Even as a toddler, Charlie had always been skeptical about everything around him. He was always trying to find some logic behind the superstitions that were told to him and his brother. And as far as he was concerned, if there was no logical explanation to the superstition, then there was no way any of it was real.
Well, as you can guess, this caused Charlie to miss out on those glorious days of childhood ignorance when everything your parents said made sense. Since the moment he could talk, he had been asking them question after question.
At the age of five, he had requested that his parents stop reading him bedtime stories as he believed he could now sleep faster without them.
And that was how he lived until he was eight years old.
That night, it was Christmas Eve and Charlie and his father were seated on the couch staring at the fireplace, they were in a companionable silence listening to the cracking of the logs of wood under intense heat.
“It’s time for your bed, Charlie.” His father said suddenly, “off you go.”
“Dad,” Charlie protested. “I told you already, I’m not sleeping tonight.
His mother and younger brother were already asleep; his father was only up because of him.
Charlie had come to doubt the originality of Santa Claus. To him, the idea of an old man, dressed in red and riding reindeers as he handed out gifts to good kids sounded plainly ridiculous. He had begun doubting two years ago, and now he was going to get to the bottom of this mystery.
He needed answers to questions like why was Santa an old man. Why does he ride reindeers and not goats or horses? And why did he have to come through the chimney when the door was good and fine? And most of all, why did he only operate at night?
For as long as he could remember there have always been gifts from Santa, year in and year out, they came in the middle of the night when everyone was fast asleep. Charlie has always suspected it was his father that bought the gifts but crediting them to Santa Claus.
“I’ve told you, Charlie,” his father persisted. “Staying awake would only make Santa change his mind.”
“How then can I know for sure if he does come?”
“You will. You will find the gifts here by the tree when you wake up.”
“But that won’t mean Santa put them there, it could as well be you or Mom. I will find out for sure today.”
“Well, I’m not waiting for you any longer.” His father got to his feet, “I’m off to bed, see you tomorrow.”
As he began to walk off, he stopped at the door, “maybe you should just try believing a little, it might become more real for you then.” Then he left.
Finally alone, Charlie adjusted and rested his back against the bottom of the couch as he tried to get comfortable. He was directly opposite the fireplace, if Santa did come down the chimney, he would be the first thing the old man would meet. There was no other way.
As the hours dragged on, the silence deepened, Charlie found himself getting too comfortable and soon his eyes began to close.
He snapped them open at once and adjusted himself once more; he needed clear eyes to see the night through. But soon after he began to nod. He kept fighting off sleep, until one time.
For three glorious minutes, he lost the battle against sleep.
And on the fourth minute, he sprang awake. And immediately he knew it had happened.
He sat up, using his knuckles to wipe his eyes for clearer vision. The sleep had fled from his body and he was now wide-eyed. He turned and looked at the Christmas tree, and then he felt a dull thud in his chest.
There were four wrapped boxes at the base of the tree. That place had been empty before he had slept off; those boxes seemed to have been conjured out of thin air. Could it really have been Santa?
“No way,” he muttered as he got to his feet, then with rapid steps, he hurried to his father’s room and saw his parents still sleeping soundly. His father was snoring, as usual, proof that he was indeed sleeping.
He returned to the living room, and by the tree, he saw the boxes once more. They looked like they had been dropped hastily to avoid being seen, Charlie wondered why that was so. He was still suspecting his Dad.
It was then his father’s words resonated in his head. That was when he finally understood why many people still believed in Santa. It was simply the belief. There was no logic to it, there should be no logic to it. There should just be tradition and conviction.
Charlie then turned and returned to his room, his work was done.
The End.
This story was inspired by the week's prompt which is Believe. Feel free to try it out.
Thank you for reading.
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