Cion Choi
If it wasn’ t Christmas
Cion Choi
The lamp shivers.
Dim light from a small antique lamp dances from side to side, shimmying with the swirling wind from a crack on the window. Grey, white, and black. I am dumb. The cement scorches my feet; they hurt. Air feels heavy. My legs untangle, and blood rushes to my toes— a tingling sensation as my senses come alive. My head feels turgid and dense, as if brain is bloating out of my skull, and it fills me with nothing but very abstract thoughts. A strange peppermint taste seals my mouth, and my nose feels deserted— so dry it feels like it’ s on fire. My eyes slowly adjust to the darkness as I hear fingernails scraping a rough surface.
For a moment I can’ t remember anything. The world spins and I can’ t grasp on which way round the floor and ceiling are. The one I am lying down on: this must be the floor, I think. In the midst of the unconsciousness— the kaleidoscope— I fall backwards and thump my head on the ground. I thought I was on the floor? I stop questioning. And that’ s when I remember,
I was stolen.
It all comes back like a stroke. A lightning flashes back to carols, balloons, laughter, silence, and pain. Lots of pain.
I look around and I’ m in an empty room: grey floor, grey walls, white lamp, black curtain. Behind the curtains I can make out a small window up high. I can hear a tree grating against the coarse cement windowsill. But otherwise, Silence.
No doors. No furniture— only a small lamp by my side. Why? Why am I here? Where am I? Who brought me here? My memory is back but now I’ m flooded with more questions. No good.
I try to think chronologically. This morning we were all very busy. Why? Oh yes, we were going to Disneyland for Christmas. I remember Jem talking about Christmas, Disneyland, and Christmas and Disneyland, non-stop throughout the six-hour-ride from San Francisco to California. We got off, I had a balloon in my hand— a red one. Then I remember sucking on something sweet, a lolli probably. I see mom trying to hold Jem by his hand, but eventually failing to keep him calm. He is way too excited. Dad is walking with at least ten shopping bags in his hand, yet he’ s gleaming at the sight of roller coasters. Dad and Jem run together to the back of the long queue. They are both smiling crazily. This is truly a rare occasion. I remember fireworks, laughing, Jem cracking up, dance, music, and people. Many, many people. They all look happy.
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Then, I hear myself telling mom that I have to go to the toilet. Mom nods and says something to me that I don’ t remember. Her brunette hair disap-