He takes such good care of me, but Lord help me, all I am is plain awful.
Every night, I cry my eyes out, soakin’ his shoulder with my sobs and screams. The two of us just drown together, and then, somehow, we rise again. His big ol’ arms wrap around me, and his eyes—cool, soft, and patient—look right through all my mess.
He tells me I’m beautiful, but I just know I’m dreadful. Sometimes, I can’t help wonderin’ why all his gentleness is saved for me. Makes me think about those same big arms and what they’ve done when I was too busy cryin’ to notice.
Oh, I cry and cry, but nothin’ ever changes. I know what I’ve gotta do. I’ve always known it. But now that the time has come, my stomach’s full of butterflies and my head’s buzzin’ like a hive of bees.
It’s always been this way—ever since I was just a thought in the back of his mind. Over the years, I grew wild like a stubborn weed, tanglin’ round his neck and clingin’ to him like a baby swaddled up tight.
He’d tell me the sun shone out of my cold, stony eyes and that all the goodness in the world was sittin’ there in my heart, just waitin’ to get free. But still, I’d stare at myself in the mirror with nothing but disdain and disorder.
It never felt right. My hands itched and trembled, achin’ to live up to his image, but they shook like autumn leaves scattered in the wind at the very thought.
On those cold winter evenings, he’d come home, his coat dusted with shy little snowflakes that’d melt when I reached out to touch ’em. His face would soften into that lovin’ smile as he took my face in his claws, coverin’ me with kisses.
But then the blood would come. It’d burn hot on my skin, and I’d howl, tears runnin’ down my face to meet the blood caught under his nails.
“Don’t worry, darlin’,” he’d whisper. “There’s always next Christmas.”
So many Christmases have come and gone, and still, I haven’t bloomed.
Last Christmas was no different.
He held me, kissed me, consoled me while I wept, beggin’ myself to find the courage I just couldn’t muster. He’d smile like I was gonna surprise him any second, and I’d cry until he drifted off, that hopeful smile still lingerin’ on his face.
Come mornin’, the sun was all high and mighty, shinin’ its judgin’ glare down on the blood dried under his claws. I stayed curled up in his arms as he slept, wonderin’ if I’d ever change.
That’s when I made up my mind. I was lyin’ there in the light of a legend, and it was high time I stopped leanin’ on him to shine. I needed to find my own way.
I’m a growin’ girl—three hundred and seventy-four years old, in fact. And as much as Daddy’s love and adoration soothed me, I knew it was time to let go. It was time to be the daughter he deserved.
So I crept out of his arms, marchin’ down the hill with a determined frown to visit Uncle Nick.
His kingdom was gaudy and bright, hurtin’ my eyes, but I plastered on a smile just like Daddy taught me. After some grumblin’ from his wife, Uncle Nick finally agreed to see me.
Now, Uncle Nick ain’t never believed in me. I can’t say I blame him. He’s a perfectionist, and he thinks Daddy’s the gold standard in his field. No room for mistakes on the big night, which means no room for a shaky, self-doubtin’ niece.
You gotta be sure of yourself—Uncle Nick always says that. Ain’t no other way to do the job. And me? I ain’t sure of nothin’. Not even myself. So I reckon Uncle Nick has a point.
But Lord, how I want to be somethin’ new. I crave it, deep down inside my bones.
I told Uncle Nick as much, sobbin’ my heart out while he held me in those big arms of his. When I was with him, I could almost see it—the person I wanted to be, starin’ back at me in the mirror.
“Be good, Luisa Mae,” he whispered, his voice like gravel and honey. “You’ve just got to be good.”
That Christmas, Uncle Nick gave me a knife. It was real pretty—silver with sapphires that sparkled in the firelight. I rushed home and sat by the hearth, holdin’ it in my hands, tryin’ to make it feel like it belonged there.
Every day, I’d sit there fiddlin’ with that knife while Daddy worked on his list. I’d imagine what it’d feel like—slicin’ through someone like butter, showerin’ me in red and screams. Day by day, my hands shook less and less. The carnage didn’t scare me anymore. It felt close. Real close.
I just wanted to be good. I didn’t wanna cry no more. I wanted to be held for somethin’ I’d done right, not for all the ways I’d fallen apart.
Gee. Christmas came fast, didn’t it? The whole year slipped by ‘cause I spent so much time tryin’ to see myself. And now? I think I do. Not just in the mirror with Uncle Nick or in Daddy’s arms, but here, on this road, with everything feelin’ so big and so real.
There’s a place for me on the big night this year. I don’t know if Uncle Nick believes in me, but Daddy says I’m ready.
I’m awful, but I could be more.
I will be more, in just a little while—when your blood paints my knife.
Still, sometimes I wonder if I’d have been happier as one of Uncle Nick’s brood, makin’ toys for the good little children and livin’ out my days in that bright, cheerful workshop.But I reckon we can’t change who we start out as. All we can do is begin again and try to be somebody new.
I’m awful, but what if I wasn’t?
I’m dreadful, but what if I’m good?
Daddy’s smilin’ now, crackin’ his whip and runnin’ his lips over my knife. He believes in me, and ain’t that what Christmas is all about?
Everyone needs somethin’ to believe in, and tonight, when I cross you off the list—underlinin’ your name with silver and sapphires—Krampus can finally believe in his awful, dreadful little girl.
Sincerely, Jennifer x 