Imaginary

Prologue

kurokat

"Imaginary"

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This story contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this story may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher.

                                                 ✾    ✾   ✾

Since I could remember, I was always with Andrew. Andrew was what people would call my ‘imaginary’ friend. He would follow me wherever I went and do whatever I wanted. My mother would be worried sick when I had turned five and I had walked away from her in a department store. I wasn't scared. I had Andrew to protect me. Andrew made me feel safe when I was with him. Not even nasty old men could scare me, not when Andrew was right beside me, holding my hand.

He was much taller than me, seemed to be about six foot. He had a light smile he always wore around me. His hair was black and long enough to where he could cover his eyes and make you wonder what color they were. 

I noticed one day that Andrew had become more depressed and distant than usual. He had begun to wear large bracelets that I knew he would never wear in a million years. I took him behind my house and into the dark forest that we would go to to be alone. I turned on him and unbuttoned the bracelets before he could object. I looked in shock at the many gashes and scars that littered across his wrist. I ran my finger gently against them counting them in my mind.

Twenty was what I counted.

I turned away and ran to my house where I ran upstairs and into my restroom. I locked the door and placed the knife that I had stole from the kitchen onto the sink's counter. I looked at it for a long while and listened as Andrew banged against the door, telling me to let him in. I pulled up my sleeves and took the knife. I placed it on my wrist and shuddered when I felt the cool blade against my soft flesh. I bit my tongue desperately trying not to scream as the blade cut a thin line across my wrist.

The blood was all over my hands, there was a large pool on the floor, and my clothes were soaked. I felt dizzy from the large amount of blood that I was losing. I placed the knife down on the counter and unlocked the door to find Andrew staring down at me. He stared at my tear stained face, my gash, and my clothes. He quickly grabbed a towel and began to dab at the wound, making it sting even more. He finally managed to whisper to me, “Why would you do this, Ella?”

I bit my bottom lip and moaned from the pain, “‘Cause I didn't want you to be alone.”

He didn't say more as he cleaned my wrist in silence. I asked, “Why did you do it? Why did you cut yourself?”

He didn't answer and I dreaded that it might have something to do with me.

My connection with him seemed to grow stronger from that day on. He helped me think of ways to hide the scars that I now had to bare. I had scrubbed the floor with bleach that day and I knew that my mother would never go into the restroom so she wouldn't be able to smell the fumes from the bleach.

Not until a year later did my mother find out. Did she freak out? That would be a sad yes.

She looked down in shock at my wrist that was the most hideous thing she had ever seen. “How did this happen?” She asked with a trembled voice. Her old eyes didn't mistake my scar as something a child would recieve from playing too hard or much. Regardless of how she acted, she was no fool.

I pointed to where Andrew stood, “I didn't want Andrew to be alone, Mother. But, please don’t punish him.”

She glanced over where I had pointed and her face grew shadowed. She took in a deep breath and said firmly, “Elizabeth Martin, there is no one there. Now, you tell me the truth or I will have the crazies in the lab coats take you away.”

That was the worst thing she could ever mention to me, “But, Mother! He’s over in the corner right now. Look!” I deserately tried to convince her, the thought of people taking me away from Andrew scaring me.

She turned once more, but I could tell that she still couldn't quite see him. She grabbed my hand and took me down stairs. She began to yell at my Father and told him of what she called my ‘delusions’. I wasn't delusional or more preferably what my father called me, schizophrenic. I could see Andrew clear as day. Andrew walked into the room and listened as closely as I was. He could understand more of this than I could. I mean, what was a psychiatrist?

He walked to me and held my hand in his, “Don’t worry, Ella. Everything will be alright.” I wanted so desperately to believe him, but he didn't seem to believe his own words either.

My parents didn't look at me as I sat on the foot of the stairs for what seemed like forever. I listened to them ramble on, speaking terms that I couldn't understand. They finally looked at me and Mother pointed  upstairs. “Go to your room, young lady."

I stood and ran upstairs to my room. I closed the door and hid under my bed. Soon after, Andrew peeked his head under and asked, “You want to talk?” I shook my head and he laid down on the floor next to the bed. I could see part of his face from the slit on my sheet. His face looked troubled and I had no clue as to why he would be.

We laid in silence till finally I spoke in a small voice, “Andrew. . . Why did you do it?”

Like the first time I had asked, he grew silent and didn't say a word. I crawled out from under my bed and hugged him. He was surprised at first, but then he hugged me back. He sat up and held me against him. “Ella. . . I know that you won’t understand what I mean when I say this, but. . . I love you.”

How could he say that I didn't understand? I was nine and I was old enough to understand. . . Scratch that; partially understand what love meant. “Andrew, I love you too.”

He shook his head and kissed the top of my head, “No, you don’t know what I mean. I love you. Almost more than a mother’s love.” That last sentence confused me. My mother never acted like she loved me.

“What do you mean? Love is love, right?” I felt his grip tighten around me.

“No. . . There are different kinds. You’re too young to understand the kind that I’m talking about.”