Why I'm Emmanuela Swiss

Fairy Tale

Your sister was a hero.

At least, that's what they told you. You don't remember that part of the story, but that part's why you're here. Your little five-year-old sister saved you.

It had started raining, raining, raining. Your mother tells you that school's over, and you couldn't help but smile. It was just water- what could it do? Besides, you could swim! There wasn't anything to be afraid of.

Maybe you should have been updating your fic, even though you only had one reader plus that girl who only voted on chapter thirty-something and never commented, or ever acknowledged that she was reading your fic. 

You didn't: You spend the day playing Pac-Man and watching YouTube, and spending literal hours picking out an outfit. 

Grafitti baseball cap, because you'd never have been seen without that. Pink lipstick, a grey sleeveless shirt that brought out the tiny amount of cleavage that you had on your body, and jeans. 

You looked alright, to be honest. Maybe you should curl your long, long hair? Then again, nah. You shouldn't do that. 

You loved your practically waist-level hair, but brushing it on it's own is such a pain in the butt. Maybe you should cut it? Then you wouldn't have had to spend ages in the shower.

Why do you remember what you were wearing? Oh, because you're still wearing it. You still want to keep that last part of yourself before everything to yourself. Was that too much to ask?

Then, the walls began to crack as you were watching a comedian hate on Hillary Clinton. You still couldn't decide who to support next. Both Hillary and Trump sounded awful and Gary Johnson was too "what's Aleppo?" to even consider.

And you couldn't vote Jill. Fuck you, fan-fiction.

You were fine, you told yourself, because frankly you were always thinking that you'd die of stuff. The walls wouldn't crack, that only happens in movies.

Then it did: Your house just fell down, and you scrambled away from the laundry machine you were sitting on. Deep breaths, you told yourself, but you were already crying. Already adding to the water problem.

Congrats, Emmanuela, congrats.

You struggled to keep swimming in the tide. Why were you there? Everybody else were probably fine, just getting out of the house safely. They wouldn't notice that you were gone until much, much later.

You still had a fic to write. You still had a life to live, an exam to take next week. You had homework assignments you hadn't done yet. Your life wasn't over yet.

Yes, the movies were right in someways, because you saw it all in slow motion, struggling to keep swimming. Emmanuela, you're a fuckingswimmer! Second place in short distance! Get yourself together! 

The water starts to blind you, but - breathe, breathe, don't sink - you can make it too the stairs. You're almost there, Emmanuela, just quick strokes. You're going to make it, you're not going to die. You aren't.

You could, you could, swim faster, you could die!

Then the laundry machine hit you straight in the head, and the last thing you see is a flash of wave flying toward you.

Here is what you were told happened:

Everybody was evacuating. Mom, Dad, Pedro, Yalia, Lindus, Rory, Geoffery, Shirin and Baby. Not you. You weren't there, and nobody noticed. Nobody cared, really, until it was too late. Yup, like in Home 

Shirin cared. She had rushed down to the stairs, where you were lying, unconcious, and drowning. Where you were dying. Screaming and running, running, running toward you.

She pulled you, even though she's only five years old. She pulled your hair, they think, and then couldn't carry you up the stairs. You still have a bruise where she pushed you. But it's thanks to her that you're alive. 

Your mother carried you up the stairs and out of the house, and your sister had saved you.

Shirin. Who was the fairy tale girl in every story, who learnt to be brave and heroic when you needed her. Shirin, who you loved even though you've argued more times than you can could.

She saved you, but you didn't know it.

Your wonderful little sister.