Twisted Dreams

Candy

The candy sits on the kitchen table, silent and utterly, completely, heartbreakingly still. Eye-level with the tabletop, I sit glaring at the offending object. It has not even the grace to tremble under my gaze. Defeated, I groan and let my head drop to the counter with a hollow thud. I groan again at the pain.

"Sir."

I whip my head up fast enough to hear it crack. My heart pounds in my chest, then begins to slow when I see the familiar face now sitting across from me. A glance downwards tells me that, yes, the candy is now gone.

The elf's long, pointed ears and pale curls peek out from under his green beanie - the one I'd forced him to replace his ridiculous, pointy cap with yesterday. I'd made him replace the rest of his attire similarly: his violently crimson jacket made of dyed wool and comically large, black buttons is now a gently maroon sweatshirt. And his matching trousers are now slightly-too-big, black jeans. He'd refused to replace his oddly pointed dress shoes, however.

"Santa's little helper decided to pop in, did he?" I ask, letting my head fall again, though the edge had been taken off my initial frustration.

"...I could not transform while you were watching me so intensely, sir," he says with his slightly, pleasantly melodical voice.

"I still don't understand why not," I grumble, half to myself, before looking back up at him again. "Well?"

"Sir?"

"Are you ready?"

Of course, he cocks his head, ears twitching, those blue eyes of his so innocently curious under his furrowed brow. I'm doubtful he'll ever be much more fluent in English vaguety.

I sigh. "To kill Santa Claus?"

"Oh. Yes, sir." He pulls - from seemingly nowhere, where a sword's sheath would normally rest - a large, sharpened blade, striped with vibrant bands of red and white. "I am prepared."