That time of year was fast approaching. Everybody was giddy and full of holiday cheer. It was a time to be happy, to rejoice.
But it was not so for the man who now sat on an old, creaky, wooden stool. He twiddled his thumbs unconsciously and sweat rolled down his back despite the biting cold and his thick wool jacket. He barely felt the chains on his numb foot. Flecks of frost accumulated on the tiny hairs on his arms and legs.
From time to time a gasp escaped his bluish lips, but most of the time he made it a point to keep quiet, for he wanted to be able to hear the patter of Their feet if they should come closer to his cell. He was very much afraid of that sound; it meant that his suffering was about to start again, but what scared him the most was the sound of the bells. The bells that were attached to Their heads. The metallic jangling were spikes to his already torn soul. He wept, just like he did every year; wept for his lost life and family. The hot tears solidified into crystals of lost memories half-way down his cheek. He recalled the past winters, (and how many had passed he knew not) recalled every time of awakening to the cold, of emotions and memories that trickled then surged into his mind.
Every time he hoped that it was only an ugly nightmare, that at some point he would wake. But then came the jingle of bells, and the echo of Their footsteps resonating along the frosty brick corridor. The hinges would creak and the door would open, and as the piercing light chased away the shadows and blinded him, someone would unlock the chains and lead him out. Vaguely he remembers small hands around his own, urgently but gently leading him towards some unknown destination. As his vision cleared he would see cherub faces, and the peculiar thing was they were all knee-high compared to him, and the tallest of them came up only to his hip. Bells grew from their heads like trees. They crowded against him, a sea of compassionate faces, and they whispered sweet things and beguiling promises to his ear.
After a while they went away, and were replaced with gaunt-faced subordinates as small as they were. They were the silent ones, the stoic ones who shoved spoonfuls of bitter liquid down his throat. Sometimes he choked because of this, and they pounded his back until tears came into his eyes. He knew what the liquid did. It fattened him, enlarged his limbs and rounded his stomach. Afterwards they dressed him in velvet and groomed his beard, dragging hot iron curlers through it so roughly that at times it burnt his skin. Then he was forced to board a contraption which was tethered to great beasts with burning red eyes and foaming mouths, hot steam streaming out of their nostrils with every breath.
Each year he rode throughout the night. Suspended in their sleep the world knew nothing of him and his pain. He knew there was something terribly wrong with the boxes he dispensed. He could sense the animosity seeping from the beautiful silver wrappings, just as he sensed the evil from the cherub children. But on he went, spurred on by gaunt-faced masters which whipped him for every house he missed. And every time the thick, hard wood connected with his skin, he would cry with pain and anguish.
Ho-Ho-Ho.
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