I witnessed a murder, now what?
I suppose like most things that leave you distressed, this came out of nowhere. It was just another ordinary Saturday morning. The sun was shining, the birds were chirping in the garden, and absolutely nothing indicated what I would observe later in the day.
I guess that’s why the survivor is always the one left with the emotional scars; yes, you’ve lived through a terrible ordeal, but you just never see it coming in the first place, and that’s all the more terrifying.
I was at a shopping mall on Saturday (my first fatal error on a payday weekend) to collect a particular item. And that’s when it happened. At first there were just distracting noises; loud wailing, feverish bellowing and the bizarre thumping of some tribal drum that clearly signalled a demented ritual in full flight.
The noises grew louder and I knew something was wrong. The chilling music became more unkempt, wild almost, it was more insistent, while people all around me looked increasingly dazed, like someone had brainwashed them upon entering the shopping centre.
Following the agonised source of the screams and brutal cries of dismay, I rushed passed the hordes of dazed shoppers. But it was too late. There, right in front of my eyes, I saw it all unfold. The horror. The inhumanity. The callous ease in which a beautiful thing can be destroyed in a matter of heartless, unthinking moments.
I saw the death of Christmas, nay, I heard and the saw the death of Christmas on Saturday, and it was one of the most distressing things I’ve ever witnessed. The centre may as well have had a stuffed Santa hanging from a noose, for that’s how damaging their Christmas display is in 2011. The management staff at Cavendish Square have much to answer for, because no amount of therapy will wipe this trauma from my mind.
The death of Carol
Carol went first. Beautiful, soulful, sweet, uplifting and engaging carol. She never stood a chance. For so many years you provided Christmas celebrations with charming songs and happy melodies. Men, women and children sat together to enjoy the feelings of love and joy you spread.
And now you're gone, blitzed like a wartime city by an A Cappella group of singers (shouters?) so incompetent and tuneless they make Rebecca Black sound like Dame Kiri Te Kanawa.
Silent Night was rendered unholy night on this traumatic day, while Jingle Bells and other favourites were well and truly sleighed. If the reformed Scrooge happened to be at Cavendish on this damning day, he’d take one earful of the goings on, spit in the eyes of the Christmas Spirits Past, Present and Future, and bitterly proclaim "bah humbug" as he stormed out past the R1000 Christmas trees and other over-priced decorative baubles.
Joy, happiness and wonder all followed on after carol, stabbed, strangled, bound up in duct tape and thrown off the nearest bridge into a busy motorway, and now all replaced by soulless, demented and glassy-eyed shoppers. Not sure what they are doing, doing it surely for reasons they can’t comprehend and for people who won't appreciate it anyway.
I saw it all disappear this weekend. I saw it burn to the ground, screaming in agony, with silver and red tinsel adding fuel to the flame. It’s gone. All done. I saw Christmas getting murdered. Christmas is dead.
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