When I was little, I had an imaginary friend. He was a childish man, I say. He would never take me seriously. One day, my imaginary friend disappeared, and I looked for him every day. Twelve years, two psychiatrists, three doctors, and nine months later, my imaginary friend returned to me. I was eighteen at the time of his return. He was still as childish as ever. I heard a knock upon my door when he returned, and to my surprise, that man was out on my door step, smiling a crooked smile. He seemed to not have aged in the last twelve years.
“Loony man, what are you doing here?” I asked him as I peeked my head out the door.
“I am looking for a Miss Rhiannon Wilson,” he replied, his hands tucked politely behind him.
“She left years ago,” I replied, lying through my teeth. He looked startled, as if I told him heartbreaking news. I wasn’t sure what my imaginary friend wanted, or why he was here, but I was too old to have an imaginary friend. “Who may you be?”
He pondered that for a moment before shrugging, “Her imaginary friend, of course. Call me Oliver,” he held out a hand. “Oliver Owens.”
I took his hand in mine before squinting at him, “What are you, Mr. Owens?”
“Pardon?” he dropped his hand and I returned mine to my side.
“I am Rhiannon Wilson, you twit. You haven’t aged in the last twelve years,” I opened my door to get a better glance at him. “You haven’t even changed your clothes, you filthy fiend.”
That’s when my imaginary friend started laughing. It started in his chest, and then ruptured from his throat and out his mouth. After a good two minutes, he wiped his forehead and smiled, “I’m just part of your imagination, Miss Wilson. You created me as a little girl when you were alone. You wanted someone to be there for you, so you created someone who would. That would be me, by the way. And so, I was created by your thoughts. And when you didn’t need me anymore, you got rid of me. But now I’m back, you see. I’m back because you’re lonely again, and you need someone.”
I clenched my jaw, shaking my head, “No. That’s not true. You’re definitely a real human,” I swung my arm out and hit him on the shoulder. My hand didn’t go through him at all. He was a liar.
“Do you believe in magic?” He asked as I retracted my hand.
“At times,” I shrug, tucking my hands in my front pocket of my favorite blue jeans.
“Every time you think of me, Rhiannon, I become more and more real, you see? When your thoughts call silently for me, I become more and more real. If you keep wanting me around, I’m going to be like you, just more… not human,” he chuckled.
I stood there, dumbfounded by this man. He wasn’t being serious, was he?
And that’s how my story began. And since the story has begun, it surely has to end.