Letters to Angels (For the Holiday Contest)

"Merry Christmas,” Leah whispered to herself. She was sitting on the floor of what used to be her house. She knew the dangers and risks she ran by merely taking a step into the house. Not only the physical dangers, but the mental ones too. Years of therapy had brought her from the lost little girl she once was to the beautiful young lady she was now. Her heart still ached though, and every Christmas she felt the need to visit her old house.

Leah couldn’t forget though. She couldn’t forget the screams, the roar of the fire, the heat, the cracking of the fragile supports of her life falling apart. She still clutched the single teddy bear she had managed to save, one of dozens. She still wore her mothers’ necklace every day. She still shoved her face into her fathers’ shirt, searching for his scent; any scent that wasn’t the scent of fire. Of smoke. Of death. She still caressed the small scrap of fabric of her sisters’ shirt that hadn’t been burned to her skin.

Almost two hours ago she had put up a Christmas tree. It wasn’t very big, just bordering four feet, but it was very symbolic. She had thrown out the one from last year and hung the charred ornaments, warped from the fire. She didn’t put any lights on the tree for obvious reasons. Garlands hung sparkling in the light from the hole in the wall.

Now, sitting in the living room of her burnt house, she wept. She kept herself composed all year except when she visited her house. The smell of smoke surrounded her like a comforting blanket. Around her the walls were blackened. Picture frames lay broken on the floor; memories that were burned like her heart. Her once cozy couch that they had been sitting on opening presents was now a ghost of a couch, all brunt wood and stuffing. The windows were broken and boarded with bright clean wood.

Leah stood and wandered into the kitchen. The white tile was scared with ugly burn marks where the fire had licked out. The kitchen smelled more like rotten food than smoke. Inside the fridge was food that had expired years ago. Leah gagged, like every year. She walked around the kitchen, running her hand along the appliances. Inside the open cabinets were dishes, cracked from the extreme heat they had felt.

She wandered past the dining room, running her hand along the chairs. By now she had a thin line of ash on her fingers. She longed to go upstairs, go lay in her bed, smell something in her house that wasn’t rotten food or smoke. That was too dangerous though, she could fall through the weak floor, and no matter how much she missed them, she didn’t want to visit her family. So she returned to her living room. Out of her pocket she pulled three small boxes.

“I love you mom,” she said, placing one of the boxes under the tree. Inside her mothers' box was a note that told her mother how much she loved her.

“I love you dad,” she said, placing his box holding the same thing next to her mothers.

“I love you sissy,” she said, placing the last box with yet another letter under the tree. Every year, she placed three Christmas gifts under the tree with letters of love inside. Each year when she returned, the boxes were gone. Each year, three angels were waiting for their daughter and sister to bring them their Christmas presents.