Chapter Text
“Michael, I’m sorry,” Sandy whimpered, trying her best not to falter as she spoke, “again. Really, I am.”
“It’s fine,” Michael replied carelessly. “So you can’t come over. What’s one night, anyway?”
“One night!” Even over the buzz-infested phone line, Michael’s nonchalance was as palpable as could be, ringing all too clearly for comfort in Sandy’s head.
“This isn’t just one night!” she exclaimed. “Christmas is supposed to be fun. It’s one of the few nights a year where you’re really allowed to let loose and have a good time!”
“Sandy, for as long as I’ve known you, you’ve only ever used Christmas as an excuse to get drunk and vent to people under the mistletoe.”
“Ooh, don’t remind me,” the accused whined shamelessly, “you’re going to get me reminiscing about all of the stuff I’m not going to be able to enjoy this year!”
“You already do that exact same thing every weekend, just without the mistletoe.”
“It’s not the same! Drowning your darkest sorrows in peppermint schnapps is a lot easier than in vodka. Plus, you don’t need to brush your teeth afterwards.” Silence befell the line. Her grip tight around her phone, Sandy mulled over what she could still remember from the Christmas prior. With effort, hazy memories of drunken fun with Michael and Jeff – a night of carefree festivities with her closest friends – filled her mind, conjuring a confusing sense of melancholy in place of what should have been nostalgia, followed immediately by the only feasible response to such a betrayal: fear. What she should have had to look forward to, Sandy could now only look back on, as the present reclaimed its taut grasp on her conscious. All that remained familiar was an unwavering anticipation – now, however, fuelled by dread rather than desire.
“Sandy, listen,” Michael suddenly spoke, sounding much less patient than Sandy would have wanted. “You’re going to have a great time, I know it. When was the last time you spent Christmas with your family?”
The question only served to dig deeper into the gaping pit already present in Sandy’s stomach like a maggot into flush-red flesh, reminding her suddenly that the only sensitivity to be spared for her would come from her own sensational nerves. “I don’t know,” she answered thoughtlessly, not wanting to entertain the thought any longer than was necessary. “They haven’t invited me over in years. We really don’t–”
“See? Look at that,” a tinge of satisfaction had audibly overtaken Michael’s tone, to Sandy’s bewilderment. “They miss you! You’ll do some catching up, that’ll be nice.”
“Michael, that isn’t—”
“Alright. Sandy, I’ve got to go,” Michael’s words poured out hastily, as if he was trying to get off the line as quickly as he could. It was nearly impossible to glean whether he genuinely had somewhere else to be, or if he was simply feeling impatient; a fact Sandy found whelming her further. In response to her friend’s sudden dismissiveness, she could do no more than force a vain “wait” from her throat – wispy, pathetic, and weak in sound, not even stirring enough to stall Michael as he concluded the conversation with an artificially encouraging “have fun”.
And with that, Sandy was alone. Michael’s final words echoed in her ears as she sat upon her bed, sinking into her mattress as the weight of her qualms forced her further down. They probably miss you. You’ll do some catching up. Have fun. With a heavy sigh, she tossed her phone towards the foot of the bed, not wanting to pay any more mind to the device. Thought it pained her, Sandy couldn’t help but find herself ticked off at Michael’s carelessness; not that she could expect him to understand her feelings, but his ignorance still managed to leave her flustered. He hadn’t so much as tried to listen to her; all she could have wished for was a little bit of prodding. Maybe, she considered, she hadn’t been obvious enough in her distress. The idea brought a sense of disappointment and anger all too familiar. If I had just been clearer, she groaned internally. If I had just spoken up, I wouldn’t have to do this! All Sandy wanted to do was scream into whichever void would take her agony – a pillow; the open air; her own palms, whatever would suffice. Violently, she threw herself into her bed, her face buried within her closest and most intimately used pillow, a pillow into which she had voided her lungs many times before. The act brought little in the way of catharsis, her wailing – wild as it was – still unable to even come close to drowning out the taunting chorus Michael’s various empty promises, reverberating in each recess of Sandy’s mind. It was as if his voice had escaped her body alongside her screams, filling the room itself with its agonizing sound. “This is so stupid,” Sandy verbalised throatily. “This is so stupid!”
Like a puppet being yanked recklessly by the strings, Sandy flailed up from her bed and onto her feet, spinning on her heels and taking note of the room around her – a room she had wanted only to reflect the composure and serenity she thought she could manifest, by way of having an orderly room in the first place. Her efforts, paradoxical as they were, had seemingly failed. The walls were a quaint shade of chick yellow, thick stripes of green and pink lining them like Easterly pickets. Hanging from these walls were a plethora of framed keepsakes, be they photos, diplomas, or sentimental doodads strewn across an obscured bulletin board. There was an almost malicious quality to these decorations – reminding her of the good old days, and of how derelict she had become – that Sandy found suddenly taking over her perception, making the room feel that much smaller and less inviting. Into the mirror standing against her wall – through the layers of scarves, bags, and hats hung across its frame – she stared viscerally. Before her sulked the sorriest of displays; the personification of everything she hated. An actress who couldn’t even fake a convincing smile; an actress who had to fake a convincing smile in the first place; an actress, if only by virtue of constantly acting as if she had anything under control, who lost to her dreams and aspirations in a footrace; who had raced speedily past her prime, never acknowledging the concept until after the fact; who was only ever chill when crying in an ice-cold shower; who had a Christmas party to attend with her immediate family.
Dammit! The thought had snuck back up on Sandy without warning, plunging her from the mire of her mind into the pool of her predicament. There had to have been a reason why she was invited to this party, she puzzled. She found it safe to assume that nobody else in her family had kept track of exactly how many years it had been since they’d allowed her over for the holidays. Perhaps, that was it; perhaps the statute of limitation on silently ignoring Sandy’s existence was approaching, and having her over was the only way to extend the time they could buy without seeing her. On the other hand, there came a suddenly apparent and aggravatingly sound logic to Michael’s suggestion: maybe, all they truly wanted to do was have a good time and catch up. A Lester family Christmas would never, technically, be complete without Sandy, after all. Fickly, a feeling of warmth poured through the gaps in her balled-up guts, filling the void in her stomach with easing reassurance as she imagined spending a joyous night with her family. As fictitious as the fantasy itself, naturally, was Sandy’s reception – her family would be happy to see her; they would congratulate her on her willingness to put herself out there, and audition for absolutely anything; they would commend not what would normally be dubbed her neurotically fast-paced bullet train of thought, but her quick wit. She would, in turn, humbly accept their praise, using it to fuel her future successes. She would be taught and convinced of her worth, even if just for a night. It was a disgustingly cosy idea, and one that didn’t live very long. Just as suddenly as the comfort before it, a horrendous pain settled its way into Sandy’s system, bringing tautness to her abdomen as if someone were strangling her from the inside out. The feeling was all too familiar, and indicative of a lapse into self-loathing from which Sandy wouldn’t be escaping soon. Staring into her own eyes through her mirror, Sandy found her gaze listless and resentful. Her posture was pathetic, her shoulders keeping two limp, twiggy arms dangling at the sides of her frail, apathetically maintained frame. She was a fool, she thought, to have found any semblance of joy in the idea of visiting the people she had burdened for so many years with her meagre existence – who had always had such good reasons to hate her. She was going to ruin their Christmas, whether she wanted to or not. For whatever reason they wanted to see her, it didn't matter; her presence would be an ultimately unwanted present under her family’s roof. With the drivelling mess standing before her, its face warped and warbled by a shroud of tears, Sandy could not sympathize. There was a distance between her and that thing; one she had a desire to eliminate. She wanted to shatter her mirror – to take her own reflection up in an embrace, by the neck. What light shone from the wet eyes locked upon her, Sandy wanted desperately to snuff out. It was all she could do to retreat back to the edge of her bed, unable to bear the sight of her own misery accompanied by the unforgiving cacophony in her head.
Entirely gone were any traces of Michael’s voice. All Sandy wanted was to hear him speak again, to try and turn his stiff rationale into reality, and to try and gain some form of comfort from that reality. Of course, he wanted her to spend the evening with her family; he was probably dreading the thought of her presence as much as she herself would be. Sandy knew, if she were to invite herself to a function, she would wish upon every star she could that something would keep said function from happening. The idea made just as much sense as any of Michael’s reasoning, and ate away at Sandy just as mercilessly. The only distraction she could immediately find was her haphazardly tossed phone, right before which she found herself laying. Turning the device on its side to face her, Sandy was met by the time – not nearly enough – and a message from her mother: Try not to be too late. Back face down into her blanket went the phone, as back into her pillow, Sandy thrust her face. Conjuring some more tumultuous noise, even after her prior fit, would prove as easy as ever. The seasonal carolling of Christmas, muffled.