ELLIE JAY

MERRY CHRISTMAS

 I remember staring wide-eyed out of the window at the apocalyptic weather, the icy hailstones being hurled against the glass and bouncing off onto the road, just so I didn’t have to look at you. For your part, you were totally focused on driving. Perhaps that was because of the dangerous conditions and your lack of familiarity with the area… Or perhaps you were avoiding me too, as much as we could avoid each other when stuck on the uncomfortably silent car, listening to the hail because we’d given up on listening to each other.

It was late, getting dark, but you pushed on through the night. I restlessly turned as far away from the windscreen as my seatbelt allowed, watching the hard shoulder whizz by. The now-familiar surroundings of my hometown were more comforting than the weather, which reminded me painfully of the storm raging on between us.

Watching the road, I began to tell we were getting close to home now, and the cold, frightened child in me couldn’t wait to feel my mother’s arms around me and just be home again. The malicious part of me wanted to be home just to spite you, too. The endless back and forth hadn’t helped me work out why you didn’t want to see my family, even with Christmas just around the corner. But it set me against you. I’m open-minded, but now I could no more compromise with you than I could breathe underwater.

You turned to look at me as you swung the car around the final bend and my beloved childhood home came into view.

“I hope you know I’m only doing this because I love you.”

You growled at me, your words as bittersweet as my victory in our argument. You probably don’t remember those words as a tragic surrender but as your last stand. But then we never seemed to share a point of view.

And I never did have the sense to leave a finished argument finished, clearly. I hit back, unable to resist.

“Yeah, you love me so much you want me to spend Christmas cooped up alone with you in a crumbly, half-furnished house!”

I’m embarrassed now, as I recall shouting at you in anger, then listening to the long silence, only broken by the hail bouncing off the outside of the car like my words seemed to bounce back at us from every wall inside. Even then, I must have been a little embarrassed, because I opened my mouth to take them back, if only just to stop them echoing around us.

But you had already turned to face me, your focus on the road broken by my focus on us.

“I just wanted us to have one Christmas to ourselves. It’s our first after moving in together, remember?”

You seemed tender with me, almost romantic, even after my outburst.

“And the house wouldn’t be so bad, it’s coming along nicely. Maybe it’s just my company you would have a problem with, then.”

I rolled my eyes, and my vision blurred for a few moments. Probably just a split second, but it was long enough. Your eyes were still on me, and I wasn’t concentrating, so there was no warning from the road ahead, just a sudden jolt and a loud bang! The whole car shook. Looking up, the last thing I remember seeing was the back end of the van we’d smashed into, then total blackness.

When I surfaced from the dark sea of unconsciousness and guilt-ridden dreams, I was laying in the back of an ambulance, a paramedic watching over me, but no sign of you anywhere. I called your name, trying to sit up, but there was nothing but advice to settle back down again and relax until I’d been checked out at the hospital.

But I couldn’t and wouldn’t relax. I felt sick to my stomach with every lurch of the ambulance, sure my nightmares were all coming true.  The rest of that horrible, fateful night is just a blur. The tests, having my broken arm reset, then having to talk to the police, the other driver’s tortured expression as he apologised to me, over and over again. Insurance details mix with family reunions but the only memory that stands out is how we never got to spend Christmas together, just me and you.

So that’s why I’m sitting here, in the cold, lonely graveyard. Because you always wanted us to have a Merry Christmas together.

Ellie Jay    ©    2025