Brett was a naughty kid. Bratt was nice. This was common knowledge. Brett spent his days harassing seagulls and tipping trash cans. Bratt fed the birds and gave the garbage back to its owners. Brett never did his homework or studied for his tests. Bratt let him copy anyway.
Everyone told Brett to act more like Bratt. Promises and threats, carrot and stick, nothing worked. “Santa won’t give you presents this year” they warned, “You’ll just get a lump of coal”. But Brett didn’t listen. He continued to run around town, armed with a peashooter, a stink bomb and a determination to succeed. Meanwhile, Bratt befriended a squirrel, who he named ‘Frothy’.
Come Christmas day, children shrieked with joy as they opened their presents, shaking boxes and tearing wrapping paper. For the kindness he showed to everyone, Santa gave Bratt a wooden model train set, painted bright red and green. It came with tracks, a working railway switch and a little cabin, along with a cheerful steam train.
Brett got a lump of coal. He smiled anyway.
It was that night, that everyone was gathered at Bratt’s Christmas party. From friends, to family, to teachers, to the mailman. He’d handed out invitations the week prior, and no one could say no to his hopeful smile. No one, but Brett.
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It didn’t matter, no one wanted the kid to ruin such a nice event; and it was nice. The dining room table was covered in food, the kitchen table in drink, and the coffee table in dessert. The village people talked and sang and danced, getting to truly know each other and have fun. People apologized for things they had done, because it seemed so unimportant now. The night was truly magical.
But during the party, among song and cheer, a chill swept in. In their excitement for the party, Bratt’s parents forgot to stock up on lumber, and the fire was dying. A snow storm was upon them all, and it was too dangerous to go outside. Adults and children alike huddled together, clutching their coats.
Bratt knew this was his fault. He had distracted everyone with his party, and now they were cold and miserable. The sweet boy knew what to do.
Bratt’s train, as wonderful as it was, meant nothing when compared to his love for everyone. So he threw his new toy in the fireplace, so Santa’s gift could warm them all. And as the guests told him it wasn’t necessary, secretly sighing in relief, the boy smiled. And then coughed. And then keeled over, dead. Because paint fumes kill.
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Brett woke up happy. His lump of coal had protected him during the night. The house, and the village, were now his to roam unimpeded. There was no one left to tell him what to do. And so the child laughed.