Santa felt weak. His time was coming to an end, and he knew it. The children of the world no longer believed in him. Corporations had turned him into a joke.
His red suit hung loosely on his body. He was wasting away. His home no longer smelt of ginger bread and hot chocolate, it smelt of stall air and mold. Dark shadows painted the corners and hid the insects that had nested here. Rats crawled within the walls.
His elves no longer made toys. The greed of the children had tainted them. They turned on each other, and eventually they turned on Santa. He now carried a machete on him at all times for protection, but he was becoming weak. He knew it was only a matter of time before he fell victim to their hungry. They would eat him like they ate his beloved reindeers.
His boots thudded on the wooden floor as he walked to the bedroom. His wife Mrs. Claus sat in a rocking chair. She knitted a cap for a child who no longer believed in them. She had hope, and that hope kept her spark of life glowing bright. She looked the same as she always had. His heart cried out, knowing what he had to do.
She looked up at him and smiled. “I love you,” she told him.
His stomach knotted and somehow he managed to keep the vomit down. He had to do this. He was dying, and the elves were waiting to feed. He heard a giggle beneath the window, they were watching now. He forced a smile onto his lips. “I love you too.”
She looked down at the cap, releasing him for a moment from her stare. He briefly closed his eyes as he deeply inhaled. He knew now was the time, soon he would be too weak to save her.
He brought the machete down onto her head. The yarn and knitting needle dropped to the floor. She hadn’t seen it coming so she didn’t cry out. He pulled the blade free of her skull and stumbled out of the room.
He dropped to his knees as acidy bale erupted from his mouth. The warm liquid splashed onto his hands as it thickly covered the floor. He pulled himself together and rose to his feet. His wiped his hands on his pants.
A window broke in another room. The flesh eating elves were coming. He lit his chimney one last time. The stockings still hung, but now they were covered with dust and cobwebs.
He sat down in his chair and stared into the flames. He was as old as mankind. He had survived wars, plagues, gunshots and time itself. But he couldn’t survive disbelief. The children’s dreams and wishes gave him strength, without them he could not exist.
His vision blurred. He was dying. He heard the hate filled giggles as the elves entered the room. Santa had loved them one time before the world’s greed corrupted them, now he feared them. The last spark of life left him and the elves fed.