Felony in a Santa Suit | Brick of Fiction

Flash Fiction Story | What a parent wouldn't do for his kids on Christmas?

Photo by freestocks on Unsplash

Welcome to the first of three Christmas tales I’ve cooked up for the Christmas season! It’s a slightly edited tale that I shared for last Christmas. I really like this story, and it was the first one that gained me any traction on Substack! I hope you enjoy it.

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The Felony in a Santa Suit

When the first snowflakes fall, and the colorful lights come on, when the world calms down for a couple of weeks, and the magic happens, that’s the time of the year when a parent would do anything to see the sparks in their kids’ eyes.

At least, that’s what I told myself as I slid down a chimney of a villa in the hills dressed as Santa Claus. Of course, there were ethical questions whirling in there, too. Like, stealing from the rich to give to my poor kids is not that bad, right?

These streets were lined with money. Surely, nobody cares if a gift or two gets lost from under a tree. These people don’t even buy the gifts themselves, so they won’t notice. And the spoiled kids have more than enough; one or two fewer gifts won’t hurt them—unlike my children.

We were dirt poor, and I just didn’t have it in me to tell them that Santa had forgotten about us again. How could I explain to them that Santa visited all their friends and passed our house? It was impossible enough to explain why Santa makes sure that the value of gifts the kid gets is linked directly to their parents’ income.

I couldn’t let them down again.

So I slid the last couple of inches into the cold fireplace. A living room— bigger than our whole house—presented itself. I froze, my jaw dropping to my knees. My broke mind tried to understand the luxury around me. Countertops made of marble, furniture of expensive dark wood, and exquisite, almost mirror-like floors. I inhaled the air even that smelled like money. So spicy, with no mold odor hidden underneath the powerful yet balanced fragrances.

My steps echoed in the complete silence—I guess I should’ve brought better shoes. Everything my eyes laid on was more expensive than my existence, and the tree put a finishing touch on an already painful reality check.

Solid eight feet of blue spruce with tons of gold and white decorations, soft silver lights, and fake snow everywhere around the tree. Underneath were boxes—so many that the wrapping paper was leagues above my paycheck.

I’ve never seen so much stuff under a Christmas tree before. It was like those fake gifts you see at the malls. Most of them were massive, there was no way I can fit more than two in the sack I brought with me. I looked back at the chimney, wondering: how the hell am I going them back up? I had a rope to climb on, but…

“Santa?” a soft voice broke the silence around me.

My heart sank in my chest. I turned wide-eyed. My red hat almost fell off. A boy was standing behind me, about eight years old—just like my son. He was just standing there, clutching a Snorlax plushie from Pokémon.

“Oh shit!” I mumbled, “Hey, kid! What are you doing here?”

The house should’ve been empty. The people from the house left this morning for some kind of a trip. Surely, they would bring their kid with them, right? Right? The boy tilted his head and shuffled his tiny feet to the sofa, where he sat down, hugging his plushie. “I heard a noise; I thought it might be you, Santa…”

“Oh… Okay… You- Well, it’s me, yes. But you should be in bed! Seeing me is bad luck!” that was the lamest sentence I’ve ever said, but it was far better than telling him I was there to steal his toys.

The kid just shrugged his shoulders. “I’m sorry. I just wanted to ask you something,” he waddled his feet, not looking at me, clearly more interested in the candy socks on his tiny feet.

“What did you want to ask me?” I asked carefully. It seemed like nobody else was coming, so I pulled up a heavy chair from the dining table , which was probably more expensive than all my furniture.

“If-if you could, maybe, bring my parents home for Christmas Morning.” he sobbed a little, squishing the tiny Snorlax in his hands. Still avoiding my eyes.

My throat closed up. “Wh-where are they?”

“They went away. They often do,” his watery eyes slid over the gigantic fireplace. There were a ton of pictures of mountains, beaches, and different cities.

The boy was in none of them.

I gulped, feeling a sudden pressure on my chest. “So you are alone in here?”

He nodded.

“All alone? Nobody is taking care of you?”

“Miss Gretski comes in the morning. She takes care of me when Papa and Mama are away,” he sobbed, “she is a nice lady, I like her.”

Who leaves an eight-year-old alone at a gigantic home like this? I didn’t know what to do. How could I tell him that I’m not actually Santa Claus and I can’t make his wish come true?

Panicking, I gestured to the mountain of presents. “Look, I brought you a ton of presents! You were such a good boy!” I said, trying to cheer him up.

He didn’t even look at them. “That’s nice, I guess.”

“Aren’t you happy? You will get to play with so many new toys!”

“But I will play alone.”

Those words hit me like a hammer. What was I even doing here? Did I really think I could pull off some Christmas heist? I got caught immediately.

The kid didn’t call the cops, but still, if I got caught, my kids would never get the Christmas morning they deserved—toys or no toys. Without me, they would end up all alone—just like this poor guy, with everything at his fingertips, and yet he misses the most important part of Christmas.

“That sucks, my dude.” I patted his shoulder, my beard sliding down a bit.

“You are not real Santa, are you?” He didn’t seem surprised, just resigned.

“No, I’m not. I-I’m actually no saint at all. I’m a terrible person.”

“Why?”

I smiled. “Because I’m here instead of being at home with my kids. They are about your age, you see.”

The kid nodded, clearly not understanding a thing.

“You seem nice to me,” he said after a while. Then jumped from the sofa and went under the Christmas tree. He grabbed one of the giant packages with both hands, struggling to lift it up. “Here. Take this.”

I took the package, it made clicking sounds and wasn’t as heavy as it looked in his hands. Lego perhaps.

“Oh… thank you. Why are you giving this to me?”

He spread his arms in a clear sign of not knowing. “I think you need it more than me,” he said with the child’s honesty.

I took the present and held it tight. Whatever it was, it would probably make my kids happier than anything. Yet I knew I couldn’t take it—not like this. “Thank you,” I said and set it aside, “but I can’t accept such a generous gift. You should keep it.”

His brows came together, twisting his chubby face into a frowning grimace. “I insist!” he said, pushing it towards me, the commanding voice clearly caught from his parents.

I burst out laughing. He probably didn’t know why, but it was contagious enough that he began to laugh as well.

“What are we laughing about?” I asked, catching my breath.

“I don’t know. You laughed first!”

“Yeah, I guess I did… You sure I can take this?”

He nodded and pushed the present closer.

“Okay! Okay!” I raised my arms. “If you insist, little sir!”

“I insist!” He said again, the commanding voice lingering at the edges of his soft, childish blabbering.

“Okay,” I smiled at him and pinched his nose. “Listen, kid. I gotta go. Thank you, I will never forget this. But please never tell anyone that I was here. It will be a little Christmas secret, okay?”

“I won’t. Promise!” he said and raised his pinky.

My smile widened as I locked my pinky with his. “Promise,” we whispered simultaneously.

I was just about to leave when he gestured for me to wait and shuffled away to the other room. I heard a clatter of plates, and in a minute, he was back with a plate of cookies and a glass of milk.

“Santa always eats and drinks this before he leaves, right?”

“You are a good kid,” I said, running a hand through his messy hair.

The cookies were delicious, and the milk helped them get down my throat.

I left the house through the front door. The kid was waving at me as I walked away, carrying a giant present and a head full of thoughts.

Apparently, not every parent would do everything for their kids. I would, but I should’ve thought twice about whether it was worth it. Nothing is worth more than the time spent with your family.

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