𝐈𝐍𝐊 - JAMIE CAMPBELL BOWER

18

     Tom should know this. He'd met Xander years ago and knew that the man hated anything and everything that didn't make sense.

     Instead of nodding in understanding, Tom almost chokes on his tea. "Jamie came out of a what?!"  he exclaims.

     Crap. You forgot to tell him.

     How exactly were you supposed to explain this without sounding crazy?

    Jamie laughs feverishly, tapping your shoulder in reassurance. He rises from his slumped position, but even then, his posture is poor as he rests his head in his hands and glances absent-mindedly in his direction. "Whatever you heard was probably correct," he says, still chuckling.

     Tom gapes at the two of you, eyes darting back and forth and back again.

     "Jamie came out... of a typewriter," you repeat, just in case he truly hadn't heard you the first time.

     Tom sets his tea aside and leans closer. The statement still doesn't seem to seep into his head, because soon he's chuckling and waving his arms and shaking his head as if this was all madness. "That's really interesting, I love it," he says. "Your writer's block has definitely cleared up."

     You sigh. There was no easy way to say this. You could probably say this a thousand times and he still wouldn't be able to understand. That's how insane this whole situation was and it was almost amusing how you'd never realized it completely until you had to say it out loud.

     "Tom. Do you remember the antique store?" you ask, slowly.

     He nods, hesitantly. "Yes..."

     "And remember... Jamie, the imaginary boyfriend Kat and I made up when we were kids?"

     He scrunches his face. "Yes..."

     "Well, I brought a typewriter home from that store," you begin to explain, glancing over to Jamie who was watching this whole conversation go down with a stupid grin on his face. At least, he seemed a little more awake. "I started writing about Jamie—I didn't know what else to do—and then, um... yeah, he came to life?"

     There's a long, dramatic pause of what might have been the most awkward silence you had ever experienced in your life. It drags on and on and on, eventually, you have to scrunch your eyes shut to avoid looking at him any longer. This must be what the end of a ten-year friendship looks like because one of those friends had decided to go mentally insane.

     "I'm being serious," you add, keeping your voice as firm as possible. "Really. I would never make this up."

     Tom runs a stressed hand through his hair. Then, he opens his mouth as if to speak. No words leave his confused and parted lips.

      But then, unexpectedly, Tom screams. "WHAT THE—" he points to Jamie. "HIS HAND JUST DISAPPEARED."

     "What?!" you whip your head in Jamie's direction only to find him sitting calmly beside you. "What are you talking—" Sure enough, Jamie's entire left hand had vanished.

     He glances down, confused as to why you both were looking at him so profusely, only to be shocked himself. "Oh, that..." he chuckles. "Sorry, just a new trick I was trying out," he adds.

     "You have... powers?" you ask. Why were you just finding this out? You remembered the time he'd unwillingly spawned in your room each time you kicked him out, but that wasn't of his doing? Right?

     "It appears so." Jamie smiles and shakes what should be his hand. It takes a few shakes for his palm to flicker back into place, as if he was made up of tiny computer particles and not human flesh. You wanted to reach out a hand to him again and feel his skin. Was he a trick of the light? An illusion in the dark? A figment of your imagination? No, he was real. You had already confirmed that earlier, but if that was true, what was this?