My First Murder

Now for a super high chair memory. It is Christmas time and I am sitting in my highchair playing with a porcelain Santa Claus. He is your typical Santa. Red suit with white trim and black boots. Rosy cheeks and a "fluffy" white beard. My kitchen resembles that of the late 70s to mid 80s style; dark wood and linoleum floors. There is a yellow tint to the white walls. The images I see are my hands trying to wrap around the Santa figurine. It's like playing a first person shooter at the age of two and Santa is my gun. I keep playing with him noticing his jolly face and bright red attire. I progressively begin to play more rapidly with the figurine. I start to spin him. He is spinning. He is spinning. This is fun. He is--I spin him off the table portion of the highchair and had sent him crashing, yet twirling, to the kitchen floor. It is a slow motion Baryshnikov ballet of terror, guilt, and silence. I had done it now. I had killed fucking Santa Claus. I had a tender spot for the jolliest of jolly fat men. He brought me presents and all I gave him was cookies and milk. But no the perfect deal was broken, he was dead, smashed into a fuck-ton of pieces and all I could do was scream like the tooth fairy had shot him from the grassy knoll of a planter in the corner of the living room. My parents scattered like an air-raid siren went off. I can still feel the pressure exuding from my lungs and the sound piercing my own ears. Things begin to get hazy. It all fades away.