The boy’s eyelids drifted open, gliding over the moist and glossy surface of his eyeballs. The child drew the blanket that loosely surrounded him closer to his pale and thin body closer about himself. He stared up at the shapes that the stucco formed on the ceiling. He searched for familiar patterns, likenesses to life, but could find none on this frigid morning. He eased his torso upright, propping himself up with his arms at the peak of his ascent. The boy raised a hand to brush his thick and gnarled hair from his eyes. His mouth opened in a large yawn, making a small squeaking noise. He leaned forward, his weight pushing him forward, and onto his knees. He climbed down from his bed, and began searching for a pair of pants in the mountain of clothes at the foot of his bed. He pulled a pair of worn blue  jeans from the pile, and pulled the limp and threadbare garment over his frail limbs. He lifted a jacket from the top of the hill, and slid his unbelievably boney arms into the lined sleeves.
The boy raised his arms high above his head, and let out another miniscule squeak. The brown-haired boy walked to the door of his room, reached out his almost completely hidden arm, seized the door nob with long, gaunt fingers, and turned it cautiously. He pulled on the door, and it swung noiselessly in. He crept down the hall, and turned to a beaten looking door at the end of the passageway. He tapped lightly on the door with his knuckles, white from cold. There was no answer, nor could one be expected at such an obscenely early hour of the morning. He slowly pushed the door, which stood slightly ajar in, following its patient advance into the small room. There in the bed lay a man, with a slightly oversized belly, and a scruffy black beard, which was now beginning to turn gray. The boy crept closer yet to the sleeping man, until he was leaning over the motionless bedded person. He bent down, being careful not to disturb the man’s slumber with this movement, and began to poke the slumbering creature in the shoulder.
“Hey dad, wake up,” the scrawny child mumbled.
“What time is it?” asked the father in a dim tone.
“Seven o’clock,” said the boy in an innocent and kind voice.
“Okay, I’ll get up,” said the father grumpily, “Just give me another hour.”
The child walked into the living room, and sauntered over to the ratty tan sofa. In the small living room there was no tree, no fresh pine scent, no flashing lights. Two stockings were draped carelessly over the hearth. A motley assortment of wrapped packages was spread across the floor. He let his neck loosen, and his head roll back onto the sofa, and he slowly drifted into sleep.
Again consciousness floated back to the boy, as he lay on the sofa. He forced his torso upright, and stood up. He walked quietly into the kitchen, and stood for a moment, staring at the digital clock’s blaring green numbers. It read seven forty-eight. It was close enough for the boy. He ran towards his fathers room, pushing aside the door with violent excitement.
“What, who’s there?” asked his father groggily.
“Dad, it’s time to get up,” said the child.
“Well okay,” said the father, “Go and wake up your brother.”
“I will,” said the boy, already halfway down the hall, heading straight for his brother’s room. He opened the door with great force.
“Pete, it’s time to get up!” shouted the child.
“Just go away and close the door,” said Pete.
“No, Pete, it’s Christmas! Wake up!” the boy howled.
“Okay, okay, just let me put some pants on.”
The thin child skipped back through the hallway, and into the living room. The boy’s father was sitting on the shredded sofa. The pale-skinned child sat down on the floor in front of his stocking, which was now fat with stuffs.
“Dad, dad, can I open my presents first?” questioned the boy in a shrill tone.
“Well, how about you two take turns,” said the father, “And since you are the youngest, you can go first.”
“Oh, yay!” shouted the small boy. He slid slowly across the stained gray carpeting.
“Hey, were you going to start without me?” asked Pete in mock sadness. He sat down next to the pale and scrawny boy, looking at the presents. The younger boy reached out a long and pale arm for a preset, his pasty and slender fingers wrapped around the soft item that was labelled with his name; Taylor. Taylor peeled the paper back from the item hidden within the husk of processed cellulose. It was a bath robe. Then Pete reached for a package. Taylor didn’t care what it was, for an image of the most beautiful thing that he had ever seen in his life was imbedded on the innocent flesh of his brain. The shining buttons, the spinning internal hard drive, it was a heavenly image. It was the image of the master of all handheld gaming systems, the Colt revolver, the BMW or Motorola of the video game world. And he was hoping to get one. Pete had finished opening his present, and it was his turn. He opened another package, containing an insignificant trinket. The two boys took turns opening presents, until none were left on the floor. There had been no game system veiled by the colorful paper. But there was still hope for this selfish child, there were still the fatly stuffed stockings.
He reached his hand into the red and white stocking, soft and fluffy on the exterior, but rough to the touch if examined further, for the inside was scratchy on the soft and naive flesh of this greedy child. Taylor groped about inside the stocking, feeling for the largest item. There was an uncanny similarity between all the items that resided within. His fingers closed around one at random, and drew it from the darkness of the stocking. To his surprise it was not a fun or interesting item, only a ruler.
“Great, now I can measure things,” he said, easily suppressing disappointment. Now it was his brother’s turn to take an item from his stocking. He withdrew a box of Prismacolor markers. Taylor stared in amazement. He found himself unable to loosen his gaze from the wondrous item. Finally he reached for another item. It was again, ruler, an item that looked as if one could assassinate the king of a foreign country with it.  Taylor made a statement that was something to that extent. His brother took another item, and it was a set of colored pencils. Taylor was even more disappointed at seeing Pete’s presents. This cycle of Taylor pulling a ruler out of his stocking, and his brother finding expensive art supplies continued for quite some time. Finally, Taylor had seven rulers, and his brother had a set of watercolors, a box of Prismacolor markers, and two sets of colored pencils.
“Why did you get me all these rulers?” questioned Taylor, who was on the brink of tears, “You spend fifty dollars on his, yet only ten on my presents.” His voice wavered in pitch, faltering on the last syllable. His tears streamed down his face like tiny tributaries, muddy and slow, with the silt of sorrow suspended in them, which drained into a greater river of hate and misery.