Seriously.
In the words of one of my favorite classic films: my work drama bullshit has a body count. As though some higher power had decided to make them pay for what they did to me, one by one, they’ve all fallen over the last year.
Evan was first. The man who dared to look me in the eye after the holiday party and say, “I don’t want to be involved,” when I accused him of watching as Dean and Grant double-teamed me was killed in a car crash on the way to last year’s Christmas party.
It was an accident, they said, and if I didn’t obsessively check in on the five, I don’t know if I would’veeven seen a report of his death. The road was slick, it had been icy, and he careened into a tree, the impact killing him instantly.
Grant was dead by January. Alcohol poisoning during a New Year’s Eve party which, considering he was the one who slipped the date rape drug into my cocktail before handing it off to Dean to give it to Charles to pass on to me… yeah, that was pretty fitting.
Another accident… or so I believed until today. Now? I’m not so sure.
There were more. Back in April, when Dean was found hanging in his office, I wondered if maybe the guilt had finally gotten to him. Evergreen & Co. thought it was the pressure of his promotion—according to Sandra, who I had kept in touch with by text—and sent his widow a fruit basket before having his position filled later that same week.
Either way, he was gone, and I was glad.
But then Marcus died in a freak accident at a corporate bonding retreat. I still don’t know the details, but it was bloody, and Sandra put in her notice that week after being on scene when the team found his body.
And then there was one…
Of the five, I hated Charles Dutton the most. He was the one who started groping me before I had any idea what was going on, and who had me beneath himbefore the sedative fully took effect. He was the one who saw me shake my head, heard me cry out ‘no’, and who took what he wanted anyway before passing me off to his underlings.
That was two years ago. Now it’s the 22nd of December again, and I can’t believe what notification just came through on my phone.
Because this Christmas? The last of them is dead—and, I swear to God, there’s no way it can be an accident. Still, I stare at my phone screen, the news article blurred from the way my eyes refuse to focus.
Local Executive Dies After Apparent Accidental Poisoning.
Accidental.
Right.
I… I didn’t want this. That’s what I tell myself as I notice the detail that he’d been at the holiday party for his company when he accepted a festive cocktail and, moments later, was found dead on the floor. He was poisoned, and he died, and a part of me has to ask: was it a cranberry-flavored drink spiked with something toxic that he was enjoying before he did?
Five men are dead. The same five men who I typed up on my Christmas list last year aregone, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t find some sort of validation in being the last one standing.
Only… I didn’t want them to die. To get what they deserved, yes, and revenge for what they did to me, but for them to drop one by one like that… I just wanted the world to stop rewarding them while I was left choking on memories and shame and the taste of cranberry I can never quite wash out of my mouth.
And yet, when I think about Charles Dutton choking on it himself before he stopped breathing at all… he was the first name on my list. The one who had his fingers slipping under the skirt of my dress while I stood there in the corner, frozen.
The one who smiled when I told him ‘no’.
The one who said,Come on, gorgeous, it’s Christmas.
He’s dead, and I’m happy he is, and as I lower the phone from my face, all I can think is that it might’ve taken Santa a year, but I got everything I put on last year’s wish list.
Do I write another one? Hell, no. In fact, for the first time since my therapist suggested that I start a digital journal for my eyes only to help me work through the trauma of that night, I don’t even write an entry. I just set my phone next to me on my bed and allow myself a moment to imagine Charles Dutton’s blue eyes bulging out of his handsome and moneyed face before he crumpled on the floor. I smile—I can’t help it—and then I get up and start packing.
This trip was scheduledbefore the Google alert I had set for Charles Dutton’s name came through. It’s even more important that I leave now. Coincidence or not, the five men I wished vengeance on are dead. The night of the holiday party still haunts me two years later, but the ghosts of the five dead men won’t be able to find me if I flee from Springfield the same way I did last Christmas.
It was another suggestion from my online therapist. I have too many bad memories surrounding my home during the holidays. It was even worse when my parents could tell something was wrong, though I refused to let them know what happened to their baby girl. Last year was worse. I all but shut down until Dr. Preston mentioned that I didn’t have to be home for Christmas.
He was right. And though my parents weren’t happy that I decided to go on vacation for the holidays, it gave them the opportunity to do what they’ve always wanted: take a cruise from Christmas through New Year’s.
They enjoyed it so much, they’re doing it again this year. Me? I booked a week’s stay at the same chalet I blew my entire holiday budget on last year. It’s secluded yet cozy, set about a ten-minute drive away from a local ski resort; spread out on the mountain, the individual chalets are close enough to the ski village to justify their existence while also being far enoughaway to sense the isolation as snow falls around the chalet. I can spend as much time alone inside as I want in front of a roaring fire, and if I want to chat or be active, I can head to the lodge or one of the nearby restaurants so long as the weather holds. If not, part of the price is that it should be fully stocked with essentials—food, bedding, treats—and I can bring anything else I need.
I was all set to head out when that Google alert came in. The last thing I needed to do was pack enough clothes for the week and I was ready to go, and though I got a late start because I was still stunned over the unexpected announcement of Charles Dutton’s accidental poisoning, I stopped at the liquor store to pick up a celebratory bottle of champagne to sip by the fireside once I made it to the chalet this afternoon.
Ding, dong, my rapist is dead. How’s that for a Christmas wish?
