All Nonfiction Bullying Books Academic Author Interviews Celebrity interviews College Articles College Essays Educator of the Year Heroes Interviews Memoir Personal Experience Sports Travel & CultureAll Opinions Bullying Current Events / Politics Discrimination Drugs / Alcohol / Smoking Entertainment / Celebrities Environment Love / Relationships Movies / Music / TV Pop Culture / Trends School / College Social Issues / Civics Spirituality / Religion Sports / Hobbies
- Summer Guide
- College Guide
- Author Interviews
- Celebrity interviews
- College Articles
- College Essays
- Educator of the Year
- Personal Experience
- Travel & Culture
- Current Events / Politics
- Drugs / Alcohol / Smoking
- Entertainment / Celebrities
- Love / Relationships
- Movies / Music / TV
- Pop Culture / Trends
- School / College
- Social Issues / Civics
- Spirituality / Religion
- Sports / Hobbies
- Community Service
- Letters to the Editor
- Pride & Prejudice
- What Matters
Dale Stain hated Christmas. He hated the holidays and he hated the snow. But, the one thing he hated the most about Christmas was what it stood for. It wasn’t that he didn’t know God existed, he just didn’t like Him.
Dale was a killer. It was his first victim that made him who he was, a monster. Dale’s family was a small one. He had a wife named Sherry and a five year old son named Timothy. Timothy was a lovely little boy.
Dale drove down the snowy road toward his home. He saw Christmas everywhere. Yuck. It was December 15th, ten days until Christmas. A small picture of his wife and son hung on the mirror. He looked at it and remembered who he really was. It was eighteen years ago, he was twelve. A memory flashed through his mind.
18 Years Ago
“Dale!” His mother yelled.
“Crap,” he muttered under his breath as he rolled slowly from his warm bed.
“Come help me decorate the Christmas Tree!”
“No!” yelled Dale.
His mother entered the room and pushed her dirty blonde hair from in front of her eyes.
“What?” She questioned.
“I said no. I’m going to hang out with Timmy.”
His Mother didn’t do anything. She knew she couldn’t. Dale did what he wanted. He exited his house and ran next door to his nine year old friend, Timmy’s house. Dale loved hanging out with Timmy, but Timmy got on his nerves quite a bit.
“Hey Dale,” Timmy’s soft, timid voice squeaked.
“Sure! Snowball fight?” Timmy suggested.
“Yeah!” Dale answered.
The two young boys went into the snow covered yard and went to opposite sides. They each then built a fort and made snowballs. However, a couple of Dale’s snowballs had rocks in them. He didn’t realize it.
When Dale threw the first snowball, it struck Timmy in the face, causing him to stumble.
“Ow!” Timmy yelled.
Dale quickly noticed a thin trail of blood slinking down Timmy’s face into the crystal white snow.
“I don’t want to play anymore.” Timmy said, but Dale threw another one, which hit Timmy in the face again. This time, Timmy fell to the ground, unconscious.
“Get up you sissy!” Dale yelled.
When Timmy didn’t move, Dale made his way over to his body. He noticed two rocks lying next to Timmy. Crap. Timmy was just lying there, lifeless. It was in that moment that Dale realized what he had to do. He had to put Timmy out of his misery.
A large rock lay nearby and Dale struggled to pick it up. Eventually, he lifted it high enough and let it go above Timmy’s head. It landed with a “crunch” and Dale smiled. Thick, red blood seeped from Timmy’s smashed head. Dale smiled again, bigger this time. He chuckled, the red color in the snow looked like a cherry slushy.
Dale got back to his senses as he pulled into his snow filled driveway. He stepped out of his car and shivered as a small amount of snow made its way into his boot. Great. As he made his way up the slippery stone steps, he tore down a red and green banner that hung tightly to the railing. He hated decorations.
“How was your day, honey?” Sherry asked him as he shut the front door.
“Awful,” I hate the holidays, you know that.”
“Yes dear, I know. But, with it being your son’s fifth Christmas and all, I just wish you could be there for him.”
Timothy. His son’s name was Timothy. Why did he and his wife name him that anyway? Dale hated that name so, so much.
“I don’t need to be.” Dale stared at his wife angrily.
Dale watched his son play with a rolled up piece of paper. A snowball. It reminded Dale of how he had killed Timmy when he was twelve. Dale grabbed the paper from Timothy and threw it away.
“Don’t” Dale began, “You can’t ask me to be happy. I hate everything about Christmas.”
“No!” Dale yelled to his wife, and the =n he shuffled angrily to his room. Why was he being like this? Why did he hate Christmas so much?
18 Years Ago
Dale stood blankly at the bloodied snow and chuckled again. Timmy no longer looked like himself anymore. Dale began to think. Why did he just end Timmy? He had killed him.
Quit asking questions Dale. You killed him, now don’t dwell on it. No one will know. You could kill again, Dale.
Dale returned to the warmth of his house and he went down to his basement bedroom. Power coursed through his veins, the power to kill. Dale pulled a pool ball out of a drawer next to his bed. He thought of a rock. His weapon of choice, although he didn’t know his next victim would be someone he loved and hated equally.
That must have been why he hated the holidays. He hated remembering the killing of Timmy. He wanted to forget. He wanted to get rid of the memory. It was horrible. Having to remember that. That red snow and Timmy’s mangled face. He could still recall that memory. Dale shivered. Who would be his next victim?
Dale exited his room and walked downstairs to find his wife crying.
“Yes Dale?” she replied, drying her tears. Was it her?
“He is in his room crying about how he is going to have a bad Christmas.”
“I won’t let that happen.” Dale promised his wife and he went to see his son.
“Timothy, how would you like to go play in the snow?” Dale asked his son. Timothy’s eyes lit up. They both went out into the snow.
As they threw snow at each other, Dale remembered how he had killed Timmy all those years ago. Dale wondered. He knelt down and picked up a rock…