It's hard for her to catch up with the times . . . to realize that he died so few days ago-it feels like years. It's hard for her to stop longing, to stop wishing he were here.

Amy stares up at the stars, their cold twinkling making her think of nothing more than God laughing down at her, at her weakness, at her sorrow, at bad luck.

It's been so long since she's last seen him. So long since she last touched his hand. So long since he'd last touched her. So long since they'd eaten a meal together. So long since their bodies had moved together in perfect rhythm. So long since . . . the little things that she hadn't thought twice about were now suddenly precious.

So long . . . and yet so little time has passed.

Some gas station near her is playing Jingle Bells through their speakers, and it hurts her ears. The loudness, the happy, light tone.

The lights of the city hurt her eyes, and she pulls off into an abandoned parking lot, not far from a run-down gas station.

Why can't she be happy? She knows he would want her to be happy. She knows he would hate for her to spending Christmas Eve like this: curled up in her car, like scared rabbit in a hole.

The snow swirls softly around her car and like the tears dripping down her nose, they remind her of happier times.

As she looks out into the whirling, dancing snowflakes, her fingers curl into a fist. "God, why!" Her shout scratches at her throat. "Why did you have to take him from me? Why? Why didn't we get longer?"

Amy leans her head against the steering wheel, weeping. Her body shudders as a great sob runs over it, like a wave over a helpless rock.

She blinks, trying to control her tears. "Ian." His name is torn out of her mouth, and then gone. She only remembers hearing it in the air around her . . . just like she can only remember him.

A cry escapes her bleeding lips. Tears run down her cheeks like rain on a window. They remain in her eyes, blurring her vision.

The knock on the window startles her. She's almost forgotten that other people are still alive, so consumed is she by her pain.

A girl peeks in at her, shyly. Amy realizes with a start that was her, a long time ago. Shy and scared, yet willing to go out of her way to help someone who looks like they're hurting.

That was how she met Ian.

Her eyes are suddenly far away from the girl outside, and she remembers when she first truly saw Ian for who he was.

He'd been sitting on the couch, between her brother, Dan, and her cousin Hamilton. He'd appeared squashed by Hamilton's muscular bulk, and while his shoulder brushed against Dan's, he hadn't seemed to have noticed the contact.

She shakes her head and looks up at the girl, who's still staring at her.

"No?" The girl says, her voice faint through the window. "You're not ok?"

Oh. Had the girl asked her a question? "I'm sorry." She says, rolling down the window. "I didn't realize you were talking to me."

The girl shrugs and looks at her feet. "It's ok. Hey, look. I work here," she gestures at the shady gas station behind her. "It's a little lonely in there by myself, and you look like you're lonesome. Wanna come in?"

Amy looks at the ramshackle building. Graffiti is etched from one side to the next, and someone has obviously tried to cover it up, by putting even grosser posters on top of the vibrant colors.

Amy glances at her car clock. Midnight. "Merry Christmas." She says to the girl. She can't possibly in stay in her car any longer. It can't hurt to go in with the girl. "Sure, I'll come in." She says, trying to force cheerfulness in her voice. "Sucks that you gotta work her on Christmas."

The girl shrugs and brushes auburn curls out of her striking brown eyes. "Doesn't matter to me." She says. "Someone has to do it."

Amy blinks, surprised. Where was the bitterness in the girl's voice? Shouldn't she be sad that instead of cuddling up with her boyfriend she has to work all night at a crummy gas station?

Amy decides not to answer. What's she supposed to say, "Oh, well I'm glad you're not bitter. Why don't you tell me how you do it?"

That would go over well.

She climbs out of the car, the frigid air wrapping around her like a sheet of ice on a dead leaf.

"I'm Sinead." The girl smiles and sticks out her hand.

"Nice to meet you, Sinead." Amy says, grasping the girl's hand. The girl has a strong grip, and her eyes meet Amy's square on. "I'm Amy."

Sinead nods and heads towards the door. "Sometimes I raid the coffee bar." She says. "It's hard to stay awake all night, and heck, it's Christmas, I might as well enjoy myself a little bit."

Grinning at Amy, she fills what has to be a triple double extra large cup with steaming liquid and gives it to her. Amy's never seen a cup this big. "So." Sinead says. "What brings you to this part of town?"

Amy rolls her eyes. Sinead's acting like it's perfectly normal to find twenty-five year old girls sitting in their car at midnight on Christmas Eve.

What's brought me here? She thinks. Well, for one thing, my husband's death after five months of marriage. For another thing, I can't go and pretend to be happy at a Christmas party. There's also no way I'm going to listen all the relatives 'I'm sorrys'.

She shrugs at the girl. "Just . . . out driving. Thinking."

Sinead nods and twists a piece of her hair. "Ah . . . thinking." She doesn't say anymore, but Amy can see the curiousity in her eyes.

"My husband died two weeks ago." Amy says. "We've been married five months." Her voice cracks as she realizes that she's still speaking as if Ian's still alive, and tears well up in her eyes. "We never even had a first Christmas."

Sinead stares at Amy for a long moment before she speaks. "I wish I could tell you God knew what he was doing. But at this moment, I don't think it would help you." She offers Amy a weak smile.

Amy's lips are a thin line, and she tries to force them into a smile. It's like pushing against a brick wall, and she gives up. A tear trickles down her cheek and she takes of gulp of strong coffee, trying to control herself.

"What happened?" Sinead says. "Maybe talking will help."

Amy looks at Sinead. "If I start talking, I'll tell you the whole story."

Sinead looks at the clock hanging above her head. The clock reminds Amy of a king on his throne, overseeing his subjects. "Heck, girl." She says. "We've got seven hours till my shift ends. Shoot."

Amy bites her lips and begins to speak, willing herself not to cry.

The first time I saw Ian, he was laughing. Laughter seemed to define who he was. That was, until he turned fourteen. Then he withdrew into himself.

I didn't want to draw attention to myself, and personally, I felt Ian had usually been laughing at me. He had a college degree in cutting people down, and he was exceptionally good at making fun of me.

"Amy." He'd mock. "Where'd you get those clothes? How much did they pay you to take them off their hands?"

I never forgot the time I realized why he had become a loner, a hermit. He'd just come back from his mother's house, and there was an angry red rash on his cheeks. It was Isabel's, his mother's, handprint.

He'd tried to lie about it, saying that his polo pony had tripped and he'd fallen, and been unfortunate enough to fall underneath the hooves of the animal.

None of us believed him, but that was when I realized Ian need help. Or maybe it was his mother that needed help.

All of us were scared of Isabel-I'm still scared of her. Ian inherited his sharp tongue from Isabel. If he had a college degree in Mockery 101, Isabel has a PhD.

So, naturally, wanting to avoid Isabel's sword-like tongue, I went to Ian and tried to help him.

He was fifteen that Christmas, and he was sitting between my brother and my cousin. They were laughing and talking, all three of them, their arms were touching, but Ian didn't seem to notice. He only answered when they spoke directly to him, and the rest of the time he stared at the wall above my head.

His laughter was forced, and finally, I couldn't stand it anymore. I know what it's like to receive hurt from your parents . . . or from the lack of them.

My parents died in a fire when I was seven. Ian's mother had died inwardly long ago.

I stood up and grabbed Ian's hand and dragged him outside.

He stared at me like I was a worm, and I imagine I looked pretty weird, my cheeks flaming, my hair sticking all over the place, my eyes flashing.

As you can imagine, we got closer, gradually. We helped each other heal, and then, seven years later, he asked me to marry him.

We got married five months ago.

I sent him to the store two weeks after Thanksgiving to get some milk.

A drunk driver ran a red light and slammed into him, hardly more than two feet away from our house.

I'll never forget hearing the sound of smashing metal and breaking glass. I'll never forget the terror that seized my heart, no, scratch that, my entire body as I rushed toward the window, praying, hoping that it was not Ian.

The drunk driver was fine. Ian lay in peril for several days before he slipped away-as close to being in my arms as was possible.

Amy stops abruptly and wipes her mouth and nose. Her hand comes away sticky with tears and snot. She stands up, still crying and runs to the bathroom where she wipes herself clean and stares at herself in the mirror.

Her eyes are bloodshot. Her hair is snarled and wet in some places where it brushed against her damp cheeks.

She reminds herself of the witches in the Disney movies-cold and bitter, ugly and awkward.

Amy leaves the bathroom and comes to back to Sinead, who's fiddling with a paper napkin behind the counter.

"Amy." Sinead's voice breaks the silence. "I'm sorry. I know you don't want to hear it, but I'm sorry."

Amy nods, disappointed. 'I'm sorry' is the last thing she wants to hear. She wants Sinead to scream with her. She wants Sinead to say, "Yes, you're right. You have every right to be mad at God."

But most of all, she wants Sinead to say, "God doesn't exist, Amy. This proves it to me, and it should have already proved it to you."

But Sinead doesn't. When Amy's eyes meet Sinead's, she's surprised to find that they're filled with tears, like her own.

Sinead's voice is thick. "Amy. I don't know why God allowed this to happen."

Amy feels anger rush through her, and she grips the counter tightly.

"And I know you don't want to hear this. I know you're hating God. But we celebrate Christmas . . . to celebrate God sending his son down to earth . . . to save you and me."

Amy looks up at Sinead. "I can't think about this right now. It's great that he sent Jesus, but why would he take Ian away from me? Why would he let this happen to me?" Amy is so angry she's shaking. She doesn't want to hear another sermon, like all the other countless ones she's received from relatives who think they're helping.

Sinead sighs. "I don't understand either." She pushes away the top of uniform Speedway shirt to reveal scarred skin. The skin is stretched tightly across her shoulder bones. In some places, sacs of fluid seem to press against the skin.

Amy gulps. "How . . ."

Sinead's shoulder is disgusting and she feels the strong urge to vomit, but somehow she restrains herself.

"A freak accident." Sinead says. "My brothers and I were in a museum, and something happened. The ceiling fell on top of us. I'm the lucky one." She says, pulling her shirt back over the exposed skin.

Amy breathes a silent sigh of relief, thankful that the mangled skin if out of view.

"My brother Ted is blind." Sinead inhales sharply. Amy knows the feeling very well-trying not to cry. "My other brother is crippled by painful headaches. Sometimes he can't even stand up." Sinead's eyes met Amy's.

Amy looks away. "Ian could still be alive, suffering." She mutters, against her will.

Sinead nods at Amy. "Every time I want to scream at God, to yell at him and berate him and curse him I just tell myself that there's always someone worse than me."

Amy looks away. She knows Sinead is right, but she doesn't want to give it up. She wants to stay mad at God. She doesn't want to be happy, like the rest of the innocent holiday-goers.

"Christmas is tough." Sinead says. "I know what it's like to watch everyone else be happy-and that sick happy they force on whenever they come around you."

Amy shudders and stares down at the counter, where her tears lie in perfect circles against a perfect cream background.

Sinead reaches across the counter and tips Amy's chin up, forcing her to look into her eyes. "Trust him." She whispers. "He has a purpose."

Amy smacks Sinead's hand away. "I can't!" She cries. "I can't trust him!"

Sinead doesn't look bothered at all. "I know." She whispers. "I know. But you have too."

Amy's shaking. She doesn't want to believe that God had a plan when he allowed Ian to be smashed by some stupid drunk driver. She doesn't want to stop blaming God.

The radio that's been blaring throughout the station begins to play an Intro to a song Amy knows all too well. "Silent Night" was Ian's favorite Christmas song.

Not now. Of all times, not now. She grits her teeth and tries to concentrate on something besides the calming music.

Ian would not want her to be mad at God, she knows that.

But Ian was dead, she reminds herself. It didn't matter.

And then she thinks of a young girl named Mary, who was chosen by God to bear a son. A son that would save the world.

Did Mary like it? She wonders.

Sinead cleared her throat. "I'm going to get some more coffee. I'll be back."

The coffee bar is not more than ten feet away. There's no reason for Sinead to tell her.

Sinead wants her to be alone with her thoughts.

Ian . . . oh god Ian why god why?

And then she remembers that Mary's son grew up to be a man. And Mary's son was killed. He was murdered in a gruesome way . . . hung on a tree to suffocate to death.

What was Mary thinking as she watched Jesus die?

Amy shudders and begins crying.

Sinead is suddenly there, hugging here.

Amy pushes her away and says, "I gotta go. I need to go." She wipes her eyes.

Sinead's smiling at her. A cup of coffee is pressed into her hand, with a number written on the Styrofoam in black sharpie.

"You go." Sinead says. "Call me if you need anything."

Amy runs out, the cup of coffee clutched to her chest.

When she wakes up the next morning, she programs Sinead's number into her phone and reheats the coffee Sinead gave her.

A message dings on her phone and she picks it up hurriedly, although she knows not why.

It's a message from Dan.

"Amy . . . The guy who ran into Ian? He just . . . he called me to say that he's sorry. He's going to do drug rehabilitation. Because he feels bad."

Amy's heart picks up. She feels the phone slid out of her hand. In a daze, she somehow realizes she hears the phone smash against the ground. She can't think. Her mind spins, thinking about . . . everything.

As for how the man got Dan's number . . . she has no clue.

She feels a cold sweat pool in her armpits as she realizes that Ian's death may or may not have indirectly caused some random guy to stop drinking.

She looks over at the half-decorated Christmas tree. She hadn't had enough heart to finish, knowing that Ian and she had never had a chance to decorate the tree together. "Oh, God." She breathes.

A calm peace runs over her, and she accepts it, leans back into its embrace. It's like a fuzzy blanket, soothing and warm at the same time.

It still hurts, that Ian's dead. It always will. She's still angry, as she knows she always will be.

But now, now at least, she understands what Mary felt as she watched her son die for the sins of the world.

"Oh, Mary." She breathes. "If only you'd known when he was born . . ."

Silent Night, Holy Night

God's pure son,

Heaven's star

lies entombed alone tonight

Jesus Christ has

died for our sins.

Sleep in heavenly peace.

Arise in heavenly peace.

I guess many of you may have realized halfway through what I was trying to do. I believe I have failed, but by this point, I don't care to look at this anymore.

This was really hard... like I couldn't figure out what I wanted to do that had a "Christmas theme." I'm not sure if this is quite what you people had in mind. Oh well.

I also realize that many of you (maybe unfortunately the majority) will not like this because of the Christian spin I threw in.

If you don't like it, I'm sorry. But you're not going to stop me from expressing my views. But I also promise I won't be a spam writer like some people out there who write stories consisting of "jesus christ is coming again. you're sinning by wasting your time writing. god would hate this. pls stop and give ur life to him rn."

I'm just going to say something about that while I have the floor. If any of you reading this have done this in the past (or maybe you're planning to do it) let me tell you this: it turns people off.

Truly, it does.

Whenever someone tries to force their beliefs on others, it only makes them mad.

Anways... enough about that. If you don't like that I put the "Christian spin" on a Christmas story... I apologize. And I don't care if you flame me.

Ok. Now I'll shut up about that.

Thanks to Writer's Anonymous Forum for hosting the Christmas Challenge. Thanks to all of those who have supported me in the past, rebecca-in-blue, ZadArchie, dtill, and all others.

Also.. I'm not sure why I decided to put that little poem up there. You can cut it out of the actual story if you want, or you can just leave it in when you print it off to judge... whatever you do.

(but i know i'm not going to win haha, with all those amazingly talented others out there who have entered)

And that leads me to my next point.

Thank you WA for being so accepting of me, a random teen who's like, "oh heck, I can do this!" and then miserably fails, but you guys are still
so supporting. Thanks a million.

Honestly, your little challenges have helped me so much, (usually because i'm like "oh god, adults are going to be reading this!) and for that I say thank you.

Anyways... thanks to all of you for reading (whether you liked it or not) and, of course

MERRY CHRISTMAS!

-Addict