My father was killed by a sociopath. He was killed on our roof.
I was 5 years old, and it was Christmas Eve. No, Christmas. But 1 AM, I hadn't gone to sleep yet, and I heard footsteps on the roof. A clattering of bells. Something that sounded like a Christmas miracle. I knew where he was going, pin pointed the location I'd see the red-suited fat man. The chimney.
We hadn't used our chimney in years. Since before I was born at that point, but I knew that we kept it cleaned for a reason. Santa Claus. You can't just ruin his suit. I heard the shifting and grunting as he worked his way down the chimney. The lights in the living room where the chimney sat across from the TV were still lit, perhaps in preparation for Santa's arrival, but the Christmas tree... it was the centerpiece. The illuminated gold work at the corner of the room. Beauty in green with a star on top.
My mother and sister followed me into the room seconds after, and finally I saw the musty, blackened-despite-cleaning red suit hit the ground. I thought it must've been from other houses, the dust. Santa Claus coughed, hit his chest, and emerged from under the tree. His suit didn't quite fit him. It hung baggy, so big it was almost like a dress around his knees. He had no bag. I figured he must've hid the toys in the excess of the suit.
"OH GOD, THAT'S NOT YOUR DAD!" my mother shrieked, falling backwards and slamming against the wall. Her head made a loud thump and Santa laughed a different laugh than I had always anticipated, walking over towards her with a slight limp. I thought to help her up.
"No mom, it's not dad. It's SANTA."
The man grabbed my mother, picked her up by the chest, her clothing ripped as he dragged her to her feet. He looked her in the eye.
"Hello, bitch." Fucking Santa. He threw my mother to the ground and stomped on her feet, snapping them with an audible and disgusting crack. I could feel tears streaming down my cheek but I didn't feel sad. Only afraid.
He marched across my living room and grabbed my sister. Picked her up by her collar and held her high above his head, then slammed her to the floor. She cried hard, one of her teeth falling out with a trail of blood following it. She grabbed the floor and tried to get up, but he just held her down with his weight. He looked at me. I was frozen.
"Well, kid, what're you gonna do?" I didn't say a word. I just sat there, frozen. I wanted to run, but my mom and sis were lying there. Where was my dad? He would save us. He would save us.
He grabbed my sister by her hair and yanked her upwards, pulling on her neck. Trails of spit and blood dripped from her mouth and she let out an awkward yelp, her eyes squeezed shut. She was eight. He was old. He punched her in the face sending blood streaming out her nose. He punched again. And again. And again. Then stopped.
"WELL KID. WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU GOING TO DO?" I couldn't look away.
My mother was in the corner screaming, broken.
"DON'T YOU HURT MY BABY? WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO MY BABY?" He looked up, dead seriousness in his eyes.
"You mean your fucking husband? I cut him open and left him on the roof. He's still got that fucking smile on his face." Secretly she had known he was dead from the moment that man came down the chimney, but this forced her to admit it.
"Don't you hurt my baby... he was a wonderful man... a wonderful man."
He left my sister and grabbed my mother again. I watched as he pulled down her pants and underpants and I saw my first glimpse at the naked female body. My own mother, strewed out in front of me. I watched the look in her eyes as he raped her, right there, on the floor. I watched her. Then he stopped. He didn't cum. There was no pleasure in that for him.
He pulled a knife out from whatever he was wearing under the Santa suit. He put it in my mothers hand, stepped on it and stepped on it again. He grabbed my mothers hand.
"WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING, YOU BASTARD?"
"My mother and father have nothing to do with this," he calmly said in his gravelly voice. He sounded like an action hero. Hero.
Slowly he dragged her across the floor, over to where my sister was.
"Now," he said, "Kill the girl and I'll spare your boy." He put on his shit eating grin and looked over at me. It was barely visible through his tacked on beard. My mother looked like she never had before. Even through this I didn't see her express a more horrified face as she did now. She refused.
"I'M NOT GOING TO KILL MY BABY! NOT MY BABY!"
He walked over to me, kicked me in the face. I felt pain surge through my body.
"Look lady, I don't get any pleasure in killing boys, so don't do this." He picked me up and held me over his shoulder, and I felt the sharp tip of a knife up against my ass.
"I'll do it. The boy won't die a virgin."
My mother grabbed the knife and looked at my sister.
"Mommy, don't. MOMMY!" She stabbed her through the ribs and instantly cowered backwards. My sister rasped and died, her eyes open. In a ball lay my only living parent, screaming, shrieking, pulling her own hair for once.
"I'll give you a choice. You can live now, or you can die now." He looked at my mother. She didn't look back. My mother just cried, didn't say a word. He repeated himself. Then again. Then one more time. Finally, she uttered her death wish. How could she live if she had killed her own child? Had no husband? He stabbed her in the eye.
Finally, he looked back at me again.
"You're a coward, kid. You didn't even TRY to stop me. Didn't even TRY to stop me from KILLING your family. Your mother, she's even worse. Now she's left you all alone. You're all the fuck alone."
He left me there.
