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Home for the Holidays


by laurapet131

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The sun was already threatening to drop below the horizon, even though I felt like it was still early in the evening. The red sky, shading to dark, told a different story. Sighing, I slipped my pack from my shoulders and stretched my stiff neck from side to side. My paws were sore from the long, tedious days of traveling; my back ached from bearing the weight of my backpack.

      I soon had a small fire going, and my dinner—two-thirds of an omelette and an apple from Bart's apple bobbing stand—warming above the flames. Sparks and ash from the campfire floated up toward the frosty stars. I shivered, grateful both for my warm fur pelt and my additional bomber jacket.

      Had I been traveling with companions—a pack of other Lupes, a flock of Pteris, maybe even a couple members of that new species I'd heard about—this time would have been story time. Coming-together time. Remembrance time.

      But I had no companions, and I have no such luxury of being able to pull memories from the long-ago past.

      You've heard this story before, I'm sure. I tell it often; it's the first thing I can remember, and it has a sufficient amount of mystery for it to rival even the most exciting of tall tales.

      Short version: I woke up in Meridell with a bump on my head and a severe case of amnesia.

      Short version, part two: I had jumped from a train in an impulsive and stupid act of desperation.

      That's not to say I remember everything now. I have bits and pieces, shards I have worried over for so long that they've become smooth as glass, more dream than memory.

      So, all in all, you'd think a Christmas Lupe would love the Day of Giving. This is why I don't. It reminds me of what I've lost: a home, a family.

      I don't truly fit in where I am now, living with an ever-changing cast of characters presided over by a teenage girl. That's why I travel, partially. I want to find my old family. But I want to forget about my new one too.

      I drifted off to sleep, picturing the stereotypical fireplace surrounded by pets and wrapped presents.

      It was difficult to fill in their faces.

      The next morning dawned clear and cold. I was behind schedule, with three days' worth of traveling to do in only two. At this right, it was possible that I would arrive back at Laura's house—I still had trouble calling it "home"—a day or two after the holiday. That would have been all right with me, but I didn't want to upset my owner too much. She did finance my travel, after all.

      I packed up my meager camp and set off.

      A small farming town nestled in the western hills of Brightvale was my landmark for nearing Laura's house. I made good time that day, reasonably cheerful despite the cold and the impending holiday. I always enjoyed passing through this town. It was quaint and charming in a way Neopia Central was too commercialized to be. Handmade wreaths hung on every door, and the streetlights gleamed with a comforting glow, just like the candles set in pets' windows.

      I stepped from the entrance to the town onto its main street a little after dark. Outside the gate, a chill wind began to whip the snow up from the ground. I shivered and pulled my jacket tighter about me, trying to zip it up farther. My paws were frosted with snow, and the zipper was encased in a thin coating of ice, foiling my attempt.

      I needed to get inside. The wind had blown some clouds over the moon, turning the formerly bright night dark and threatening.

      The inn up the street looked open; its big front windows spilled light onto the snow. I hurried to the door, nearly slipping on a large patch of ice on the road. As I twisted the knob, a loud bang from above made me jump aside. I had a sudden vision of a flowerpot or piano falling from an upper floor directly onto my head. When I looked up, however, the hanging wooden sign of the inn was swinging crazily back and forth with the wind, striking the side of the building with loud cracks each time it hit.

      I shook my head and went inside.

      The inn was wonderfully warm. I could feel my frozen paws melting already.

      A Speckled Acara was standing behind the counter. She smiled as she spotted me and waved me over, pushing a logbook across the heavy oaken countertop.

      "A room for the night?" she asked.

      "Please," I answered gratefully, signing Vanessa Adair in the logbook. "How much?"

      The Acara named a price and put my coins into a pouch at her waist. "I'll have Orry get your key, if you'll hang on a moment," she said, leaning one elbow onto the counter. "Hey! Orry! Room 134, if you please!"

      The small Blue Bori who had been playing with a plushie behind the counter gave her a dark look but got up to look for the key. The Acara turned back to me with a conspiratorial air.

      "Of course, it might save you a little trouble to pay for a few nights now," she suggested, her eyes on the big front windows facing the street.

      "I'm only staying in town for one night," I said. "I have to get—back—for the Day of Giving."

      She laughed. "Ain't happening, my friend. Big storm coming through. You'll be holed up here for two days at the very least."

      Surprised, I glanced at the windows. I couldn't see much—the darkness and the wind-blown snow obscured the view. "Well, I can't just forget about the holiday. I have to leave tomorrow."

      The Acara shook her head, smiling. "You'll be stuck here, you'll see. Hey! Orry!"

      "Coming," Orry muttered, tossing my key on the counter.

      Troubled, I took it and went upstairs.

      Miss the Day of Giving? It's not like I had any particular attachment to the holiday, or to my new family for that matter. My younger siblings were always giving me useless or nonsensical gifts—one year, my superficial sister Indi bought me a Maraquan wig of some sort. A Maraquan wig, for Maraquan pets. Which I most decidedly am not.

      I don't put much effort into buying gifts for everyone else, either; I usually pick up a whole bunch of some small item while traveling and pass one out to every sibling. This year, I had a cheap keyring for everyone.

      So why was I suddenly saddened by the thought of missing the holiday?

      Probably the same reason everything else saddens you, for Fyora's sake, I told myself sternly. Because you can't have it with your old family—your real family—either.

      As I laid my head on the pillow, my pointed ears twitched towards the window. Distantly, I could still hear the banging of the inn's sign against the wall. The wind was howling.

      Not good omens.

      But I dreamed the same dreams as always.

      I knew the Acara at the counter had been right as soon as I woke up. The world outside my window was pure white, as if a blanket had been hung just outside the glass. The wind still shrieked, but otherwise, there were no signs of life outside.

      I wasn't going to get back today. Or maybe even the next day. Which meant that I would miss the Day of Giving.

      I couldn't even tell them—what Weewoo was going to deliver a Neomail in this blizzard?

      Downstairs, I had breakfast and attempted to ignore the Acara's knowing smiles. Pictures of my siblings kept popping into my mind: all of them sitting around the living room, staring at the door, waiting for the bell to ring or for the noise of my pawsteps to echo from the front porch. They would all be there, from the ones I kind of liked (Fhoboz—he barely talks) to the ones I didn't like at all (Indi and basically everyone else). They would all be there, waiting for me, growing more and more disappointed with each passing hour.

      My owner's smile would fade. Slowly, then quickly, and all because of me.

      That's why I did it. Not because I like them. But because I couldn't bear to think of their sad, sad Day of Giving.

      I left my plate and cup on the table and gathered up my backpack, strapping it securely onto my shoulders. The key I pushed across the counter to the Speckled Acara, who looked confused. "Are you leaving?"

      "Yep," I replied, double-checking the snugness of the straps on my backpack.

      "You'll freeze!" she gasped.

      "I'll be fine," I snapped. "I have to get home."

      You said "home," I thought to myself a moment later, puzzled. My time to dwell on it quickly vanished as I stepped outside into the blizzard.

      I could barely see the outlines of buildings. The quaint little town looked like it had just experienced an ice age. The wind quickly chilled my ears and tail; I tucked the latter close to my body for warmth. I was going to make it back, no matter what. Determined, I exited the town by what looked vaguely like the front gate.

      I had underestimated the snowstorm, or overestimated myself. Just a few hours into my trek, I was ready to give up. It was too cold; it was too windy; it was too far. I kept being blown off course by the relentless wind, resulting in several inconclusive searches for the road I had been following. Was I even still walking in the right direction? I decided that I might never know; the only proof of my path would be found the next morning, when some weary traveler came upon me, frozen in a big blue block of ice.

      I cried out as a particularly strong gust of wind drove me into a snowbank. Lying there, I spit snow out of my mouth and nose and stared at the dull grey sky. What had possessed me to try this? I didn't even care about those pets that much. Not enough to risk my own pelt for them.

      My eyes were closing when I heard a faint shout.

      Nessa!

      "No," I mumbled out loud. "Lemme sleep..."

      Nessa! Nessa, get up! Hey, Auva, she's over here!

      Grudgingly, I opened my eyes. A Royalboy Lupe—my confusingly painted sister Auva—stood over me, holding out a paw. Beside her was Indi, a White Xweetok, the sibling who annoyed me the most. She appeared to have put on makeup for this excursion. Unbelievable.

      I took Auva's outstretched paw and pulled myself up. I felt stiff and frozen. Even my eyelashes had trouble moving. My two siblings loaded me and my pack onto what looked like a sleigh. Or a very festive cart, I don't know. We moved off into the storm, and I fell asleep for real this time.

      I didn't wake up when they brought me inside, nor when they put me into my bed. I woke up the next morning in a puddle of tepid water, still wearing the clothes in which I had attempted to brave the storm. After changing and drying off, I ventured downstairs.

      It had been a while since I had last been inside this house. Not much had changed. There were a few new pictures on the walls, including a few new pets I hadn't met, but otherwise, the place gave off a comforting aura of familiarity. Odd, considering how much time I spent trying to stay away from it.

      They were all in the living room, presents strewn around the floor—just as I had pictured back at the inn. Instead of disappointment, however, my siblings' faces wore excited smiles.

      Oh, Fyora, there were so many of them. A dozen, at least. I considered backing out now.

      Too late. My owner, a brunette of average height, was already standing. She enveloped me in a hug. I was tempted to pull away.

      "Merry Day of Giving, Nessa," Laura said, smiling. She stepped back. "Where'd we put Vanessa's presents, guys?"

      There was a mad scramble as everyone made a grab for one of the boxes. Then they all sat there expectantly as I opened each and every one.

      There was the usual mix of impractical and strange gifts given by every member of the house, even the new ones I didn't know ("Oh, I'm just being fostered for the holidays," peeped a small Red Pteri when I asked her who she was). Until the last gift, that is.

      It was in a box on the floor. No one seemed to want to claim responsibility for it, and the tag was blank. I peeled off the wrapping paper and opened the box to reveal a pair of Lupe Vagabond Boots.

      My mouth fell open. Expensive—and useful. And they fit perfectly. Wiggling my toes around in the roomy new boots, I could almost pretend the bitter cold of the last few days had never existed.

     I looked around, studying the faces of my siblings. Who had given such a perfect gift? And to me, who they probably barely knew or outright disliked?

      One pet was half-turned away from the group. Her face looked red. Her eye makeup—the first time I'd ever seen it this way—was smudged ever-so-slightly.

      "Thank you," I said loudly, hoping she'd turn and look at me, but Indi merely blushed harder and refused to meet anyone's eyes.

      "Welcome home," Laura said, grinning.

      Yeah. Home.

      They might not be my old family. But they were okay. They were home.

The End

 
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