I - [ C H R I S T I A N A ]

I was a child, I've had always been a very curious girl, constantly wanting answers for everything. I loved finding out about literally anything out there, but the question that seems to be always on my mind is this: If Santa has a Little Helper, then would Satan have one, too?

I can recall the first time I had asked my Mom this question. She still hasn't answered it yet to this day, not really. It was Christmas, and my family is a rather religious one, so we had gone to church earlier that day. At church they talked about the birth of Jesus and all that, eventually leading to a discussion about Satan. Mom was getting me ready for bed that night, fixing my blanket and tucking me in.

"Mommy?" The younger me had said.

"Yes, sweetheart?" She cooed, leaning in to kiss my forehead goodnight.

"If Santa has a Little Helper, does Satan have one too?" I then tilted my head a little so that I could whisper in her ear. "Just listen to their names, Mommy; they sound so similar."

She stopped abruptly, staring at me with such intensity it made me uncomfortable. Her glare lasted for what felt like an eternity, and all I did during that time was look at her with my innocent brown eyes; now that I think of it, they kind of resembled a lost puppy's.

"Well, I... I don't really know, dear. I don't think so, at least." She sucked in her lips and let them go again. "Why do you ask?"

"Nothing, I was just wondering." I shrugged. "Santa already has a Little Helper, right, Mommy?"

Mom seemed hesitant before replying, "I suppose."

"Then can I be Satan's Little Helper?"

Her eyes widened and it almost seemed like it was about to pop right out of her sockets in any second. She shook her head vigorously then. "No. Absolutely not."

"But ?" I pouted. "I want to help him do good in the world!"

"Christie, dear, Satan is different from Santa―they might be complete opposites, even. Satan is a very bad man, sweetheart. Santa brings gifts to little children. Satan, well..." She trailed off and let out a deep sigh. "We shouldn't be talking about this. It's really late, Christie. Go to sleep."

"But ," I persisted. "I really want to be his Little Helper."

"No, Christie. And that's final. This discussion is over, alright? Do not bring up this topic ever again." She said in a raised tone.

"But ?"

"He's bad, Christie, and it's just the way it is."

"That's not a good enough reason!" I complained, pounding my little fists beside me.

"You will stop being so stubborn and listen to your mother, young lady! Do not bring up his name in this household ever again, do I make myself clear?" I didn't say a word, just crossed my arms in front of my chest and grumbled to myself. "I said, , Christie?"

", ." I forced the words out as calmly as possible even with my raised temper.

"Good. Now go to sleep, you've got a church gathering tomorrow morning." She stood up and stormed out my room, slamming the door behind her.

" ." I mumbled to myself. " ."

I drifted off to sleep then, chanting these two words over and over again in my head: I will.

...

My younger sister, Celina, shouts. "GET YOUR LAZY ASS OUT OF BED!"

From downstairs, I hear a swatting sound followed by Mom's scowls. "We do not use such word, Lina!"

Celina laughs exaggeratedly. ","

"Just..." Mom starts. "Go get your sister."

, I curse under my breath, covering my whole face with the duvet and rolling over so that I am facing the wall—the last thing I need is seeing Celina's face first thing in the morning.

I hear my bedroom door open and see Celina stand by the door. "Hey. Wake up, birthday bitch." She says with a slight attitude.

"Oh piss off, Lina. I'm not in the mood." I reply, closing my eyes once again.

"You never are, that's the point. Just get up already."

"I will once you get the hell out of my room."

She scoffs and trudges out of my room, shutting the door behind her.

" ," I mutter under my breath, and prop myself up on my elbows. I look at the digital clock on my bedside table.

I have about fifty minutes until I have to leave for school.

I drag my tired body into the bathroom and tie my hair with a hairband from a container I have by the sink. I take my tube of face wash and squeeze some out, then rubbing my palms together and washing my face with it.

Patting my face dry with a towel, I lean in towards the mirror above the sink and look at myself closely. ? I think to myself. . You can call me desperate, sure. But desperate is a word I'd rather leave out of my dictionary.

I go out the bathroom to change into the clothes I've picked out the night before. I don't give a shit about many things, but hey―you only turn eighteen once. I'd like to make myself look decent at least once in my life, thank you.

I've laid out a cropped tank the color of burgundy and a pair of black skinny jeans. I also had a pair of black boots that extended a little above my ankles with medium heels to match the look.

I put them all on and plug in my hair curler. Once it is hot enough, I start curling my hair, but just barely just because I prefer the curls a little looser. I then apply a layer of mascara and a thin line of eyeliner, and feel ready.

I grab my black and white Herschel and trudge down the stairs, a waft of sweet and buttery scent intriguing my nostrils.

, . My mouth waters just at the thought of the warm, golden delicacy melting in my mouth.

"Happy eighteenth birthday, sweetheart!" Mom says, turning to me from the stove with a plate of pancakes and a small cube of butter atop of the stack, six lit candles surrounding it. She places it on the dining table and scurries towards me, then pulling me in a tight embrace.