Freaks

13 • lazarus

By the time my parents came round to doing the same procedure with me, I had a grin on my face big enough to put the Cheshire Cat out of business.

Though I wouldn't be seeing 'Nico' again until the week after, I couldn't help but revel at this newfound piece of information.

The thing about names was, they gave you a certain form of power. Knowing a name granted acknowledgement. It gave you a certain amount of control of what you did with it; how you shared it, praised it, tarnished it. In your name held your reputation, your identity, a piece of your soul. And so with an air of pride the next week, I brandish my knowledge.

"I know what your name is." As a three-nearly-four year old, I didn't like to bother with niceties. It was always better to get straight to the point. "Your name is Nico."

The boy paused. He dropped his crayon and gave me a look. It was the sort of look that held a thousand emotions and hundred questions but none at the same time. In the silence it seemed like he was saying why-are-you-talking-to-me, do-you-have-to-sit-so-close, can-you-leave, but in reality, he said nothing. For a moment, I began to fear that was all he would do, when suddenly, he replied:

"Who told you that?" He had his eyes narrowed in suspicion, like he believed I had acquired this information through some dastardly underhanded means.

"I heard your mommy say it."

Nico grew quiet again. And then, "Well, you're wrong." I frown. "It's actually..."

Nico slurred out a long jumble of unpronounceable words that I forgot shortly after he uttered them. There was a hint of smug pride in his tone as he recited his name, not realising all I got out of it was 'Nicolas'.

I scrunched my nose in response. "That's not a real name."

Nico looked offended. "Yes it is," he was quick to fire back. "What's yours?"

Pleased he asked, I eagerly replied, "My name is Emerson Sparke. But everyone calls me Emmy."

It's Nico's turn to scrunch his nose. "Emmy is a dumb name."

"No it's not!"

"It is," Nicolas said decidedly. "I'm going to call you... Emma."

I gasped, enraged. "You can't do that!"

"Yeah I can, Emma," he added the last part childishly; the once rare smile broadening on his face as my cheeks flushed with anger. 

"D-don't—" I stammered, "Don't call—"

❧

   "DON'T CALL ME TH—at!"

My voice trails of when I regain consciousness. The harshness of the bright artificial lights hanging overhead cause me to wince, my hand automatically rising to shield my face from its rays.

I wasn't quite sure where I was.

Though on the upside, no one was around to witness my embarrassing outburst.

I am about to rise when a sudden pain shoots across my spine and through my joints like a thousand tiny, sharp knives. Reluctantly, I sink back into the bed and try to think of the last thing I remembered.