Sing Your Sorrows 2

The rest of the day passed relatively uneventfully, more stories, more admiring gazes from people she shouldn’t have been spending her social time with. People younger than her. Not real friends, just a friendly human face to talk to, or rather at.

It wasn’t that Emma didn’t like to tell her webs of fiction; on the contrary. It was just that twinge of a memory it sparked, that night when her mother had told her to write, and never to stop. To spread her stories wherever she could, because she was special. Emma squeezed her eyes shut and reminisced of the long days spent stroking her mothers pale, fragile hand and telling her tale after tale, just to ease the pain.
Not the pain of the chemotherapy, no; that was dealt with by the hospitals drips, but the emotional pain of knowing she would soon be ripped from her daughter. Her life. Anything that had any meaning would be gone. For that purpose, Emma had always been a drug.But at the same time, she knew she had to carry on. Her mother had told her to, with her dying breath, on that scrubbed, antiseptic surface of the hospital. That mortuary slab of a bed. That was where her fate had been decided unintentionally. The fate of forever living in a dream, unable to wake up because you simply couldn’t. Because you were too afraid.But that was aside now, decided Emma. Of no importance at this moment in time. The girl picked up the pencil beside her on the oaken desk, and after contemplatively chewing the end for a moment or two, began to write.

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It was dawn. The sun rose wearily in the blood red sky, betraying its fatigue. The air was thickening, and the world seemed unbalanced, in a sense. What would have come so naturally before this time of impending darkness was now a strain, an effort. Holding her aching, rheumatic back, the old woman straightened with a stifled grunt and filled the pewter cauldron hanging over the dying embers of the fire, and picked her poker from the tiled floor. A small shuffling distracted her.‘Grandmother…?’
The girl stood, ruffle-haired and bleary eyed, rubbing at her face.
‘Its alright, darling. Go back to bed. We have a long day ahead of us today; you need your rest.’ The woman was deliberately vague. The more her granddaughter knew, the more danger she was in.
‘No,’ said the girl absently, but with a slight air of defiance. ‘I don’t think I need to. It’s early, but I feel more awake than I have in months. I feel as if I need to do something.’
The old woman shifted uneasily.
‘Grandmother…?’
‘Yes, yes, just get yourself ready if you’re going to be up and about. Lord, this back of mine…it’ll b the death of me.’
Turning away, she bit her wrinkled lip and wondered how long she could keep up these pretences for. Looking at the bleeding heavens, she said the same thing she always said when the thought struck her;

“Please come back. Not for me, for her.”

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‘Emma! Emma!’ The shrill call awoke the girl from her daze, her literary cocoon. She roused herself and shook her left leg, which had gone to sleep during her latest session of frantic writing. Grabbing her notebook, ever carried with her, she stumbled down the stairs to meet the gaze of her father.
‘I’m going out to town, just to get a few things. As you might have noticed we’ve been living off of Chinese food for the past three months and I’ve finally decided to get my act together.’ He grinned rakishly. ‘Brace yourself, m’darling. I’m going to cook.’
Emma rolled her eyes in mock disgust, secretly brimming with joy. ‘We had better call the ambulance in advance then’ She teased. ‘We’ll surely all be far too stricken with salmonella to even lift the receiver once you’re done with us.’
For a moment, a warm smile was exchanged between the two. It was so normal, so average. Emma’s heart fluttered with joy at one of her everyday miracles coming true. But then the spell was broken and the stony, awkward silence had ensued. ‘Well,’ her father said after a time. ‘I’ll be - back in a bit then.’
She nodded. The door had already swung closed by the time she thought to blurt out ‘I love you!’
Wearily, she ran a hand through her tangled locks and sighed, letting her lips blow a faint raspberry.

Normality? No. Who was she trying to kid?