I stopped believing in Santa Claus the year I saw him having sex with my mum in the living room. She was on all fours, head bowed, groaning. Santa kept leaning forward, his beard brushing against her naked back. I thought it would tickle and wondered why she didn’t laugh.
His red trousers were at his ankles and all mum’s clothes were scattered on the floor; her bra was draped over my sister’s Barbie doll which leant against the couch. My presents were stacked on one of the armchairs, lots of things I’d asked for and some others I hadn’t.
Santa’s head bobbed about so much his red hat with the white pom-pom was threatening to fall off. He had to fix it with one hand while the other gripped mum’s hip. The whisky glass on the table was empty and the carrot half-eaten. The milk hadn’t been touched.
I stood at the door for a minute then tiptoed back to my room, burying my head under the pillow and trying to block out the noises from my mind.
I never told anyone what I’d seen, not even my dad when he came home on leave two weeks later. I guessed that, even if I had tried to explain, he wouldn’t have believed in Santa Claus either.
This story was first published in Flash Fiction magazine (October 2008).
You can email me at author@paulcuddihy.com or tweet me @PaulTheHunted
