The Death of Santa.

Standing on my balcony, looking down at the terrified face of the man hanging there, I was relieved that my daughter was still fast asleep in her bed. How could I ever explain what I was about to do? How could you explain that you had killed Santa Claus?

Careful, lest I lose my footing on the slick surface of the balcony, I reached out towards his hand. I could see a ray of hope in his eyes as my hand stretched closer. The face, hidden beneath the thick bush of white beard, pleaded for me to save him.

I closed my heart to his pleas, and struck out at the hands that gripped the broken balcony in a vice like grip.

“No!” he cried, but I struck again.

The hand fell away, leaving him dangling by only one hand. His feet fought for purchase on the wall, but the frozen brickwork offered him little support. He hung high over the street below.

“Die, you bastard,” I cursed venomously, willing him to fall.

My own grip on the balcony was slipping, and I dared not reach out any further to seal his fate, but I wanted desperately to see an end of this.

“Help me!” he pleaded. “Please, I’m sorry …” His final words were swallowed up by the scream as his hand slipped free of the railing, and he fell.

I watched with a mixture of horror and relief as Santa Claus crashed to the ground. With a loud thud, he landed on the roof of a parked car, and then the car alarm began to wail, as if in lament for the loss of life.

Collapsing onto the icy ground of the balcony, I lay there and bawled my eyes out. It was a strange mix of emotions, some anger, some grief, but predominantly relief. After two years of being stalked by this creep, it was finally over.

The barring order had not stopped his harassment.

I’d been forced to move, change address, even change my name, and that of my daughter, but the bastard had still tracked me down.

In the middle of a winter’s night, he had tried to climb the emergency fire escape and break into my apartment, but he didn’t know about the faulty railing. The landlord had been promising me he would get it fixed for months. Now, I was so happy that he hadn’t.

I’d woken up to the sound of metal creaking and then it broke away from its mountings. Why he’d chosen to wear a Santa suit was a complete mystery to me. The guy was madder than a March hare, even if he was the father of my child.

My daughter and I had both suffered many times at his hands, and I for one was glad to be rid of him. As for my daughter, well, they say that every child should always have a father, but I disagree. Some children are better off without theirs.

Eventually, I pulled myself together and phoned the police. I didn’t tell them the whole story … what was the point? It was all ancient history now. I just told them I’d woken up to the sound of someone breaking in, and that the balcony had given way and they’d fallen to their death.

They arrived some time later to take my statement, before doing a search of the area. A neighbour had also complained about his car being vandalised.

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