When Daryl asked his parents if they were ever going to get around to putting up the Christmas tree, his father answered by gulping his bourbon and growling, and his mother hummed while scraping a two-dollar scratcher with her lucky penny that had yet to deliver on its promising label.

“Christmas is next week,” Daryl said.

“Yeah?” his dad said, pouring another drink.

“Don’t you wanna know what I want?”

“Want?”

“For Christmas.”

“Want, want, want,” Daryl’s father sighed with a shake of his head. “That’s all I hear.”

“Mom?” Daryl said.

“I’m listening, honey,” his mom said, not looking up.

“Well, I’m old enough to learn how to hunt and shoot now,” Daryl began.

“Whoo-hoo!” his mom cheered. “I won twenty dollars!”

“That’s great,” his dad said. “Win five grand a week for life, and someday you might break even.”

Daryl held his clenched fists down at his sides, hands balled so tight, his fingernails stabbed his palms and broke the skin. “I want a rifle,” he said. “A twenty-two.”

“That right?”

“Or a switchblade—so I can stick it in both your necks while you’re sleeping.”

“Them blades is illegal in New York,” Daryl’s dad said. “You got another thing coming if you think I’m traveling to another state to buy you anything.”

“Maybe I’ll ask Santa for it. Or a machete,” Daryl said. “I’d like to swing it down on your head, see how far I can bury it into your skull.”

“That reminds me,” his dad said. “We need a new ax, since you broke the last one.”

“I broke the handle. We just need a new handle.”

“No, you need a new handle. And what’s this talk of hunting with a twenty-two? That’s too small a caliber.”

“Not if you want what you’re hunting to suffer. I want to take you into the woods, Dad, and shoot you a hundred times over before you die.”

“A hundred shots?” his dad said, astounded. “You’d need a magazine longer than the rifle to let off that many rounds.”

“Not if you have extra mags ready to go,” Daryl said, “which would be on my ammo belt.”

“You got an ammo belt, do you?”

“Not yet. I’ll ask Santa.”

Daryl’s dad snorted. “Let me know how that works out.”

“If I’m lucky, I’ll get me one of them fancy battery-powered drills. Use it to clear the wax out of your ears as I’m scrambling your brains. Mom, too.”

“Hear that, honey? Our little Daryl thinks he’s gonna be a carpenter.”

“Uh-huh,” Daryl’s mom said. She was holding her winning scratcher close to her face, regarding it like some mothers might admire their child’s school photo.

“What I really want is one of them knives where the blade curves like a banana,” Daryl said. “They’re easy to conceal and versatile for close quarter killing. I could pull it out and swipe it across your Adam’s apple so fast you’ll still be chugging that whiskey before you realize it’s gushing out your throat instead of going into your belly.”

“What you need is a good pair of scissors,” his dad said, “so your mother can cut that abominable haircut you think is so fancy.”

Daryl combed his fingers through his curly mullet. “Also want me a litter of dermestid beetles. They’re the ones that eat the flesh off carcasses till there’s nothing left but bone. It’s what I aim to do with your corpses once I get the nerve to kill you.”

“Daryl!” his mother snapped. “How many times must we tell you no when it comes to having pets?”

Daryl considered both his parents, watching them living in their own separate worlds, realities where drinking and winning the lottery were top priorities. Worlds where they had a son that they never listened to. At times, Daryl would say things to grab their attention and make them listen, to see if he could get them to hear him—really hear him—like describing all the ways he’d kill them. It never worked, but someday he’d get his mom and dad to listen.

Daryl’s mother put on her boots and jacket and left the house, heading for the gas station to cash her scratcher, likely returning with twenty dollars’ worth of new ones. His father moved to the living room to continue boozing in front of the television, lounging in his new recliner he purchased secondhand. He had been spending most of his afternoons and nights in that chair, drinking, smoking, and snoozing, right in the spot where the Christmas tree was supposed to go.

***

On Christmas Eve, the presents arrived, gift-wrapped boxes of all shapes and sizes with no names on them. They lay on the floor behind his father’s chair, and that whole day, whenever Daryl’s old man got up to piss or refill his glass, he’d sneak a peek and try to guess what was in them. Every box he hefted was heavy, and when he shook them, they all made the same clunky rattling sound, as if they were filled with loose dirt and rocks.

Or coal.

Next morning—Christmas morning—Daryl ran downstairs and discovered the presents were missing; nothing there but his dad’s ugly, beat-up recliner, and a lingering stench of smoke, as if the woodstove door had been left open all night. The fire was out, he noticed, and inside lay a considerable amount of charcoal and flaky ash, the kind that paper and cardboard leave behind after being torched.

When his dad came down the stairs sometime later, he smelled the same as the living room, and on his hands and face were faint markings of black smudges and soot.

“Looks like Santa came down the chimney and stole all your presents,” he said. An odd thing to say, considering he hadn’t yet made it to the living room to notice.

Should’ve asked for the ax handle, Daryl thought, the closest thing to a weapon he could have gotten his hands on.

Oh well. Maybe next Christmas.