December 16th - 026
"I'm cold."
I glanced over my shoulder at the child on the couch, shivering, her face pale and her cheeks slightly flushed from fever.
"You already have two blankets," I told her.
"And a fever of 38.9!" She protested. She whined. "I think I'm dying…"
"You have the flu," I told her. "You'll be bouncing off the walls and driving me and Daddy out of our minds again in no time."
She whined again, flopping back onto the couch and staring up at the ceiling. I glanced back at her for a moment, and then went back to tending to the fireplace. A minute later, I stood from the hearth and went over to the couch.
"Budge up, Cricket," I told her.
I settled beside her and she put her head on my lap. I straightened her blankets over her and tucked them around her shoulders, rubbing her arm gently.
"Tell me a story," she demanded.
"A story?" I questioned. "Mo, you really don't want me to do that."
"Yes I do!"
"Fine…" I leaned back against the couch, thinking, and her eyes followed me: waiting.
"Once upon a time…" I started pathetically, and she wriggled under the blankets, no doubt preparing for a stories of unicorns, fairies, and princesses. "Once upon a time, there was… a village."
"Was it pretty?"
"Oh, very!"
"And was there a princess?"
"Absolutely."
"And she fell in love?"
"You know it."
"And then what?"
I stared at the ceiling.
"Then they all died."
She rolled over, propping her elbow up on my knee to look at me.
"You suck at stories."
"Touché."
She flopped back down, a harsh cough wracking her small body. I winced, tangling a hand in her hair comfortingly.
"Ok, Mo…" I said, resigned, "I'll tell you a story."
"About princesses?"
"No…" I told her. I looked down at her little face, framed by her mother's black hair and her father's blue eyes. "No… I'm going to tell you…"
I paused, letting the memories I'd pushed back so long come to the surface. The love; the loss. Every pain and triumph. Every nightmare that had once been a reality.
"I'm going to tell you a real story."