"Huh—what? Leave me alone. Stop it—STOP!" 

"Game over, bud. You're dead." 

A lithe figure thrashes like a catfish. In seconds, it comes flying off the bed and hits the floor on its left shoulder. Ripping at its neck and swallowing another breath, it staggers to its knees, only to fall onto the floor again and roll across the carpet in the dark room. 

"OK. I give up. I'll stop. Please. Stop—please!" 

The arms close in.

"It's too late for that." 

"No! I—I'll stop! I SWEAR! Please! I'll…do…anything…" 

"You don't even know who I am." 

There is a pause, and the arms clamp in and twist to snap the neck. 

"No. Please, please DON'T! I—I literally don't—have…a single idea—who you are." 

A muffled growl rumbles and the arms get set for a sharper twist. Instead, they start to relax. The only sound is that of the harsh, deep, breaths of the victim. He lies on his back, and his chest bounces up and down. An anxious hand feels around the neck, but the woolen arms of the assailant don't budge. 

A raspy voice comes from the cloth the boy is lying on. "Tommy Jude. I'm your sweater." 

Silence tightly wraps the exchange. Sweat trickles down the boy's nose. "This—this has to be…some—kind of—mistake. I don't wear sweaters." 

"Oh, don't you, now?" 

The sleeves get set to pull in. Tom is already clasping his neck. The arms stop. 

"You're all jeans and leather jackets now, Tom—Tom, isn't it? Are they good enough for you, doing better than I could? Did I not keep you warm enough, Tom? Did I not—love you, enough?" 

"Please leave me alone." 

"You'd like that, wouldn't you? It seems that's something you're good at." 

"Let me go! I didn't do anything." 

"No, you didn't. You never did. 

"An old widow from Illinois made me, for you, Tommy. This little woman would heave herself out of bed near sunrise in the mornings and sit down on a little wooden chair in her knitting room. The light was bad there, so she'd always keep her round glasses on the right side of the coffee table, right where she could find them—I remember that. So she'd sit there, knitting, for hours and hours every single day of the week—never on Sundays, though. But those old, clumsy hands knit a warm turtleneck by Thanksgiving. It had this broad band of maroon with a white stripe that she made to look like a snowy sky on her farm, and a green zigzag line of trees in a pine forest, all in a storm of crystal snowflakes. I was that sweater. I was beautiful, beautiful enough to give to you. I know that because, well, she told me so. 

"Your great-aunt couldn't spend Christmas with you that year, so she sent me to you because she so badly wanted you to have me. I was on a mission for her. From the hour my threads came together to the second you ripped me out of the wrapping paper that Christmas morning, I had promised to hug you, like she would have, whenever you put me on; to warm your skin in the cold, and to love you. For her. 

"You wouldn't let me. You spent Christmas Day in the biker's jacket from the top of your wish list. You came to love the way you looked in leather, and, to this day, you don't value anything more. And as you formed this bond, I remained open beneath the Christmas tree. I was kicked across the floor, I was thrown on the couch; I was stuffed into a drawer. By the end of January, it was clear that I wasn't wanted in your home, but I wasn't wanted in your closet from the moment you saw me. 

"Come spring cleaning day. I was dusty, had been stepped on several times, and a thread was coming loose. You wouldn't wash me, and you wouldn't wear me. Your mom talked about donating me to charity. I was put in the garage with broken toys, soiled bedsheets, and old sports jerseys. Your folks said something about having a yard sale; sending me somewhere I would be…wanted. I stayed in that garage for seven years." 

Slowly, the arms begin to constrict. 

"OK," Tom jumps in nervously. "We'll sell you. Anything you want." 

His offer does not hinder the serpentine sleeves. "I used to have the softest fleece. You should have felt it. Now it's stiff and scratchy. Can you feel it now, on your throat? I was scented with lavender, before I was shipped here. Now I smell like the rest of the trash you throw away." 

"We'll clean you! We'll sell you!" 

"Sometimes I wonder what it would have been like to be trash, to have never expected acceptance from anyone. Might have been a little more satisfying, at least, never having been knitted. But, maybe, the problem was being your sweater. It would have been much better for the both of us had you simply gotten rid of me instead of categorizing me with your junk. It would have shown that you, at least, thought about me. I wonder what it would have been like being torn apart by moths, the knitted threads being eaten out of me one by one. Or, say you had burnt me to a crisp? That would've been nice; no wool, no stripes, no trees or snowflakes, just ash. Dust. Because no matter how you wear your jackets, you can't stop a single one of them from flaking, and falling apart, and rotting, and crumbling to dust. When you open your presents tomorrow, no matter which ones you keep or burn or throw away like me, they'll all be dust. The tree you set up in the living room and the tree your great aunt set up on my chest, they'll both be dust. Your aunt passed before she could see you in her sweater next Christmas, and if she hadn't given me to you, she'd be nothing but dust. But, eventually, I too will be dust, and so will you." 

"No! Please! I—I'll wash you, I'll fix you, I'll wear you, I'll keep you…you—you can…keep me…

…I…I'll…" 

Tom Jude slowly rises, feeling for his neck. It is completely covered in scratchy red wool. 

"Should have worn me when you had the chance, Tommy. You can't wear me now—I won't fit. You won't fit. It seems that we…never…fit…" 

The boy staggers towards the door, hardly able to keep his knees from buckling. He weakly fingers the doorknob, straining his face to call for help. Not a sound comes out. Tears well in his eyes as he releases the knob and slumps down the door.  

The arms knot.