But Make it the Fucked Up Version Where the World has Gone to Shit

Chapter Five: The Little One

As I moved into sixth grade, I felt like I was sinking deeper into my own world, where I was the hero, even if no one else saw me that way. The bullying hadn't stopped; it just got quieter but sharper, like it was a secret everyone else knew but me. My sketchbooks became my escape, filled with heroes who stood tall and strong, who had the kind of courage I could only imagine. They kept me going, even on the hardest days when it seemed like I'd always be on my own.

At home, though, things felt different. My parents had been talking in these quiet, excited voices, giving each other knowing smiles and sharing glances over the dinner table. Then one night, they sat me down and told me I was going to be a big brother. It didn't feel real. I'd been an only child for so long, the one whose silence filled the house, the one who disappeared into his room with a notebook. Sharing all of that with someone else felt strange, and I wasn't sure if it would ever feel normal.

But as the months went by, they kept talking about the baby, planning and decorating the extra room. They painted it a soft yellow and filled it with stars and clouds, like a magical little world just for my baby sister. I tried to stay quiet, but inside, I felt this strange mix of hope and worry. I'd never been close to anyone before, not really, and I wondered what it would be like to share even a small part of myself. I even wondered, maybe dared to hope, that my little sister might look up to me one day.

Then, on a cold winter morning, everything changed. I was sitting alone at my usual lunch spot in the cafeteria when the school office called me over. My dad was waiting there, his eyes bright with excitement, and when I walked over to him, he just smiled and said, "You have a baby sister." My heart raced as we headed to the hospital. It all felt surreal, exciting, and nerve-wracking at the same time. I didn't know what to expect, or if I'd even known what to say to her.

The hospital was busy, and I felt like I was floating as we walked through the halls. When we reached the room, I peeked inside and saw my mom holding a tiny bundle wrapped in a soft, white blanket. She looked tired but happier than I'd ever seen her, and she waved me over. I walked slowly, not sure what to feel, until I saw my little sister's face.

She was so small, her face scrunched up in a peaceful sleep, with a tiny hand peeking out of the blanket. I sat on the edge of the bed, and my mom carefully placed her in my arms. She was warm and light, and I held her as gently as I could, terrified of doing something wrong.

"Meet Emma," my mom whispered. Emma. The name was soft and kind, like a piece of music I'd heard once and remembered without even trying. Emma opened her eyes and looked up at me, her gaze steady and curious. She was studying me, I realized, like she was trying to figure me out, too. And then, in one small but incredible moment, she wrapped her tiny fingers around my pinky. Her grip was so tiny but firm, grounding me in a way I hadn't felt in a long time.

In that instant, I knew that I didn't need to be a superhero for the whole world, but maybe, just maybe, I could be one for Emma. It felt heavy but good, a kind of responsibility I'd only ever imagined in my drawings. I wanted to protect her, to be the kind of brother she could count on, just like the heroes I drew who always stood by the people they cared for.

After Emma came home, everything felt a little different. I was still quiet at school, still kept to myself, but at home, I had a new role. I'd sit beside her crib, quietly sketching while she lay in her tiny bed, her soft breaths filling the room. Sometimes, I'd show her my drawings, holding them up as she watched with wide eyes, her gaze following the colors and shapes. I knew she was too young to understand, but somehow, it felt like she did. She looked at me like I mattered, just the way I was.

For the first time in a long time, I didn't feel completely alone. Emma didn't care if I was different, if I wasn't like the other kids. She didn't laugh at my drawings or tease me for being quiet. In her small, trusting way, she made me feel like I belonged. I didn't have to be anyone else with her; just being her big brother felt like enough.

One evening, as she slept in my arms, I made a promise to myself and to her. I'd be there for her. I'd protect her from everything I could. I wasn't a hero in the real world, but in out little world, in our home, I could be. I could be the one to keep her safe and shower her that no matter what, she wasn't alone. And as I looked down at Emma, tiny and trusting in my arms, I felt a quiet strength settle in my heart. Maybe it wasn't much, but it was enough.