We were four friends—Rita, Chinny, Aisha and me. And we all hated Christmas. Although we were all eleven, we never liked going to the church’s Christmas party where our source of terror usually masked himself with a flowing white beard, red clothes, black boots and a fake paunch.
Okay, truth be told, there was a time we all loved going for the Christmas party; that was before he gave us the finger—literally. I was sitting on his laps, happily anticipating a gift from Father Christmas. But what I noticed was his large, calloused hand snaking up my bum and tugging at my cotton panties. At first, I didn’t understand what he was doing; I’d remarked rather offhandedly that his hand was tickling my bum. He laughed and carried me, and in the perfect Santa tone, asked me if I would like to join him in bringing more sweets as the ones he had had finished. I nodded and he took me to the backroom; there, he sat me on his laps, removed my pant, and slotted his huge finger into me.
The sharp punch of the pain I felt in my abdomen was equal to the shock of seeing him flip out his fat member and rubbing his other hand along his length as he groaned.
“Your hand is painful,” I’d complained, somehow vaguely aware that what was happening was no sweet-producing affair.
“Shhh… it’s okay, sweetie. Don’t worry, I’ll give you the biggest sweets,” he replied as a thick, slimy liquid splashed on my hands. I looked down and saw his member coated with the icky substance.
Few minutes later, he carried me out, with a bag of presents in his hand. I did not mention the incident to anyone as he had said that the secret of getting sweets should not be told to anyone.
It was Rita who had remarked one time that she hated the Father Christmas. We asked her why and she said that he molested her. I was shocked because I knew immediately that that was what he did to me was called (I’d been reading a lot of novels of late, as I tried to rationalize why after I turned eight, he never took me to get more sweets).
As it turned out, all four of us had the same experience, and that was what bonded us. But it was Chinny who suggested that we give him a present—a fitting one. She told us what she had in mind and we all agreed and waited for the next Christmas party.
That came soon enough. We were twelve-year-olds, on the cusp of our teenage years and as we stepped into the party hall, I saw him with another young girl on his laps. Before that moment, I’d tried hard not to let my hatred for him show, but seeing him carry the girl down to the backroom made my blood to boil.
Aisha gave the signal and we all headed to the backroom, making sure that he didn’t see us. Inside, I heard him coaxing the girl into sitting on his laps. I ran out of our hiding place and he was startled.
“Wh–what are you doing here?” he barked, trying to zip up his trouser.
At that instant, Rita stepped out, followed by the rest. “Merry Christmas, Father Christmas,” Aisha said, “we brought some presents for you.”
“What… presents?” he asked. He had managed to zip his fly halfway.
We stepped closer to him, our steps perfectly timed with one another. We looked at each other, wondering who would be the first to have a go at him. As we looked at each other, I saw the hesitation and doubt in their eyes, and I knew that it was a mirror of what was in mine. So I chose to go first.
He certainly did not see me bring it out, did not see the flash of movement as I drove the knife into his right thigh. He yelped in pain and it was then that the others joined me. We drove our knives into the different parts of his body, taking care not to stab his heart. We wanted him to feel the pain of Christmas too. He fell to the ground and was shouting and writhing in pain.
Chinny then ran out and called some people to see what had become of their Father Christmas, as we planned. When they came, we told them everything—how he took us to get sweets and finally how we decided to return the favour and bring presents for Father Christmas.