A Christmas Story in 8 Parts: Part 1
Dec. 25th, 2004 08:41 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
franceslievensDonnie lay on his bed, stirring. His mother's Christmas turkey was never one she could be proud of, but this year she had outdone herself in foulness. The whole thing tasted like liver. Aunt Martha had retreated to the upstairs bathroom, her face a certain shade of green that only precedes the emptying of a stomach. She wasn't seen downstairs for the rest of the day. Donnie had tried to mask the taste with litres of wine. It had only helped filling his bladder, and with aunt Martha occupying the upstairs bathroom and her kids playing some kissing game in the downstairs one, he had taken to watering the plants outside. Mum's tulips wouldn't be rearing their ugly heads, come next year's spring.
Home at last, carrying some leftover squishy cake that his mother had called “biscuit”, and those presents he really couldn't leave behind, he thought about starting a close relationship with the toilet pot. The turkey, unfortunately, had decided to stay firmly in his stomach, doing somersaults, instead of choosing the shortest way to freedom. So he had lain himself down on his bed and closed his eyes to stop the room from turning around him.
“Damn it, those kids upstairs are still up,” Donnie thought, when he heard the pitter-patter of tiny feet echo through his room. His head hurt like a stray football hit it. His eyes didn't respond when he tried to open them. Worst of all was his stomach. That blasted bird wanted out and was scratching itself an exit. Donnie turned on his right side, but immediately fell onto his back again, fighting the pain that only got worse. “This feels like dying,” Donnie thought, “this is just like dying, please, if this is dying, let the whole thing be over with, quick.” His breathing became harsh and superficial. Donnie's mind tried to grasp onto the last bits of sense it possessed: “I'm dying of... turkey-poisoning. I know there was something wrong with my mum's cooking... Just one turkey to many...” The last thing he registered, before falling into oblivion, was that he wet himself.
Home at last, carrying some leftover squishy cake that his mother had called “biscuit”, and those presents he really couldn't leave behind, he thought about starting a close relationship with the toilet pot. The turkey, unfortunately, had decided to stay firmly in his stomach, doing somersaults, instead of choosing the shortest way to freedom. So he had lain himself down on his bed and closed his eyes to stop the room from turning around him.
“Damn it, those kids upstairs are still up,” Donnie thought, when he heard the pitter-patter of tiny feet echo through his room. His head hurt like a stray football hit it. His eyes didn't respond when he tried to open them. Worst of all was his stomach. That blasted bird wanted out and was scratching itself an exit. Donnie turned on his right side, but immediately fell onto his back again, fighting the pain that only got worse. “This feels like dying,” Donnie thought, “this is just like dying, please, if this is dying, let the whole thing be over with, quick.” His breathing became harsh and superficial. Donnie's mind tried to grasp onto the last bits of sense it possessed: “I'm dying of... turkey-poisoning. I know there was something wrong with my mum's cooking... Just one turkey to many...” The last thing he registered, before falling into oblivion, was that he wet himself.
