobs. Only four days to go and someone had found a way to ruin my Christmas––I was unaware that my holiday season would only become worse.

Just barely alive after the traumatic ripped present incident, I hoped Christmas morning would help me recover. My spirits higher than some migrating goose, I slid down the banister, knocking the pine garland from its anchored bows.

My brother opened his gifts before I arrived; almost 2 years older than me, he stood by the window, snickering at something. Flying by the tree, I slunk up beside him and followed his gaze: a basketball hoop outside, adorned with a large green bow, sat in the driveway. I screamed. Shocked by the capability of Santa’s sleigh to carry my presents and this huge basketball hoop together, I turned to share my awe with my brother.

Instead, he spat words out of his mouth before I could: he answered a question I never asked. He spewed blasphemy while he laughing maniacally, telling me the fat man hadn’t come. He said Santa didn’t exist. I sucker-punched his bony nose and ran to find my mother. Leaping on my parents’ bed, I clamored up my mother’s legs to her face. Panting, I told her what John had said. She verified his statement, deepening the wound the ripped present had slit.

Tripping back down the stairs, I went to find my presents from Santa underneath the Christmas tree, hoping they would numb the pain. I crawled to the back side of the tree only to discover nothing. I examined every part of the lower branches, knocking priceless ornaments to the ground. Nothing. How dare he. How dare Santa not bring me gifts. My lack of presents triggered the final emotional avalanche, building over these days of anticipation. Disappointed, I prayed Christmas would never come again.