My Christmas Miracle

This is an excerpt from a short story I'm working on based on real life experiences over the holiday season. Hope you enjoy. Ideas and Feedback are appreciated!!!

I awoke with a start to Christmas carols blaring loudly from the living room just a few feet from my bedroom. “The Little Drummer Boy” was keeping perfect time with the throbbing of my head. The massive amounts of rum I’d consumed the night before were not being kind on this Christmas Eve morn.

I was sure the carols at ear splintering decibals were my mother’s subtle way of waking me up. I was also sure she was camped outside my bedroom door with a cup of good cheer and coffee in each hand.

“I’d love to shove an ornamental reindeer where the sun doesn’t shine,” I thought as I massaged my temples and rubbed my eyes.

We’ve all heard of Christmas tragedies in which a member of a seemingly nice family flips out and takes everyone out due to a mental imbalance forced upon him by the chaos of the holidays. As I crawled out of bed and tried to smooth my hair into a semblance of a normal looking human I decide the spiky craziness of my hair and the dark circles under my eyes would add character to my mug shot when I was booked for Christmas homicide.

As I tried to exit my childhood bedroom, I knocked over the empty bottle of rum. Coming home to The O.C., (actually Orange County, Indiana not California, but I like the irony of fame each county received from the popular teenie-bopper show currently airing on The WB or Fox or some other trendy network), always left me a bit nerotic. I love my parents, don’t get me wrong, but there was little to do in The O.C.—see how that works, and I’m always left feeling a bit stir crazy.

In the evenings, after my parents retire to bed at around 8:30 PM (we’re a farm family so early to bed, early to rise) I find the ghosts of my past, present and future begin playing havoc with my nerves. I also retire to my room under the guise of reading when in fact I usually am looking at porn on my laptop and making myself stiff drinks from whatever liquor I chose to sneak into my childhood bedroom on each visit. My parents DON’T drink. Yes, I feel guilty for smuggling the Devil’s device into my parents’ home, but after my third drink that guilt usually subsides.