On Christmas Eve, a man called Nicholas stumbled down a sidewalk drunk on cheap liquor. He watched as his poison splashed onto his shoes, and he thought about his purpose, about who he was supposed to be. He liked to imagine himself as a good man (or a better one at least), a man who remained a legend long after this time was spent. Nicholas laughed at his frozen fantasies, dismissing them with a swig of that somber bottle. He made his way home half drunk and still laughing at what could have been. He unlocked his apartment door and stumbled towards the bedroom, but something in the hallway caught his eye. Nestled in a brown picture frame were a boy and a girl, from many Christmases ago. The young boy was smiling away with a fistful of the girls hair while they argued over the same present. Although the children were fighting, and although this moment was frozen in time, there was one thing that was unmistakable. It was the joy in their eyes. But the joy was clouded, because this was the year mother told the kids that her black eye was from a door. This was the year Nicholas came home each night reeking of drug store perfume, and didn't even try and hide it. This was the year Nicholas lost his job and the children had to argue over that present, because it was the only one they got. This was the year Mother became a father, and changed the locks on the door. But this was also the fourth year that Nicholas promised he would change. Nicholas was dragged back to the present with the sound of the answering machine beeping for him. He stumbled forward, taking a sip with each step, until he was close enough to press play. As the message began he heard a woman clear her throat.
"Nick, it's me. I brought the kids by your place today so you could see them, but you weren't there. It's Christmas Eve, Nick. You always see them on Christmas Eve."
There was a short silence on the line until she spoke again.
"Don't call here anymore."
In a fit of rage Nicholas ripped the answering machine from the wall, throwing it at the door. He was once again thinking of what could have been, only this time he couldn't wash the apologies from his mouth. "I was a good father," he screamed at the ceiling. "A good husband, where did I go wrong?" If only he could hear the heavens laughing at him. Suddenly he was here and he was there, everything around him, even the photographs, in small pieces— all but his shot gun. His shotgun seemed to be his salvation, the remedy for his sickness. Tears ran down his face drowning out the words, and he held his gun in one hand, and turned up the stereo with another. It wasn't long before his finger was on the trigger and he was kissing the barrel goodbye. What a merry Christmas this would be for his beautiful son and daughter, two concepts that were now far from his mind. The clock ticked down and at a quarter to midnight his neighbors heard the shot.
In apartment number 4, a man's blood was staining the floorboards while the radio sang, "Merry Christmas Saint Nick, Christmas comes this time each year."