Take This To Heart

I woke up when someone small crawled into my bed. I groaned, the body stopped moving and got off of the bed. I heard a sniffle and the door open, by now I was in the Zen state…you know? Half awake/half asleep? That was me.

I had a feeling that it was Emma, and I asked. “Emma?” I sat up in my bed, shivering at the cold. “What are you doin’ in here?” I didn’t sound angry, just tired.

She turned around and by the moonlight that was shining through the window, I could see her eyes, still teary. She wiped then. “I wanted to say I’m sorry....” She sniffled again and I had a feeling that she wanted to say something else. “…And ask why you hate me….”

I sighed. “Awe, Emma. C’mere.” She shuffled over to my bedside and I picked her up, sitting her on the edge of the bed. “I don’t hate you. I could never hate you.”

She started crying now, but silently, as if afraid to wake someone up. “Sara-Leigh told me you hated me. She told me you hated everyone, even yourself.” She took her nightshirt’s sleeve and wiped her eyes.

“She lied to you, Emma, ‘cause I don’t hate you.” She just looked up at me with big eyes as if trying to determine if I was telling her the truth or not. I sighed.

“You don’t believe me, do you?”

She looked away.

“Look, Emma, I love you so much that I’m making it my prime goal to find you your family. A nice family with a Momma and Daddy.”

She nodded, but didn’t say anything. She curled up next to me and clutched onto my t-shirt that I’d fell asleep in: black with the Vulcom symbol on it. The fabric bunched up under her fingertips, but she didn’t seem to mind, she just grabbed onto my shirt harder, as if I was going to float away. “Phoenix?” she finally asked. I was confused. Why’d she called me Phoenix? She usually called me Birdie. I was used to Birdie, not Phoenix, not by her at least.

“Yeah?” I asked, laying on my back, looking up at the dark ceiling, my hands under my head, the fingers threaded together.

“I miss my Christine.”

I went stiff and my jaw seemed to lock. I never talked about my sister. Ever. Her Christine, she’d said. I coughed. “Me too.” I finally muttered out. Then I choked out, “How do you even remember her? You were three.”

“She sung to me every night and tucked me in. That’s how I met you.”

I wanted to nod, but I was too tired. “I know.” Then I paused. “You really do remember her, don’t you?”

“Yep. She listened to the screaming guys.” She yawned out.

“Escape the Fate.” I murmured. “She’d be upset to hear they got rid of Ronnie.” A small smile crept across my face. “She’d probably start to cry.”

“Why? Where’s he at?”

“Ronnie?”

She nodded.

“Jail. Drugs I think.”

She was quite for a moment. “Are you going to jail, Birdie?”

“Why would you say that?” I was confused. Why would a five year old ask if I was going to jail???

“Mona says you use drugs…” She muttered out.

I didn’t answer her.

“Do you?” she continued.

“No.” I lied.

She was quite and I figured she was going to sleep, but another question escaped her lips. “I gotta question.” She said, sleepily.

“One more, then we’re going to bed, okay?” I could feel her nodding.

“Do you hate yourself?”

I was silent. How was I suppose to answer her? Truth or lie?

“No.” I lied. “I don’t hate myself.”

Before long, she was asleep, her hand relaxed around the shirt fabric, holding on to me for dear life.