the treadwell's at
was Christmas Day, throughout the land, in every house, children
faces beamed as presents were unwrapped and toys played with. With
the smell of turkey and Christmas pud, the sound of joy and laughter
as the family unit gelled together; sharing in the harmonious love
that makes Christmas so special.
Every house that is, except one - The Treadwell residence. There,
there was an eerie silence witch crept through each room. Every room
that is, except one - The living room. Here, on the couch, Mom
Treadwell lay snoring in her sleep. It was because of these
unearthly nocturnal sounds that she was resigned to sleeping
downstairs. It was impossible for her not to sleep without making an
infernal nasal grunting, which was punctuated only by server pig
like snorts. One of which now woke her.
Mom Treadwell threw back the blankets, rose from the couch, lit a
fag and drew deeply upon it. Smells of ripe turkey emanated from the
kitchen up her nose reminding her that it was indeed, Christmas Day.
Good-willed as she was she found it difficult to muster any kind of
enthusiasm for the season, but if she didn’t make an effort nobody
would. After all she had a few surprises up her sleeve this
Christmas, which would, well, liven the proceedings up a little.
She stood at the bottom of the stairs and called out to her still
dosing family. “Nickayyyyy”, she yelled, in the ominous fashion only
she could, “are you gettin’ up, come on it’s Christmas.”
Nic was having a really nice dream. In it he was unwrapping a very
special Christmas gift, Suzanne Vega. He was just about to undo the
last button on her dress when Mom’s screeching call momentarily
entered his head. Suzanne’s face suddenly morphed into Mom’s with
nightmare intensity and Nic woke up with a start.
The memory of the previous nights events then began to dawn on Nic.
In a desperate attempt to remove himself from existence, he had,
last night, taken a whole bottle of headache tablets. He, should not
be here, he thought. It was clear that something had gone terribly
wrong, just his luck.
“I shouldn’t be alive”, he shouted out, “I took all those tablets
and I’m still here, It can’t be. Oh no, now I’ll have to endure
Christmas.” He began to sob.
Assured that her son was alive and well, Mom turned her attention to
her husband, who slept alone in their bedroom. “H”, she called out,
for his name was Harold, “get out of that stinkin’ deathbed.”
In H’s dream he had just won several million pounds on the National
Lottery and was busy deciding whether he should give his wife any or
blow the whole lot on his beloved car, maybe buy a new set of seat
covers or something. As his brain recognised her shouts she was
immediately brought into the dream, standing over him demanding all
the money. He fought with her, trying desperately to hold on to the
cheque but she swiped it from him. It was then that his eyes opened
and he realised he was back in the reality of a poverty stricken
“Why should I?”, he shouted in reply to his wife. “I ain’t got
no presents, I don’t even exist in this family. I may as well drive
the car into a brick wall.”
“Oh stop being so melodramatic and get down here!” said Mom, issuing
the command in her sergeant major mode.
Nic and his father rose from their respective tombs and made their
way downstairs. On crossing each other on the upstairs landing they
uttered nothing, not so much as a happy Christmas or even good
morning. They mealy cursed one another under their breaths and went
about their business.
After Dad had dropped his bowls, leaving and ungodly stench behind
him in the bathroom, and Nic had took his array of laxative tablets
and strained himself until he he’d nearly been gassed by the his
fathers lingering fumes, they all settled down for the present