A Christmas Story by Christopher Guild VIA @johndwm #childabuse

I was asked to re tweet this by my friend John. The story moved me so deeply I decided, with his consent, to re blog it here.  

Today my friend Chris is facing a year and a half jail sentence for failing to report for his addiction reduction programme. He was informed by his lawyer that the neither his complete termination of heroin use and large-scale reduction of alcohol levels will be considered as grounds for allowing him to continue the programme. The fact that his failure to report for four appointments was caused by verifiable threats of violence from an other party should he appear there would not be taken into consideration.

Despite this Chris is revolved to use prison positively as an opportunity to build up his education and to write while he is there. And what a writer! I present to you “Black December” – A Christmas story.

“First Christmas. Do you remember yours? I don’t remember the first one but the first one I remember wasn’t fun.

I was five years old. Five. I ran down the stairs – all excited, like I should have been. Mum was a single parent at the time. She struggled on to make everything nice.

I don’t remember much of the presents.

But I do remember my green hat with a black rim and a matching scarf.

I liked it.

Then a knock at the door; it was Grandad. He came in and gave me a hug along with a present.

It was a chocolate Christmas tree with white chocolate going diagonally downwards to have the tinsel effect. It was in a plastic container. It was my first bit of chocolate.

I ran through the kitchen and grabbed a knife and burst the plastic and started eating it. Mum came through and asked me nicely to go back to the living room.

Grandad had to go to my Aunty Sandra’s and then he left…

Then it started.

My mum slapped me as hard as she could and screamed – “You little bastard, you never said thank you!” She grabbed me by the throat with her nails. I started to bleed. The beating continued. I was begging the woman to stop.

She told me if I didn’t stop crying she would keep going, but the pain was too much. Talk about a “catch 22″.

My nose was bleeding and I had a big piece of skin torn off my neck.

After the woman saying things like “I wish I never opened my fuckin’ legs” and “You should have been flushed down the pan” – The beating stopped.

I cried for a while in my room.

Then she shouted me to get ready to go to Aunty Sandra’s.

I had to say to everyone that the green scarf was my favourite present to cover the big scratch on my neck. So I sat at the dinner table eating my Christmas dinner with a scarf on.

I hate Christmas.

It reminds me of the colour black.

I’ll never forget that green scarf.

Black December.

A green hat with a black rim and matching scarf…

FIND THE ORIGINAL HERE