A Merry Minion Christmas, entry 1

Written for the “A Merry Minion Christmas” collection.

“On December 25”
Eric Martell
eBook Yes
Dedicated to the randomness of fate

The angel laughed, dark and thundery. “No one cares about Christmas anymore. The world has moved on.”

Just after nine thirty on the evening of December 25, 2013, Robert Anderson was born in the emergency room of Good Shepherd Hospital. His mother, a nineteen year old high school dropout, didn’t know the father’s name and didn’t even remember the night she became pregnant. Little Robert was wheeled to the NICU, born six weeks early and HIV-positive.

Just after nine thirty on the evening of December 25, 2013, Robert Anderson was born in the back of a taxi on northbound 7th Avenue, three blocks south of Governor’s Women’s Hospital. The driver of the taxi had cracked his head open on the dashboard when he’d rear-ended a swerving truck with a missing brake light, and he bled out his last when little Robert breathed his first. Robert’s father, a partner in a law firm, managed to complete the delivery before passing out from the sight of blood.

Just after nine thirty on the evening of December 25, 2013, Robert Anderson was born in a birthing suite in the Labor and Delivery center at Clayton County Hospital. His mother stayed conscious throughout the delivery, as did his father, a teacher at the high school, who cut the cord and held little Robert while he screamed out at the bright, cold world for the first time.

On December 25, 2014, Robert Anderson died. He’d never had much of a chance, coming into the world the way he did, and had been in and out of the hospital since the day of his birth. He expired in the arms of a nurse, for neither his mother nor father had come to see him since his last surgery on the 19th.

On December 25, 2018, Robert Anderson died. He was a bright and well-adjusted kindergartner, on vacation with his parents at Disney World. Returning to the hotel after a long day of fun, Robert was crushed when the sensor on the door of the monorail malfunctioned, catching his neck in between the doors and not letting go.

On December 25, 2028, Robert Anderson died. He was running over to his girlfriend’s house to give her the necklace he’d purchased for her – the first jewelry he’d ever bought for a girl. His mom had told him that if he waited until after lunch, she’d drive him, but love knows no patience. He slipped on a patch of ice at the bend on Lake Point Road and skidded in front of a car driven by a frustrated and lonely woman on her way home from church. Her eyes were filled with tears, and she didn’t even stop after knocking him into the ditch.

On December 25, 2033, Robert Anderson died. He had taken point as his squad walked up the road from Damascus. The road had been swept for IEDs, but not well, and as he scanned the ridge over the northwestern horizon for snipers, Robert stepped on a plate which set off a chemical spray aimed at his boots. The acid ate through the leather, and then his socks, and then into his flesh.

On December 25, 2043, Robert Anderson died. His trachea had not developed properly, and a bite of his grandmother’s amazingly dense fruitcake caught in his throat. His wife of six months tried to perform the Heimlich Maneuver, and then CPR, but he died as she was compressing his chest.

On December 25, 2073, Robert Anderson died. He had snuck into his daughter’s house, dressed as Santa Claus, to surprise his four year old granddaughter with a dollhouse. He accidentally shredded the covering on one of the strands of lights on the tree and his polyester coat caught fire. The smoke alarms alerted everyone else in the house, and he was the only fatality.

On December 25, 2113, Robert Anderson died. His heart, weakened since birth, finally gave out. The next day, researchers at Johns Hopkins announced the discovery of a drug which rebuilt the cells of an aged cardiac muscle. His bed was surrounded by his wife of seventy four years, his five children, 13 grandchildren, and 8 great grandchildren, three of whom were named Robert.

On December 25, 3013, Robert Anderson died. He had been among the first recipients of full-body revitalizing medications, and he looked much the same as he had when he was twenty five. His body was still hale and hearty, but his mind had started to fray after he stopped sleeping two years previously. He jumped into Boston Harbor and kept swimming east until he was too far from land to return.

On December 25, 1, Robert Anderson became the first citizen of the new world, struggling to take shape after the Great War. To celebrate the day, he and his fellow citizens exchanged gifts, gathering under the North Star on the coldest day of the year, and shared warmth and community.

The angel cried, tears coming unbidden to lidless eyes, and knelt down in the snow to ask for absolution.

844 words


3 Responses to “A Merry Minion Christmas, entry 1”

  1. That was an emotional journey; I guess one thing is for sure when it comes to fate . . . .you die at some point.

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