chap
ᴛʜᴇ ᴛʀᴀɴꜱᴄᴇɴᴅᴇɴᴛᴀʟ ᴛʏᴘᴇ
Inner Sanctum Nobility
- Local time
- Today 9:45 AM
- Messages
- 73
- Age
- 36
- Pronouns
- he/him
ALL I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS IS YOU
See this man.
He's a ragged, lonesome thing. Red-rimmed eyes and a dirty beard hanging from his pockmarked chin. He sits alone in a cabin built from splinters, a scullery fire kept burning for warmth and what little comfort that affords. Outside, there's the darkness of the snow swept fields and, beyond them, the forests where the shadows grow long and the limbs all bend and the last, few remaining birds still sing their songs long into the night. He's the last human left alive and he knows that in his heart of hearts, even if some wayward, wanton hope tells him that it isn't so.
It is so. From Australia to America to Timbuktu, they're all gone. Everyone. Everything. The world at a standstill, asleep on an acre of bones.
It's December 24th. He knows that from the tally marks he's scratched into the walls, all one-thousand-ninety-five of them and from the sounds he's heard outside in the recent days and from those little prickles down his spine that let him know that he's not alone. There's a shotgun in his lap. Someone is watching him, through windows and from places unseen, rattling the shingles on his roof and whispering words of torment in a garbled voice transcending all other noise, "You. You. Yoooooou." There aren't any calendars anymore just like there are no people. No cars, no telephones, no lights, no grocery stores. There's only him. Him and... her.
Her, the infernal one. Her, the death of man writ large in her shadow. Her, the one who stalks the land, the songbird of malevolence, the grinning face behind a veil of silvered scars.
She was once called Mariah. In another life, she was called Mimi. Now, she was only a feral, forlorned thing. He had no idea how she'd become what she was, what divine horror unwound the woman's mind and gave her the powers she now displayed every Christmas. There was no one left to tell him and so he'd never truly know.
It went like this.
Three years prior, the presents were all under their trees, wrapped with bows. Eggnog was in the refrigerators, families were traveling from distant places to be home, and the machines of capitalism churned. Bright lights and tinsel hung around doorways. Mistletoe nailed to the ceiling, carolers singing their dirges against the waking world, silent nights, holy nights, peace and love and joy for all mankind. It all happened in a fevered frenzy. The reports began in New York; chaos and damnation, buildings tumbling in on themselves, the population dwindling with slit throats and mangled bodies. It went westward, as fast as a lightning strike, house by house and then city by city and then state by state and then country by country. Death and destruction, the end of all things.
He didn't know how he had managed to survive.
His family hadn't been so lucky.
He could still hear their screams.
He could still hear that voice, sing-songing even as the blood and viscera rained.
"You. You. All I want for Christmas... is yooooooou."
From there, his life became a fever or a dream. Most days were spent in silence, tending to the crops and preparing for the coming winter. Other days, he'd walk to the ruins of the nearby towns and forage for supplies; medicine, toiletries, anything that was unspoiled and still of some use. Occasionally, he thought of killing himself, but the weight of that notion drove him to hysterics and he'd spend the rest of his evening in tears, cradling his gun and murmuring gibberish to himself in the darkness of his cabin. It was all just in preparation for Christmas Day. December 25th, the very second the clock struck midnight, he knew that all head would break loose.
Three years, every Christmas, like clockwork.
So, see this man. See him sitting in his cabin. See the grief and the fear in his eyes. See how he waits, breathing to the rhythm of every tick and every tock, every minute, every second passing as midnight grows closer and closer and closer still. Know that, once upon a time, he was happy. Know that, once upon a time, he was normal. Know that, once upon a time, he loved this time of year.
And remember all of that just as the clock strikes midnight, just as he hears her up on the roof and clawing at his walls, just as he cocks his shotgun and grits his teeth and prepares to defend himself, one last time.
"C'mon," He says, standing from his chair and pointing his gun outward, finger on the trigger, ready to fire. "C'mon, Mariah. Where are you? Where are you...?"
He doesn't have to wait long to find out. A silence falls over the room and then... a shadow moves by the living room window before the glass shatters and a slender, pointed form bursts through. Her skin is bruised and burnt, scarred and tempered by the cold. Her hair, a tangled, mangy crown. Her eyes, two red voids, staring and glowing as she splays out her clawed fingers and bares her pointed teeth and hisses those words, the only words she'll ever speak, "All I want for Christmas... is yooooooou."
He wastes no time.
He points his gun.
He pulls the trigger.
The shotgun shell sprays forth just as Mariah Carey lunges towards him, bursting her chest as a ragged scream escapes her throat. She falls and huddles, but she isn't dead. On all fours, she slithers across the floor and sinks her teeth into his ankle. He screams, frantically trying to pull his leg away as the other kicks at the back of her head with his boot heel. Those claws scratch at his calf, turning his denim to tatters along with his skin. The pain is unbearable, but he's been here before. He points the gun downward and prepares to take another shot just before he pulls away, skittering across the floorboards and disappearing up the chimney.
That was round one. He grits his teeth and sneers, falling to his haunches to inspect his wounds. His right leg is bleeding and mangled, blood seeping through where the denim is torn. He grabs for a nearby pack of bandages to wrap himself, eyes still scanning the room as he awaits her next attack. She's fast and she's ferocious. He knows this. He knows that all he can hope for is to survive and even survival doesn't come without loss; the three missing fingers on his left hand are a reminder of that, the deep scars that crawl across his back, the broken bones that have only barely healed without a cast.
For the next five hours, the attacks continue, sometimes once an hour and sometimes more. Each time, he manages to drive her away, but not without a new wound. Occasionally, he thinks that she's playing with him; like a cat who has cornered a frightened mouse. By morning's first light, he's hunched in a corner of the cabin, his breath gone stilted and that gun pointing towards the front door. She's on the other side. He's heard her scratching at the frame, turning at the knob, knock-knock-knocking like an old friend who only wants to come in from the cold.
He's already almost out of shotgun shells. They were all that he could find. That and... well, one other thing. One last hope. A chance, if nothing else. He pulled himself to his feet using the shotgun as a crutch, wincing as he crossed the room to where an old, forgotten iPod sat. The screen was scratched and blurred, dust caked in the charging port, the buttons on the front barely functional. It had five percent of its battery left and hundreds of albums loaded to its hard drive, but only one song mattered.
The front door bursts open, turned to splintering wood.
Her silhouette stands resplendant against the morning light, eyes still glowing and claws outstretched.
She's hissing. She's purring. She hungers.
He presses the play button and from the tiny, busted speakers, a song begins to play.
Her eyes go wide with some distant familiarity, a knowing recognition as she steps forward into the cabin. She stands there at the center of the room listening, her ears perking and her head tilting, red-tinted drool dribbling down her chin before she starts to mouth the lyrics, her body so riddled with shotgun shells now swaying, twirling, dancing in the scullery's light. She doesn't even seem to notice him. She's lost in a world all her own, a prison of her mind all bittersweet and taciturn. He steps forward slowly, still wincing, still in pain, even on cautious feet. He tries to be quiet and he tries to still his breath even as that same fear swells beneath his skin. He lifts the gun once more and aims it through his dizziness, right at her head.
Finger on the trigger.
He sputters and coughs, his voice creaking as it leaves his throat.
"Merry Christmas, you bitc--"
She looks at him and her face contorts into a wretched, wicked snarl. From there, it all happens in slow motion. Just as his finger presses down on the trigger, her hand swoops outward. Just as the shotgun shells collide with her head, one stray claw paints a line across his neck. Just as her skull explodes from his point blank shot, he realizes he can't breathe and feels the searing, white hot pain at his throat.
They both fall to the floorboards in tandem, her body decapitated and twitching while he struggles and shakes, grabbing at his neck, trying in vain to apply pressure.
His eyes are wide. He knows he's dying, staring up at the ceiling beams. A part of him is scared. Another part of him is relieved. It's over. It's finally over. There's nothing left to give, nothing left to take. The world is going dark and there's tears in his eyes, pouring forth to draw little tributaries down his cheeks. He thinks of his friends. He thinks of his family. He thinks of everyone he's ever known and everywhere he's ever been and all the things that life could have offered had it not been for her.
And even so, as his body calms and his arms fall limb to his side, the song still plays from the nearby iPod, the last thing that he'll ever hear.
"All I want for Christmas is you!"
He's a ragged, lonesome thing. Red-rimmed eyes and a dirty beard hanging from his pockmarked chin. He sits alone in a cabin built from splinters, a scullery fire kept burning for warmth and what little comfort that affords. Outside, there's the darkness of the snow swept fields and, beyond them, the forests where the shadows grow long and the limbs all bend and the last, few remaining birds still sing their songs long into the night. He's the last human left alive and he knows that in his heart of hearts, even if some wayward, wanton hope tells him that it isn't so.
It is so. From Australia to America to Timbuktu, they're all gone. Everyone. Everything. The world at a standstill, asleep on an acre of bones.
It's December 24th. He knows that from the tally marks he's scratched into the walls, all one-thousand-ninety-five of them and from the sounds he's heard outside in the recent days and from those little prickles down his spine that let him know that he's not alone. There's a shotgun in his lap. Someone is watching him, through windows and from places unseen, rattling the shingles on his roof and whispering words of torment in a garbled voice transcending all other noise, "You. You. Yoooooou." There aren't any calendars anymore just like there are no people. No cars, no telephones, no lights, no grocery stores. There's only him. Him and... her.
Her, the infernal one. Her, the death of man writ large in her shadow. Her, the one who stalks the land, the songbird of malevolence, the grinning face behind a veil of silvered scars.
Her.
She was once called Mariah. In another life, she was called Mimi. Now, she was only a feral, forlorned thing. He had no idea how she'd become what she was, what divine horror unwound the woman's mind and gave her the powers she now displayed every Christmas. There was no one left to tell him and so he'd never truly know.
It went like this.
Three years prior, the presents were all under their trees, wrapped with bows. Eggnog was in the refrigerators, families were traveling from distant places to be home, and the machines of capitalism churned. Bright lights and tinsel hung around doorways. Mistletoe nailed to the ceiling, carolers singing their dirges against the waking world, silent nights, holy nights, peace and love and joy for all mankind. It all happened in a fevered frenzy. The reports began in New York; chaos and damnation, buildings tumbling in on themselves, the population dwindling with slit throats and mangled bodies. It went westward, as fast as a lightning strike, house by house and then city by city and then state by state and then country by country. Death and destruction, the end of all things.
He didn't know how he had managed to survive.
His family hadn't been so lucky.
He could still hear their screams.
He could still hear that voice, sing-songing even as the blood and viscera rained.
"You. You. All I want for Christmas... is yooooooou."
From there, his life became a fever or a dream. Most days were spent in silence, tending to the crops and preparing for the coming winter. Other days, he'd walk to the ruins of the nearby towns and forage for supplies; medicine, toiletries, anything that was unspoiled and still of some use. Occasionally, he thought of killing himself, but the weight of that notion drove him to hysterics and he'd spend the rest of his evening in tears, cradling his gun and murmuring gibberish to himself in the darkness of his cabin. It was all just in preparation for Christmas Day. December 25th, the very second the clock struck midnight, he knew that all head would break loose.
Three years, every Christmas, like clockwork.
So, see this man. See him sitting in his cabin. See the grief and the fear in his eyes. See how he waits, breathing to the rhythm of every tick and every tock, every minute, every second passing as midnight grows closer and closer and closer still. Know that, once upon a time, he was happy. Know that, once upon a time, he was normal. Know that, once upon a time, he loved this time of year.
And remember all of that just as the clock strikes midnight, just as he hears her up on the roof and clawing at his walls, just as he cocks his shotgun and grits his teeth and prepares to defend himself, one last time.
"C'mon," He says, standing from his chair and pointing his gun outward, finger on the trigger, ready to fire. "C'mon, Mariah. Where are you? Where are you...?"
He doesn't have to wait long to find out. A silence falls over the room and then... a shadow moves by the living room window before the glass shatters and a slender, pointed form bursts through. Her skin is bruised and burnt, scarred and tempered by the cold. Her hair, a tangled, mangy crown. Her eyes, two red voids, staring and glowing as she splays out her clawed fingers and bares her pointed teeth and hisses those words, the only words she'll ever speak, "All I want for Christmas... is yooooooou."
He wastes no time.
He points his gun.
He pulls the trigger.
The shotgun shell sprays forth just as Mariah Carey lunges towards him, bursting her chest as a ragged scream escapes her throat. She falls and huddles, but she isn't dead. On all fours, she slithers across the floor and sinks her teeth into his ankle. He screams, frantically trying to pull his leg away as the other kicks at the back of her head with his boot heel. Those claws scratch at his calf, turning his denim to tatters along with his skin. The pain is unbearable, but he's been here before. He points the gun downward and prepares to take another shot just before he pulls away, skittering across the floorboards and disappearing up the chimney.
That was round one. He grits his teeth and sneers, falling to his haunches to inspect his wounds. His right leg is bleeding and mangled, blood seeping through where the denim is torn. He grabs for a nearby pack of bandages to wrap himself, eyes still scanning the room as he awaits her next attack. She's fast and she's ferocious. He knows this. He knows that all he can hope for is to survive and even survival doesn't come without loss; the three missing fingers on his left hand are a reminder of that, the deep scars that crawl across his back, the broken bones that have only barely healed without a cast.
For the next five hours, the attacks continue, sometimes once an hour and sometimes more. Each time, he manages to drive her away, but not without a new wound. Occasionally, he thinks that she's playing with him; like a cat who has cornered a frightened mouse. By morning's first light, he's hunched in a corner of the cabin, his breath gone stilted and that gun pointing towards the front door. She's on the other side. He's heard her scratching at the frame, turning at the knob, knock-knock-knocking like an old friend who only wants to come in from the cold.
He's already almost out of shotgun shells. They were all that he could find. That and... well, one other thing. One last hope. A chance, if nothing else. He pulled himself to his feet using the shotgun as a crutch, wincing as he crossed the room to where an old, forgotten iPod sat. The screen was scratched and blurred, dust caked in the charging port, the buttons on the front barely functional. It had five percent of its battery left and hundreds of albums loaded to its hard drive, but only one song mattered.
The front door bursts open, turned to splintering wood.
Her silhouette stands resplendant against the morning light, eyes still glowing and claws outstretched.
She's hissing. She's purring. She hungers.
He presses the play button and from the tiny, busted speakers, a song begins to play.
I don't want a lot for Christmas
There is just one thing I need
I don't care about the presents
Underneath the Christmas tree
I just want you for my own
More than you could ever know
Make my wish come true
All I want for Christmas is you
There is just one thing I need
I don't care about the presents
Underneath the Christmas tree
I just want you for my own
More than you could ever know
Make my wish come true
All I want for Christmas is you
Her eyes go wide with some distant familiarity, a knowing recognition as she steps forward into the cabin. She stands there at the center of the room listening, her ears perking and her head tilting, red-tinted drool dribbling down her chin before she starts to mouth the lyrics, her body so riddled with shotgun shells now swaying, twirling, dancing in the scullery's light. She doesn't even seem to notice him. She's lost in a world all her own, a prison of her mind all bittersweet and taciturn. He steps forward slowly, still wincing, still in pain, even on cautious feet. He tries to be quiet and he tries to still his breath even as that same fear swells beneath his skin. He lifts the gun once more and aims it through his dizziness, right at her head.
Finger on the trigger.
He sputters and coughs, his voice creaking as it leaves his throat.
"Merry Christmas, you bitc--"
She looks at him and her face contorts into a wretched, wicked snarl. From there, it all happens in slow motion. Just as his finger presses down on the trigger, her hand swoops outward. Just as the shotgun shells collide with her head, one stray claw paints a line across his neck. Just as her skull explodes from his point blank shot, he realizes he can't breathe and feels the searing, white hot pain at his throat.
They both fall to the floorboards in tandem, her body decapitated and twitching while he struggles and shakes, grabbing at his neck, trying in vain to apply pressure.
His eyes are wide. He knows he's dying, staring up at the ceiling beams. A part of him is scared. Another part of him is relieved. It's over. It's finally over. There's nothing left to give, nothing left to take. The world is going dark and there's tears in his eyes, pouring forth to draw little tributaries down his cheeks. He thinks of his friends. He thinks of his family. He thinks of everyone he's ever known and everywhere he's ever been and all the things that life could have offered had it not been for her.
And even so, as his body calms and his arms fall limb to his side, the song still plays from the nearby iPod, the last thing that he'll ever hear.
"All I want for Christmas is you!"
END.
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