CHRISTMAS DAY MASSACRE

He calls it “the Christmas Day Massacre.”

Like it’s a joke.
Like it’s something funny.
Like it wasn’t the night he beat the girl he said he loved—until her body shook, until her eye bruised, until her throat burned from screaming and sobbing and begging.

I’ll never forget that night.
Christmas Eve.
I had no money to buy him a present, and I didn’t want to ask him for help—God forbid I ever need anything from him. So I messaged a few men I had dated before him, asking if they could help. I know it was stupid. I was desperate to give him something. I didn’t want to feel ashamed showing up empty-handed.

He went through my phone.
And that’s when it started.

He threw me to the ground.
Kicked me—my back, my ribs, my legs, my head.
I covered my face, but it didn’t matter.
He kept going.

Strangle marks on my neck.
Black eye.
Body trembling.
Vision blurry from crying.
Spirit crushed.

And even then, I begged him:
Please, just let me cook the ham for your family.
I had promised his mother. Back when she still smiled at me, still thought maybe I was good enough.

So I did.
I cooked it.
I showed up to that house like nothing had happened.
Because that’s what abuse makes you do—it teaches you to perform.
To cover the bruises, hide the tears, swallow the truth.

And now he calls it “the Christmas Day Massacre.”
His words. Not mine.
He laughs about it sometimes.

And I stay silent.

But not anymore.

Because there’s nothing funny about being beaten by the person you love.
There’s nothing casual about trauma.
And there’s nothing okay about a man who turns your pain into a nickname.

K.