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***JohnFranklinKennedy*** · Yesterday, 12:26 PM

I'm trying to celebrate Christmas but TheLegend27 keeps kicking my ass

Chris-McZehrl · Yesterday, 12:28 PM

uhoh

in a week we will have the first day of 2025

Chris-McZehrl · Yesterday, 12:29 PM

but from 31st December 2024 to 1st January 2025 we will have some party

*Grum* · Yesterday, 12:38 PM

happy holidays .-.

*Grum* · Yesterday, 12:38 PM

got new books to read : )

***TomServo*** · Yesterday, 12:44 PM

Ending Part 1

After what?

"I don't need Dr. Matthews," I say, but even as the words leave my mouth, the room starts to shift. The walls seem to breathe. Our apartment is becoming my mother's house. The cheap artificial tree transforms into the real pine we had that year. The one that died too early, dropping brown needles onto the presents below.

"Kenny, you're scaring me." Cheri takes a step toward me, but stops when I flinch. "You haven't been this bad since I first met you."

Since she first met me. When was that? The hospital? No, that's not right. The support group? No, that's not it either. Everything before Cheri feels like a dream. Or maybe everything after that night is the dream.

The scissors on the coffee table catch my eye again. Mom had the same kind. Silver blades. Black handles. The kind that could cut through thick wrapping paper. Through rope. Through-

"I need to use the bathroom," I mutter, pushing past Cheri. I hear her saying something else but the words don't make sense anymore. Nothing makes sense.

The bathroom is too bright. Too white. Just like Mom's bathroom. I grip the edges of the sink, trying to ground myself in the present. The cold porcelain feels real. This has to be real.

"Don't look up," I whisper to myself. "Don't look in the mirror."

But I do. Of course I do.

At first, it's just me. Wild eyes. Pale face. Then the reflection changes. I'm younger. Christmas Eve, five years ago. Blood on my hands. Mom's lipstick on my cheek where she kissed me before she-

No.

The mirror fractures, but when I blink, it's whole again. Behind me, I see Tommy standing in the doorway, holding a crumpled piece of paper. The pawn shop receipt.

"Why did you do it, Kenny?" His voice echoes oddly, like he's speaking underwater. "Why did you sell Mom's rings?"

"I needed the money," I whisper to the empty bathroom. "The debt... the gambling... I thought I could win it back before Christmas. I thought-"

A knock at the door makes me jump.

"Kenny?" It's Cheri. Of course it's Cheri. Not Tommy. Tommy isn't here. Tommy can't be here. "Please let me in. Whatever you're seeing, it's not real. We've talked about this, remember?"

Have we? When?

"The presents," I mumble, pressing my forehead against the cool mirror. "I wrapped them so carefully. Empty boxes. All empty. But when Tommy found the receipt... when Mom saw what I'd done..."

"Kenny, I'm calling Dr. Matthews."

The sound of Cheri's footsteps moving away from the door triggers something. A memory. The sound of Mom's heels on the bathroom tile. The way she looked at me when she realized what I'd done. Not angry. Just... disappointed.

"I can fix it," I'd told her. "Just don't tell Tommy. Don't tell anyone. I can make it right."

But I couldn't. I didn't. Instead, I-

The mirror shatters. This time it's real. My fist is bleeding. When did I hit it? The broken pieces show a thousand reflections. In each one, I see a different moment from that night. The scissors. The wrapping paper. The empty boxes. Mom's lipstick. Tommy's face. The Christmas lights reflecting off the bathroom tile, making patterns like stars, like blood, like-

"I called Dr. Matthews," Cheri's voice comes through the door. "She's on her way. Just... just stay in there, okay? Don't move."

Don't move.

Don't move.

That's what Mom said too, that night. "Don't move, Kenny. Just tell me what you've done. Just tell me the truth."

But the truth is like the mirror now. Broken. Scattered. Reflecting a thousand different versions of the same night.

And tomorrow is Christmas Eve.

Tomorrow, I'll have to remember.

Tomorrow, the truth will come back.

Whether I want it to or not.

Christmas Eve.

I don't remember Dr. Matthews arriving last night. I don't remember how I got from the bathroom to the bed. But I wake up to sunlight and the sound of hushed voices in the living room.

"...episodes are getting worse," Cheri's voice. "He kept talking about empty presents and his mother's rings..."

"The anniversary effect is common," Dr. Matthews' measured tone. "Especially with traumatic events. Has he been taking his medication?"

I look at the pill bottle on the nightstand. How long has that been there? The label is blurred, but I can make out my name. The date. Five years ago.

Right after it happened.

The voices continue, but they're drowned out by a new sound. The steady snip of scissors cutting through paper. But it's not coming from the living room. It's coming from the bathroom.

I know I shouldn't look. I know what I'll find. But my feet move anyway, carrying me to the bathroom door. It's closed, but light spills out from underneath, shifting between red and green.

Christmas lights.

When I open the door, I'm not in our apartment anymore. I'm home. The real home. Mom's bathroom, with its white tiles and silver fixtures. She's sitting on the edge of the tub, still in her Christmas sweater, carefully wrapping a small box.

"Mom?" My voice cracks.

She looks up, and her lipstick is perfect. Not smeared. Not yet.

"Kenny," she says softly. "Why don't you tell me about the rings?"

"I needed the money," the words tumble out, just like they did that night. "The casino... I thought I could win it back. I thought..."

"My mother's rings, Kenny. Your grandmother's rings." She sets down the scissors. "And then you wrapped empty boxes to hide it?"

"I was going to fix it," I plead. "I just needed time."

"Time for what?" Tommy's voice behind me. He's holding the pawn shop receipt. "To lose more? To sell more of Mom's things?"

"You don't understand," I turn, but now there's blood on Tommy's shirt. Was that there before? "I didn't mean to-"

"Mean to what, Kenny?" Mom's voice is different now. When I turn back, her lipstick is smeared. "Mean to stab your brother when he threatened to call the police? Mean to push me when I tried to stop you?"

The bathroom tiles are red now. Not from Christmas lights.

"No," I whisper. "That's not... that's not what happened."

But it is. The memories crash through like broken glass.

***TomServo*** · Yesterday, 12:45 PM

Ending part 2

Tommy finding the receipt. The argument. The scissors in my hand - when did I pick them up? Tommy reaching for the phone, his voice rising: "You're sick, Kenny. You need help. I'm calling the police-"

The scissors went in so easily. That's what I remember most. Like cutting through wrapping paper. Tommy's look of surprise, of betrayal, as he slid down the wall, the phone clattering from his hand.

Then Mom was there in the doorway, her Christmas sweater bright against the bathroom tiles. Her hands flew to her mouth, smearing her perfect lipstick. "Kenny, what have you done? What have you-"

"Mom, please," I reached for her, trying to explain. About the debt. About the rings. About how Tommy wouldn't understand. She backed away, her heel catching the bath mat.

I just wanted to stop her. To make her listen. My hands found her shoulders, trying to hold her still. "Mom, please, I can fix this. I can make it right."

"Let me go, Kenny." Her voice was different now. Not scared. Disappointed. Like when she found out about Dad's gambling. Like when she saw what I'd become. "Let me go."

She pulled away. The mat slipped. I can still hear the sound - not a scream, just a small surprised "oh" as she fell. The crack of her head against the tub was so loud in that small space.

So much blood. How could there be so much blood?

"Mom?" I cradled her head in my lap, her lipstick now smeared across her face. Her eyes stared up, seeing nothing. "Mom, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Please..."

But she was gone. They were both gone. And I...I couldn't think. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't feel.

So I cleaned. Like Mom taught me. "Always clean up your messes, Kenny." The bathroom first. Then Tommy. The mat went in the garbage. The scissors... where did I put the scissors?

Then I sat in the living room, surrounded by the empty wrapped boxes, and began to plan. A story took shape in my broken mind: Mom and Tommy had gone to visit relatives for Christmas. Yes, that's it. They'd be back after New Year's. I'd send them texts from their phones. Keep up appearances.

By the time anyone thought to check, I'd already had my breakdown. The convenient kind. The kind that leaves you in a hospital for months, talking about dreams and mirrors and mothers who watch you from behind glass. The kind that makes them question everything you say about that night.

"Poor Kenny," they said. "The stress of his family abandoning him on Christmas. Just like his father did. No wonder he cracked."

They found Tommy and Mom eventually. Of course they did. But by then, I was just the grieving son. The one who'd lost his whole family on Christmas. The one who couldn't remember anything clearly. The one who needed help, not punishment.

The scissors were never found. Neither was the receipt. Amazing what you can hide when you're not in your right mind. When even you're not sure what's real anymore.

Red.
Green.
Red.
Green.
Red.

"Kenny?" A new voice. Cheri's voice. "Kenny, open the door."

I'm back in our apartment bathroom. The mirror is still broken from last night, each shard reflecting a different memory. My hands are pressed against the tiles, but they're clean. White. Normal.

"He's been in there too long," Dr. Matthews' voice. "We need to-"

The door bursts open. Cheri and Dr. Matthews rush in, but stop short when they see me. See what's in my hand.

The scissors from the coffee table. Silver blades. Black handles. Just like Mom's.

"Kenny," Dr. Matthews says carefully. "Put those down. You're having an episode. Like the one you had that Christmas Eve. Remember what we talked about? About what really happened?"

What really happened?

I look in the broken mirror one last time. In each shard, a different truth. A different lie. A different dream.

But in every reflection, the scissors are dripping red.

And now I remember.

Merry Christmas Mom.