He Sees You When You're Sleeping

11th December- Christmas Snacks

Thomas stood, perplexed. He'd never thought that Santa was real, and neither did he think that when he snuck in some sleeping drugs into the milk and cookies that he would now be lying here, dead, at Thomas's feet.
All he'd wanted was to see the big man. Not, you know, kill him. He admitted that he might've slightly given the Christmas food a drug overdose, but he hadn't meant it.
Thomas bent down. His knees and hands shook as he lowered himself towards the body. What now? His mind had frozen like a deer in headlights. Had he committed a crime? Was he going to get in trouble? Was this all actually happening or was he hallucinating? Thomas slapped his cheek. He didn't wake up. What he did get was a large red patch on the side of his face.
He remembered what had brought him here. He wished he'd never done it.

"I bet you won't see him. Nobody ever does." His older sister sneered. Thomas felt heat rising to his face.
"Yes, I will." He pouted.
"Say what you want. But I'll see him first." His sister pushed him over with a snicker and leapt up the stairs like an excited rabbit. Thomas picked himself up from the floor with a growl.
"I will see Santa first if it's the last thing I do."

There was only one thing he could think of: seeing who Santa really was. Thomas had always been a sceptic and preferred science to fairy tales. He was going to be the first person to find out the true identity of Santa Claus.
He peeled off the woolly hat and placed it on the ground. He then began tugging on the beard. It came out in large white tufts until he managed to pull it off. Thomas leant down to get a better look at the man's face. His heart caught in his throat.
"D-daddy?" He stammered. Thomas raised his hand to his mouth. The realisation of what he'd done dawned on him. He'd murdered his father. And somehow... somehow he didn't really care.

Thomas heard the front door swing open. It was accompanied by a series of drunken shouts and laughing. A few minutes later, an argument was raging between Thomas's mother and father. He and his sister were wrapped in their duvets, trying to cover their eyes and ears. This happened every night. They waited in fear, for they knew that soon enough their father was going to come into their room and "wish them goodnight".

Thomas's eyes slid towards a large brown sack. The presents. Without thinking, Thomas tore into the bag, taking out present after present. No doubt these were all from his mother. He was about to open them all, but he stopped himself. Presents were opened on Christmas Day. That was the way it had always been. He forced his eyes away from the presents sack and rested them back on his deceased father. What did he do now? He couldn't just go back to bed. Not yet.
He was a good boy. He knew he was. So he did the right thing. He began picking up the presents and placing them in the stockings. Admittedly, about half of them were probably in the wrong stockings, but how was he supposed to know who they were for? He hadn't opened them. Yet.
After half an hour, the room was clear of mess. That being, except for the body in the middle of the floor. He still didn't know what to do with that. No matter. It would come to him. A thought struck him- what would his mother say? His parents may not have had the best relationship, but that didn't mean there wouldn't be negative consequences. Thomas needed to hide the body somewhere. Anywhere.
He grabbed his father by the legs and began dragging him along the floor. He grunted with effort, growing tired quickly under the weight of his father. He'd moved the corpse perhaps a metre or two before he collapsed to the ground, panting. Oh well. That was far enough, he decided.
Thomas felt his stomach rumble. It had been about seven hours since his last meal, so it was understandable. He absentmindedly reached over to the plate of chocolate-chip cookies and took a large bite. As he chewed, he felt his body go numb. His chewing grew slower and more laboured. Soon enough, Thomas collapsed to the floor, a half-eaten biscuit in his hand.

His sister watched from a crack behind the kitchen door. This was going perfectly.