sweet story!

This is a short story I wrote, it's mostly true. I threw in a few things, but it is a non fiction story of what me and my sister started doing every single year at christmas.

A wave of excitement rushes over his body. His heart is racing faster and faster as the anxiety drives his mind to fantasies of what could happen the next morning. His soft sheets feel as though they are kissing his skin, and are twisted around his body from the constant tossing and turning that he has engaged himself in. The static shocks jolt him with each slight twitch as the friction builds up on his cotton, fruit of loom, spiderman pajamas. “If only I knew,” he thought to himself. With the slow painful passing of time, sleep encompasses him. He fights it, his eyelids closing for small moments then shooting open as if surprised by something. The night fades on, and sleep wins the battle.
“Thud!”
The young boy awakes. “What was that?” As his head ceases its’ spinning, a realization crosses his mind. The sheets were not soft anymore, a coarse surface grinded against his exposed hands, face, and feet. When has the comfort of his wooden, twin bed escaped him? “Someone must have stolen it while I was sleeping,” he thought to himself. As he glimpses back to find his bed his head turns smack into the front of it. Pain covers the top of his head leaving a deep throbbing mark on it. “Well at least I found my bed.” He pushes his hands to the ground and raises himself to his feet. “I really need to stop doing this. But who cares right now, IT’S CHRISTMAS!”
The boy leaps into the air as a feelin of ecstasy replaces all thoughts of confusion, and he dashes to his bedroom door. Before he opens it he looks back and sees the darkness his room still holds in. “It’s still night,” he sadly growns, and turns back to his door. “If I can just see the clock on the microwave without waking up anyone then I’ll know how long I have to wait.” He slowly molds his right hand to the door knob and twists it clockwise. He places his left hand on the crayon marked door and carefully pushes it open just a little crack at first so he can peer down the hallway. He releases the door knob slowly. Places his left eye up to the crack, and gazes down the dark hall. A faint light dances on the walls and cabinets in the kitchen just pass the hallway, from the blinking Christmas tree lights. The coast is clear.
As he pushes the door open further, he slides his body out and while facing the hallway looks behind him into his sister’s room. There she was, fast asleep in her bed. His mind wandered, “why are teenagers always sleeping? Doesn’t she know it’s Christmas?! Someday she’ll realize what’s important.” He crept over to his parent’s room first lookin under the door to see if a light might be on. “No light.” He first steadys himself with his hands on the wall, then places his right ear on the cold door. “Snoring, that’s a good sign,” he whispered. He then continued, slowly, as to not make any sound, down the seemingly never ending hallway, passing the small linen closet, then the bathroom. He can see the clock from here, but cannot make out what it reads. He squints and leans in, trying not to breach the safety of the walls of the hall, because he would then see all the Christmas presents and spoil his surprise. “Four o’clock, they have had plenty of sleep! Santa doesn’t even go to bed on Christmas; they should have no problem getting up!” He runs back to his sister’s room, and almost takes a step inside, but hesitates because he knows how much she doesn’t like him in her room. He stands at the very edge of the doorway, and trys to awake his sister with a whispered-yell. “Claudia! Claudia! Wake up!” he hears a grumble and sees here roll herself over and covers her head with mounds of blankets. He then cautiously walks into her room and approaches her slowly. He taps the only part of her body exposed from underneath the piles of floral patterned bedspreads, the top of her head. Her body jolts around and faces the boy, and it looks as though a look of fear, from a horror movie, is copied onto her face; it then transforms into a look of anger.
“What are you doing up?” she mumbles in her half asleep rage.
“It’s Christmas!” the boy says. At this time a radiant smile of innocence shines from his face.
“It’s time to get up!” She glances over at her clock that’s sitting on her nail polish covered dresser.
“It’s 4:02 in the morning, go back to sleep.”
“I can tell time, I was taught in second grade.” His smile fades and a look of hurt now shows. His sister then starts to giggle. “That’s not funny,” he says.
“I know. I’m sorry,” she spits out between bursts of her laughter. “Go get mom and dad up, you pain.”
“Ok,” he shouts as he scampers out. He runs straight up to the door and stops, turns around and walks back into his sister’s room. “Claudia?” He asks in a somewhat whining tone.
“What?” She retorts.
“Can you get them up for me?” she looks at him and laughs again.
“No, but I’ll go with you.” They walk up to the door, and his sister reaches for the handle.
“Wait!” he whispers. “Do you think we should wait a little while before we get them up?”
“Probably, why didn’t you think of that before you came and woke me up?”
“I dunno.”
“Come on, we can play cards for a little while in my room. Then we’ll go and get them up.” They both walk back into her room and he sits down on her floor. She reaches up to the same dresser were her clock and nail polishes were perched and brought down a deck of playing cards. “What game do you want to play?”
“WAR!” he shouts.
She laughs, “Ok.” She pulls the top tab of the box of cards back and points the opening down into her palm; the cards slide out, their extravagant, red, swirling design facing the young boy. His sister carefully separates the cards into two piles and shuffles them; the sound of the cards slapping each other fills the room. She then deals the cards out tossing them in two piles, one in front of the boy, the other in front of her, one by one. She places the last card and in her pile and then picks them up, “Ok, count your pile.” He picks them up and sorts through them, counting twenty-six. They begin their game, both laying down a card one after another, each hoping for a higher card than the other. After they complete three games, his sister puts down her cards, “I’m exhausted.”
“Me too,” he says. “I’m just gonna lay here for a bit.”
There was no fight for sleep this time, it just came. The boy’s eyes shut and he lay there, cuddled up in a ball, on the floor. The sleep wasn’t invited and yet he didn’t try to keep it away either. He slept, and dreamed of what he might receive, once he finally decided to wake up.