Caution: For Mature readers only. Contains weirdness and violent thoughts.



The day was grey; just like every other in the month of December. Just like every other day of every other month of every other year, thought the grey Santa.

He sat there on a soot and snow-covered park bench, feeling neither cold nor warm, wondering, as always, where the black and white had gone.

A little bit of contrast would be good, he thought, numbly observing the way the cloudy sky floated out of crumbly granite buildings which grew seamlessly from the dusty asphalt coated with more sooty snow.

Nothing moved. Something stayed still.

The grey Santa knew that if somebody walked by (but who will?) they would not see him. He was the grey Ghost. A Santa in faded Kris Kringle green.

Earlier, he had seen his reflection in the Christmas toy shop on the way to the lonely bench. There was a brief moment of wonder -- when he realised it was his own face that he was looking at -- that he did, in fact, have a reflection. He didn't think that the revelation was worth the trouble.

He saw lank and uncombed old hair; not shiny black nor cotton white, but dead and absent of dignity. His once prosperous figure draped like a deflated balloon around his rickety frame.

His face was papery white, and his eyes were as empty and lifeless as the shop window’s diorama; a train set with candy cane houses that usually lit up, but was now sparkles-free and hidden in the shadows. The owners had shut down the place to presumably enjoy the holidays with their family.

He had searched desperately for some sign of colour, movement or emotion in that toy shop window. He saw none. If he didn't know he was there, he wouldn't have seen him either. He drifted on.

Now, he was starting to think that the bench was comfortable (if he remembered that feeling correctly). Perhaps it was the sense of familiarity. He had been here before, he thought.

His consciousness drifted. Some time (Seconds? Minutes? Hours? Centuries?) later, something drew him back.

Thump, thump, thump.

The sound was sharp and clear, and incongruous affair in the snow-blanketed street. The grey Santa looked around him, blinking wearily.

There was a child standing in front of him on the sidewalk, bouncing a colourful beach ball. Somehow, he had managed to find a patch of uncovered concrete. He was looking away.

The child turned slowly, still bouncing his ball, and the grey Santa realised that he wasn't sure if he wanted to see the boy's face.

"Hi, Dad," said the boy cheerfully. He was round-faced and apple-cheeked in the cool air. In the surrounding gloominess, he seemed to shine from within.

"You can see me?" the grey Santa gasped.

"Sure, why not?" said the boy.

"Well, okay," said the grey Santa dubiously. He was still getting used to his new consciousness.

"Where have you been?" the boy asked. He'd stopped bouncing his ball and was now tossing it up into the air and catching it.

"I've been... away," said the grey Santa, watching the boy intently. "How's your mother doing these days?"

The boy caught the ball and stared at the old man. "How do you suppose she's doing? She hates you."

The grey Santa slumped in his seat. "I know. Do you hate me too?"

"You failed me. And you failed Mama. And then you left us alone," the boy said, resuming his tossing game. "Yeah... I guess I do hate you."

He paused again for a short while, "I needed a Dad and you messed that up for me."

The boy started suddenly tossed his beach ball at the grey Santa. "Let’s play catch!"

They started tossing the ball at each other. It was bright, and it had movement. A tremendous change from scenery, thought the grey Santa.

They went at it for a bit, not talking. The only sound was the airy thump of the beach ball as it whacked into their palms, right before it took off on another flight.

In a short while, the grey Santa found that he was panting. It had been some time since he did any physical activity. He sat down again on the bench. The boy grabbed his ball and did the same. It was snowing.

They both watched it snow, not bothering to shake off the flakes as it dropped on them. The grey Santa glanced at the boy, who for some reason was slightly agitated and gazing intently at his fingernails. It was not a comfortable silence.

"I'm sorry," said the grey Santa, to break the monotony.

The boy stared ahead. "For what?"

"For the things I did. For... hurting you and your mum, and breaking up our family. For doing the things that... that made me have to go away," he finished lamely.

"Oh," said the boy. Silence again. "Why did you do it?" he asked.

The grey Santa had to think. "Perfection. I wanted it, needed it. I wanted everything to be just right."

"Especially for Christmas..."

The boy cocked his head and looked at the grey Santa with questions in his eyes. "Why?" he said simply.

The man gave a humourless laugh. "Why? Well I have to think about that."

Silence again, and this time it was the grey Santa who found his fingernails very interesting. His hands were dirty and covered with cement dust from his temporary bed in the basement of an abandoned building. Grey. It stopped snowing.

Finally, he said, "there's no reason. I mean, sometimes I wish I could blame it on lousy parenting; blame my father for beating me up constantly, or my mother for neglect. I wish I could say that I didn't have anything when I was growing up; no food, no toys, no love.

“But my parents loved me and they gave me everything."

"So, maybe I got used to having everything, and I couldn't handle it when I didn't get what I wanted. But even that is an excuse."

"I don't know. I have no reasons for doing what I did to you. Maybe I'm just a lousy human being."

The grey Santa wished that he could sob. Cry. Get it off his chest. But he just sat there, numb.

"Will you forgive me?" he asked the boy again, his son.

The boy looked at him and then at his beach ball. He stood up and started bouncing it. It was jarring, the bright colours of the beach ball against the monotony of the rest of the silent colourless world.

Thump, thump, thump.

The grey Santa's son caught his beach ball one final time and started walking away.

"Will you forgive me?" the grey Santa shouted after him, slightly desperately.

His son stopped and said quietly without turning, "I need to go home now. Mum would worry."

"Will you forgive me?" the grey Santa whispered, tears starting to roll down his cheeks.

His son shook his head. He turned around now, and looked at the grey Santa. His inner shine had disappeared. His happiness was gone. The colours of his beach ball, the grey Santa saw, had faded away.

"Ghosts cannot forgive. And neither can memories," the boy said.

"You know what I am, a piece of your guilt. A figment of what's left of your imagination. I can't forgive you. You're the only one who can do that."

The boy turned to leave. He looked up at the unmoving grey skies.

"And I think you know this too. You can't forgive yourself because what you did was unforgivable."

"One of us is dead, and it's not you. Even though it feels like it, it's not you."

The ghost of the grey Santa's son disappeared into the quietness, with not even a flicker of a snowflake.

The grey Santa got up, and walked laboriously to the spot where his son, no, the imagined shadow of his real son, disappeared.

There was a spot of colour there. Red.

He bent down and grabbed at it. It was soft like the snow, but warm. He turned his hand to have a look at the only bit of colour in his world.

His hand shook, and he dropped the marshmallow that was in it. A marshmallow covered in a red substance that was blood.

Slowly, the sobs came, and steadily, it grew into a howl. The grey Santa went on his hands and knees, crying and choking his grief and tremendous guilt.

A bloody marshmallow.

His mind flew back to that awful Christmas Eve a decade ago. He had rushed back home from work, hoping for a nice warm Christmas Eve dinner after a full day of bullying people at work. His wife was in the kitchen preparing the roast. She gave him a smile but it didn't reach her eyes. That made him angry.

He said some nasty things about the salad she had already prepared and some choice comments about her appearance. Of course she looked tired, thought the grey Santa. She was working the night shift because what he was making wasn't enough for the family. Daytime she looked after the boy.

She started sobbing and ran upstairs, leaving the roast to burn.

He'd stormed out of the kitchen to look for his son in the living room. The boy was standing amongst presents and Christmas wrappers and ribbons.

Again, he felt his temper rising. The boy had opened his Christmas presents even though he was supposed to wait till Christmas morning! The grey Santa (but he wasn't the grey Santa back then) was livid.

He remember grabbing his son's arms and shaking him hard. He yelled at the boy, who started blubbering excuses, but he was too angry to listen to them. There was a roaring train in his ears.

He recalled raising his arms to hit his son. But the next thing he remembered was holding the boy's limp body. The child’s face was bloody and broken, and he no longer breathed.

Suddenly, he heard a scream behind him. It was his wife. He looked at her, helpless, the lifeless body of his son in his hands. Her mouth was open, and he could see the fear in her eyes. She ran for the kitchen.

He took off after her. Thinking that she was going to escape by the back door, he ran for it and blocked her path. He tried to reason with her, but her huge, frightened deer eyes, and constantly open mouth somehow made him angry again.

He hated seeing her fear, her tiredness, and that stupid "What's your beef?" apron with the cow on it, which she wore when cooking. Not really thinking, he grabbed the knife from the counter next to him and stabbed the cow with it.

Next he knew, he was kneeling by his wife's side, apologising profusely and trying to stem the blood flowing from her stomach. She was saying something to him. With her dying breath, she said, "I'm sorry I didn't have time to wrap the presents..."

And then she died. Just like that.

Just like that, his life was over.

He returned to the living room, looking at the scene with new eyes. He went to his son's body, trying not to look at his battered face. The boy was holding a colourful beach ball when he entered the room the first time. He was helping his mother wrap the presents! He wasn't being a greedy idiot child.

There was a gift tag that went with beach ball paper wrapper. It said, "Merry Christmas, Dad! I think this would be great in your office." And indeed it would have. He constantly felt stressed at work, and he had put up a gigantic poster of a bench on a beach with coconut trees beside it to him relax. He even had seashells and a mini Zen sand garden to complete the feel.

By then, he couldn't breathe in that living room. He staggered back into the kitchen. His wife was on the floor. He had not seen her face looking so peaceful in a long while. As he stood staring at her, something bubbled on the stove. He automatically reached to turn it off. Milk.

At the counter beside the stove, there were two mugs with huge servings of chocolate powder inside them. There was also a bowl of marshmallows. Our special hot chocolate, thought the man. His wife only made them on special occasions, like when he got a promotion, or when she found out that she was pregnant with their first child. He wondered which occasion they were supposed to celebrate this time.

He couldn't look at her body. Out of habit, his body found something to do; it picked up a marshmallow and brought it to his mouth. Before he could pop it in, he stopped. The marshmallow had bright red smears on it. It was his wife's blood.

Red and white. Santa Claus. Christmas.

By the time the police had arrived at the house, he had donned a green Kris Kringle suit from the ancient traditions of Christmas play he acted in the year before.

He was laughing and holding a bloody marshmallow.

He can’t remember what they did to him. But his world has been quiet, lonely, grey and monotonous ever since. It was like being stuck in a grey cell where everyone has forgotten about you, and they only gave you tasteless food so you can continue the farce of life and go on dreaming in grey.

The Santa knelt in the snow, holding a red and white marshmallow.

"Unforgivable."

"But am I unredeemable?" he said with a questioning look on his face.

"Ho. Ho. Ho. Merry Christmas," he whispered to himself.

"Merry Christmas…”