Hey guys, sorry about my lack of uploads, I've been really busy. Truth be told, I have written a few chapters for this new story on my phone. Here goes nothing, it's time to unveil my latest work c:
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He's Not Really There
By oOMissVegasOo
Prologue
Ever since I was a little girl, I dreamt of meeting my perfect prince who I could marry and have children with. I dreamt I'd have a family and live in a big house like a palace. But young children are always naive, aren't they?
| • | • |
"December, time to get up!" the shrill voice of my mother travelled up the stairs.
I pretended not to hear her. I just rolled over and shut my eyes tight. I didn't want to see him. He scared me. He just sat there, bruised and bloody in the corner of my room, sometimes sobbing, sometimes just deathly silent.
I don't know why I can see him, but nobody else can. One day I told mum, and she got worried and called the doctor. She thought I was having something called hallucinations. I don't know what they are either, but they sound fun.
When the doctor came round to our house he asked us what I'd been seeing. I said it was a boy in my room. I didn't go into detail; doctors liked to stick needles in people. What if he did that to me?
He told mum I probably just had an imaginary friend. He said it was normal, and that most 7 year old children had one. But he wasn't my imaginary friend. I'd told him to go away and he didn't. No, my imaginary friend is a little dog named Lola. That boy is certainly not called Lola.
| • | • |
Eleven years. Eleven years of being scared to wake up. Of trying to stay out of my room for as much time as possible. We moved many times before we came to this quaint town a little way out of London. And out of all of the houses we moved into, we just had to stay in this one. It took two years to get the boy to talk. I was nine. I guess I understood that he wasn't like me, and perhaps I even understood that he was a ghost, but I didn't really ever wonder why he died and why he was so badly beaten. A day after my ninth birthday, I plucked up the courage to approach him and ask him his name. He was scared and shy, and he just looked at me in the most bewildered manner. It took three weeks of constant questions before he even spoke.
| • | • |
"Are you going to talk then? 'Cause if you're staying in my room, I need to know your name," I chimed while picking out clothes to wear.
He shook his head.
"Well, I'll just have to evixit you then," I scowled, narrowing my sharp blue eyes.
He looked at me with an arched brow.
"It's evict, not evixit."
| • | • |
And that was the first time the boy in my room, my boy, spoke.
