A Christmas Flash Fiction
Five years I old I was.
Five years old, dressed in my transformers pyjamas and standing halfway down the staircase. One hand curled around the bannister, the other, clutched Cuddles the teddy, close to my chest. I gasped into his rough fur as I watched my Mum shove a knife into Santa Claus’s back.
Santa slowly turned his head, staring straight at me as he stumbled to the floor.
I ran into the living room, crouching beside his lifeless body.
I couldn’t stop staring. As the kind policeman escorted my mother away. I couldn’t stop thinking. When the neighbours wrapped me in a blanket and scurried me away from the house.
Something wasn’t right.
Why did Santa Claus have the eyes of my father?