Why did Jeremy Drucker spend Christmas alone in the bathroom?

I am asked this question frequently when I tell people about the little boy who spent Christmas alone in the bathroom. The context is usually the same; someone bitching about the holiday stress, or how they didn?t get exactly what they wanted for Christmas, or how they absolutely loathe spending any amount of time with their horrible, dysfunctional family, et cetera, ad infinitum.
?Well, at least you won?t be spending Christmas alone in the bathroom,? I?ll usually counter, ?Like little Jeremy Drucker did.?
?Why did Jeremy Drucker spend Christmas alone in the bathroom?? would then be the most likely response.
And then I?ll tell them the story. And they?ll usually shut the **** up.
Just like you will.
So why did Jeremy Drucker spend Christmas alone in the bathroom? I hear you asking. Sit the **** down, and I?ll tell you all about it. It won?t be wholesome. You will not walk away filled with the jolly old spirit of Christmas. But you will hopefully learn to cherish what you have. I guess that?s the only lesson to be learnt from this; no matter how horrible your holiday is; at least it?s better than Jeremy Druckers. That much I can promise you.
It happened twenty-five years ago.
Jeremy Drucker was a sweet and shy little boy, his angelic presence enhanced by his unnaturally blonde hair and sparkling blue eyes. I was three years older than him, but I considered him a friend nonetheless; we were both introverts that spent more time in fantastical, imaginary worlds, rather than suffering the bleak reality of everyday mundanity.
We?d meet up daily after school; him bringing his vast sketching book, filled to the brim with drawings of wonderful creatures and majestic knights, me with my notebooks, contained within were tall tales of fantasy, adventure and glory. We?d sit down, and just let our imagination take hold, every day a new story; a new world meticulously dreamt into existence.
Jeremy didn?t talk much, but he didn?t have to. His eyes said more than words ever could; weary, sad, troubled. Tormented. I couldn?t find it in me to ask him about it, but I knew he was struggling at home. There were signs, I guess. Like the fact that we would never meet at his place. Or the fact that he was so skinny. So unbelievably skinny; like his delicate frame could fall apart at even the slightest touch. But then, when we delved into our shared fantasy worlds, all those worries would quickly fade away, and I could see the bright burning light hidden underneath those countless layers of darkness and despair.
He wouldn?t emerge as someone else. He would emerge as himself, without the mask. Without the pain.
I don?t think anyone else really knew him. Not like I did. They?d see this lost little boy, bullied, insecure, invisible, while I could see him for what he truly was; creative, funny, talented. Unlucky. Born into the wrong family in the wrong neighborhood. Subdued and shackled by powers beyond his control, withered down by the cruelest reality: the world really doesn?t care.
When Christmas came around I was overcome by the silly, joyous, hopeful spirit that most children succumb to during the pre-holidays. Jeremy, on the other hand, withdrew and became, if possible, even more introverted and distant. He knew I was visiting my grandparents, and that I would be gone for a week. He didn?t say anything of course, but his eyes gave him away yet again; a sad, desperate gaze, yearning for companionship and safety.
?What do you want for Christmas?? I asked him sheepishly, knowing full well I was in no position to get him anything.
?Peace,? he murmured, ?I only wish for peace.?
When I waved at him from the back of our car, I didn?t know it was gonna be the last time I saw him. Should I have? There was this feeling, this lingering dread I failed to understand. I mistook it for holiday jitters. Excitement, anxiety, uncertainty. Maybe it was something else? Something deeper? But I?ll never know for sure. Not without him.
Maybe, just maybe, I?ll see him again someday. There?s always that. There?s always hope.
No one really knows what happened in the Drucker residence on that gruesome Christmas Eve. I?ve pieced together what I can from the few facts that have been revealed, and formed what I believe to be a realistic depiction of the events as they unfolded. I?ve spent twenty-five years doing this; relentlessly considering every little detail, delving as deep as my sanity permits into the horrible nightmare of that evening.
It is believed that mr. Drucker was the first one to die. He was alone in the living room, the numerous empty liquor bottles found at the scene suggesting he was fairly intoxicated at the time. He probably didn?t realise before it was too late; the knife stuck with some strength into his abdomen. They say he must have suffered horribly before he finally perished; there was some evidence that suggested the perpetrator tortured him pre-mortem, decorating the thin and frizzy Christmas tree with various easily accessible body parts while he was still breathing.
From the living room we move to the bathroom. Mrs. Drucker was showering when mr. Drucker met his untimely death, and we must assume she hadn?t heard his desperate cries for aid. But then again, maybe she had? Bruises and poorly healed fractures found during her autopsy suggests she was a victim of ongoing, sadistic, domestic abuse, probably dating back years. Maybe she did hear him? Maybe she just ignored the screams? It didn?t help her either way; the knife penetrated her chest with brutal force, and they believe she died instantaneously; her limp body dropping with full weight into the bottom of the bathtub.
Is that where the idea came from? The grisly sight of mrs. Druckers bloody corpse in the tub? Maybe that sparked some manner of morbid inspiration?
There is no way to be sure what went on inside the churning madness of that deranged mind. What we do know is that mr. Drucker soon joined his wife in that tub; their bodies chopped up beyond recognition, limbs, guts and organs spilled out, the tub slowly filling with blood and **** and **** and all the unnamable bodily fluids that should forever remain on the inside; the result of which can only be described as an utterly revolting batch of human stew.
The police didn?t uncover the heinous scene until Christmas was over. The Druckers weren?t particularly popular, even in that ****ty neighborhood, and horrifying screams and beastly roars echoing through the night weren?t all that uncommon around those parts. No one even thought about calling it in. It was only when Jeremy?s uncle, mr. Druckers brother, came to visit that the macabre truth was revealed.
Jeremy spent Christmas in that bathroom. I guess he had to think on his feet. That?s the only reason I could ever think of; ingenious desperation. The killer would have known there was a kid somewhere in that house. Toys, his bedroom, pictures, all dead giveaways. Maybe there was a struggle. A chase. Jeremy must have outmaneuvered him or her at some point, circling back to the bathroom.
I can?t imagine the sight. The stench. The utter repulsion and terror he must have felt when he climbed into the repugnant stew of his parents loathsome remains. The sensation of blood and **** and **** and guts in and around every crevice of his body. The thought of staying in that bathtub for a week, bobbing restlessly alongside the severed heads of his mom and dad, their death expressions more than likely frozen in perpetual horror.
I haven?t seen Jeremy since I waved at him from the back of our car. I?ve seen his body, his skinny, fragile frame, bent crookedly over a sheet of paper. But what resides within is no longer him. He died in that bathtub all those years ago, I am sure of it. What remains is a catatonic zombie; a ghastly, will-less revenant.
I visit him weekly at the home, but he hasn?t spoken a word in twenty-five years. His gaze is blank and empty, and he shows no signs of recognizing who I am. He spends his days drawing. All waking hours spent with a pencil in hand, tirelessly sketching away. But he no longer lives in that magical fantasy world we co-created. There are no knights in shining armor, no magnificent golden-scaled dragons depicted in his artwork any longer.
There?s just the same image over and over again. Shaded differently, sure. From different angles, yes. Varying in size and shape and style, definitely. But it is the same creature, I?ve no doubt about it. Distorted, tall, gaunt, undefined, but monstrous nonetheless. Carrying the blood-dripping severed heads of his parents.
I don?t know exactly how you phrased your wish, Jeremy. But I think it came true. Peace. Dreadful, ghastly, everlasting peace.
So I don?t ****ing care how terrible your Christmas is, how stressed you imagine yourself to be, how awful it is that your iPhone came in the wrong color, or how much you loathe your clueless boomer parents. Count your blessings. Cherish what you have.
Be thankful that you didn?t spend Christmas alone in a bathroom, soaking in a stew of human remains and blood and **** and ****, like Jeremy Drucker did.


Source.