[WP] Write the story of a Christmas tree, from it's perspective.

...

Every winter for the past five years, I had served my family.

As a tree that was not truly a tree, but instead a combination of metals, plastics, and complicated mixtures of paint and finish, I have always known myself to be a strange abomination on the world. Where other families might celebrate upon the winter months with a true evergreen, James and his daughter Jessica always placed me upon their living-room floor instead.

My first memories of them were odd things. Brought about by a sudden changes in what is, or perhaps what once was, my vision opened to the world around me to settle onto the first image of the world I would ever know.

The sight of a crying girl, and a man who seemed to have long since run out of tears. It seemed my arrival into this strange existence had come at a time of great uncertainty, a prop to represent a holiday that was hollowed out and carved with a wicked blade of sorrow. What had been a family of three long before my arrival, had recently lessened.

For that first Christmas, I did little more than watch until I was taken down, carefully boxed back among the lights and decorations deep into the cellar's space to slumber, awaiting the next season I might awaken once more.

On the second year, the crying had ended. No smiles truly shown through, but the Father and daughter of my family seemed to hold their own in the warming lights of red and green, yellow and blue. Presents were set, wrapped in perfect cubes and rectangular shapes of angles and paper, and together we all might watch as the young girl opened them with the faintest of hints towards, not happy- but perhaps an absence of sadness. Their relative would visit, dressed and smiling as best he could: The uncle was a strange and awkward man, but upon the father's face I saw gratitude.

For this, I watched and learned.

Decorated as I was, covered and coated by trinkets and orbs of glass and color, I felt my powers swell however slightly in the strange taste upon the air. It seemed as though what substance had brought me into being grew stronger by the day. A faint but notable creeping of essence I might take in and prosper beneath.

As much as a portion of my mind wished to cling to this, hold it in and contain it, another wished to pass it on. To give it back to this family of mine, to imbue them with the only gift I could give.

That third year, the young girl smiled, and my fate was sealed. I knew the effort was worth it. For all I took in, or the reasons I was aware of this peculiar existence I possessed, I found my value not unappreciated. There was purpose in my simple life as a tree of metal and plastic, and paint. There was a joy in protecting the slowly healing spirits of the family beneath my watchful care: I was a Guardian.

A protector.

On the this fifth year though, I knew what was once strange in taste was now wrong. For all the life that flowed into my frame from sources unknown, the breath that passed through my substance seemed never to stop. What had once been a slow melting trickle- as if from the icicles settled along the window frames, was now a torrent: A flood of energy, saturating the air and all that might hold capacity to take it.

The air tasted between my fake and plastic ferns of deep green paint, a sour and caustic flavor. Far off beyond the room and walls which housed me, I could feel the fear, the terror, the oppressive stench of death and loss. More than that though, I could feel the swell of the ethereal, the substance which fed my mind and spirit flowing in from cracks and tears, spreading like a glass orb dropped onto the tile of a kitchen floor.

There was danger.

Perhaps my family knew this, for the young girl watched from the window with uncertainty present, her father seated quietly nearby beside the box of glass on the far-off counter, staring at a quiet instrument that had once sung with familiar songs and happy motions- now playing quite the opposite.

"Jessica, hun, go back upstairs and finish packing your bag." The father spoke softly.

"There's smoke by the river dad. A lot of smoke, doesn't Uncle Robert work over-"

"Upstairs." The reply was harsher than before, stern. "Now." He commanded, turning from his observation of the screen and images to look down black rimmed glasses. I watched on in my own strange way, listening to the light creaking of wooden steps as Jessica obeyed, however reluctantly.

With a quiet click, the door to her room upstairs shut, sound of drawers sliding open amid the rummaging noise of clothes and zippers. It was only then that the Father stood, walking quietly towards the closet in the hall to pull free a thick black case. With methodical practice, an object of black metal, polished wood, and the wafting aroma of oil came free, settled carefully down on the counter's space.

It seemed to scream of danger, but not in a familiar way.

There was a knock at the door. First one, then several. The black metal and wood lifted up, unease clear upon the Father's face. "James!" Heavy pounds followed by a shouting voice. "James! It's Robert! Let me in!"

Unease shifted to relieved surprise, quick steps followed by a rush of cold air and a loud slam out of sight. "You're alright then?" I heard the Father ask. "The news has been reporting all sorts of-"

"I'm alright James. Whatever they're saying it's probably true. You wouldn't believe what's broken out along the city." Together the two men moved into the kitchen, both passing long uncomfortable stares at the device set upon the counter top. "Is it loaded?" Robert asked, setting his back down carefully beside it.

"Yes." James replied.

"That's good." Robert said quietly, straightening his clothes. The fine fashion of a black business suit seemed strangely out of place as he continued. "I think it might be best to leave soon. though I'm afraid I had to leave my car behind."

"It's bad then?"

"Very."

"Alright... That's alright, you made it here, that's what matters." James spoke quietly, hand resting on Roberts shoulder with a firm grasp. "I sent Jess upstairs to pack, she doesn't know just yet-"

Overhead, the sound of creaking wood followed by a rush of rapid steps as Jessica emerged from her room and bounded down the stairs with an excited shout. "Uncle Rob? Is that you?" She flew alongside the railing, turning about the corner with impressive speed. "Uncle Rob!"

"Hello Niece of mine!" Robert's face shifted from the stern and serious expression to a wide grin, arms spread wide as he plucked free a wrapped present from his bag on the counter. "I've come with a gift for the girl who has the misfortune of having her Birthday so close to Christmas!"

"Thanks Uncle Rob." The girl smiled closing in for a heavy hug. "I got worried, there's smoke over the river. I think there's a fire."

"Oh, there's all sort of things over that way." The man's smile faltered slightly, before passing the gift over with a careful hand. "But don't you worry though, I took off work."

"Uncle Robert and I have decided we'll be heading North early. We'll get our dinner along the way." James spoke, picking up the black steel and pressing it quickly back into the case it had come from. "Your bag all packed and ready?"

"Yes dad." Jessica replied, "It's packed."

"Good, I'll warm up the car. Grab a plastic bag and take some snacks from the cupboard, I don't think we'll be stopping until later..."

The voices of my family seemed to dull and muffle as I listened, my attention finding itself drawn elsewhere. In the back of my mind, I watched as a vehicle was started in the garage rumbling quietly, as luggage was stored away in the backseats beyond my direct field of view from the living-room's corner. I felt the warmth covering the uncertainty on the two men's faces, the cold violence of the metal in the case upon the counter, and the brave front upon the young girl I'd come to love.

She knew, after-all. Things were wrong in the world, and of all children not quite of the age to understand them, Jessica knew more than most. A clever girl with tragedies of her own to face down, perhaps it was understandable that she might already be aware that not all was well and good in this place despite all their efforts to make it so. But still, in the distance and coming closer, there were other things I watched.

Many of viscous and terrible shapes, walking on two legs or prowling on four. Dragging rusted and tainted pieces of iron and bloody wood. Beings that breathed in the taste of air and substance that brought me into being, wasting it as they heaved it back out twisted and wrong. Beasts and creatures from a world far- yet close. Abominations that should not, could not be.

From my place beside the mantle of memories and lights, I saw the first of their shapes from the window. Dark shades cast on the perfect ice that still formed along the slow melt of snow above, thick skin of leather and tusk aglow in the white of winter as they drew in towards us, step by step.

As their shouts roared and their weapons raised, I knew them to be evil.