Full Body Chills - The Most Wonderful Time of The Year

Episode Date: December 19, 2022

A story of presents and family and endless Christmas cheer.The Most Wonderful Time of The YearWritten by Ashley FlowersYou can read the original story and view the episode art at fullbodychillspodcast.com. Looking for more chills? Follow Full Body Chills on Instagram @fullbodychillspod. Full Body Chills is an audiochuck production. Instagram: @audiochuckTwitter: @audiochuckFacebook: /audiochuckllcTikTok: @audiochuck

This episode was produced with audio effects in full surround sound. For the best experience, we kindly recommend you listen with headphones. Hi listeners, I'm Anthony Coons and I have a story I want to tell you. A story of presents and family and endless Christmas cheer. So, gather around and listen. Close. Close. Come on. come on get up we gotta go upstairs let's get this over with tim is young enough that this still

excites him especially the presence i don't even care about that part anymore. I hate this whole day. I hate eating the same pancakes. I hate the snowy landscape out the window. And I don't even want to see another stitch of wrapping paper. And that song, I swear to God. Ho, ho, ho. Merry Christmas, young tots. Have you been good boys this year? Mm-hmm.

Oh, come on. Where's your Christmas cheer? You know what happens to naughty kids. Mm-hmm. I quickly plaster a smile on my face, but it's as fake as the tree. I think he can tell it's fake, too. As long as he backs off, I don't care. Fuck this day, fuck the tree, and fuck that stupid Santa costume. That's more like it. Just because you're a teenager now doesn't mean you're too big for Christmas. Isn't that right, Ma? Ma nods vigorously, humming along to the music as she pours batter into the piping hot pan. Tim bounces over to the table and plops down into his chair. I can tell he's hungry.

He's staring over at Ma, waiting for that moment when she plops a fluffy pancake down on his plate and lathers it with butter, syrup, whipped cream, and fruit. He'll come to hate this meal, too. I sit down next to him just as Ma sets the first pancake in front of him. He looks to me for approval before he digs in, though. I know he wants me to like him. He looks up to me and wants to be on my side. And I'm not going to stand in the way of a kid and his food, so I nod towards his plate. The kid dives in, shoveling food into his mouth faster than he can actually chew,

just as my own pancake is dropped in front of me. I watch him intently as I slowly place a small cut up bite into my own mouth. Maybe I should encourage him more to like all this. He sees how much I hate it and I know it's rubbing off on him. Maybe he can have an easier time if he just embraces all that this is supposed to be. Not just this day, but this house and this, uh, family. Just beyond Tim is the kitchen, and I find my gaze shifting toward the window above the sink. I don't want to look. I don't want to see the big billowing trees covered in white and hill after hill dusted with snow. They're the kind that call young children to sled down and build snowmen at their bases. I hate it, but I look anyways like my body

can't help but go through the motions. I think most people would love to wake up to a scene like that. It's what I imagine Bing Crosby and his buddies were singing about on the train to Vermont. Snow, snow, snow. I want to tear at the curtains and smash the glass. I can feel the anger bubbling up inside me. It's warm and pulsating, deep in my chest and behind my eyes. I pull my attention from the window and stare back down at my plate, watching the syrup move and create small pools that I drag around with my fork. Hurry up, boys. Two more bites. We have presents waiting.

Tim's already done. His chair scrapes against the floor as he bounds into the living room to wait in front of the tree. I choke down one more bite, then another. The bland, tasteless cake feels dry against my throat, so I take a sip of water to coax it down and slowly make my way into the living room and sit down next to Tim. There are stacks of shiny red, green, and silver boxes beneath the artificial tree. But we won't get to unwrap them yet. Not before. Okay, family.

Gather round so I can tell you the real story of Christmas. That thing that was bubbling up inside me is screaming now. But it doesn't feel like it used to. It used to be this white-hot rage that fought for control, wanting to be unleashed so it could pull down the tree and shatter the ornaments, burn the presents in the fireplace. But with every scream, I think it dies a little. I die a little. I feel so disconnected from it all. Like I'm here, but I'm not here. My body's here, going through the same practice motions.

I'll open up the football that I'll never toss around. The gaming system that's wildly out of date. The movie that I never asked for. All in that order. I'll say, thank you, after each one, and Ma will make us big bowls of popcorn to munch on while we watch a stupid fucking Christmas movie. But in my head, I'm anywhere but here. Some days I imagine a blank nothingness that feels better than this. But today, I imagine outside. If I'm right, it's June. It's probably sunny and warm and green.

So green. Not wrapping paper green, just fresh grass green. I imagine my old bike with my bare feet on the bumpy plastic pedals. Wind. It's a stupid thing to spend so much time thinking about. I imagine my old bike with my bare feet on the bumpy plastic pedals. Wind? It's a stupid thing to spend so much time thinking about. But I think about wind. I don't get any wind here. It feels hard to breathe.

The air is heavy and stale and old. How long have I been breathing this same air? The answer causes a lump in my throat and a stinging at the corner of my eyes because the truth is, I don't know anymore. The sound of something crashing breaks me out of my daze. The end credits from the movie are scrolling on the TV and Tim's on the floor clutching one of his presents, a teddy bear, that Pa's trying to take away from him. There's an overturned bowl of popcorn next to him, and he's got these big tears ready to spill down his cheeks, and the look on Pa's face. Shit. Hey, buddy, how about we put the bear down and go take a nap, okay? It'll be here when you wake up.

Tim looks over at me, but his grip on the bear doesn't let up. Ma and Pa are both watching me now, too. I feel their stares burning into me as I make my way over to the kid and crouch down next to him. His lower lip is wobbling, and he hugs the bear tighter as I reach out and grab its fluffy foot. Come on, you want to go downstairs with me? We can hang out for a bit, just you and me. What do you say? He stares at me for another second before he nods, his grip on the bear loosening enough so I can tug it out of his arms and place it gently next to the other presents, all stacked neatly next to the tree so they can be re-wrapped tonight.

I reach out to take Tim's hand but he wraps his arms around my neck and buries his face in my shoulder. He's small enough so I pick him up and head towards the open door to the basement. Ma and Pa are both staring at me but I avoid their gazes as I carefully descend the creaky old steps. The door slams behind us and I hear the deadbolt fall into place. It's familiar enough to me now that it barely even registers, but it's enough to set Tim off and he breaks out into loud, heaving sobs. I sit down in my bed and I let Tim cry himself to sleep,

gently stroking his hair and trying to soothe him as much as I can. Eventually he stops crying, and I make sure he's fast asleep before I carefully lay him on his own bed. I stare across the small, empty room at the third bed, nearly vacant as of last week, and I take a few deep breaths. After that stunt I just pulled, my bed might be open soon too. I'll add another tick mark to the floor beneath my bed, but I don't know if it's even right.

Could I really have been here for 429 days? Or have we just played Christmas morning 429 times? Sometimes I think they leave us down here for longer than a day, but I don't know how long. Maybe it's not June. Maybe it really is the most wonderful time of the year. Full Body Chills is an AudioChuck production. This episode was written by Ashley Flowers and read by Anthony Koons. This story was modified slightly for audio retelling,

but you can find the original in full on our website. So, what do you think, Chuck? Do you approve?