My Imaginary Friend

—Eve—

It’s Friday, November 13th and I am on my usual Friday morning hunt for food. Currently, I’m hunched behind a pile of rotting garbage; the scent of spoiled sandwiches and shredded dreams clouds my senses. 

The only thing grounding me to reality is the ceaseless rumble of my stomach. My hunger was the thing that pulled me from the comfort of sleep; it forced me onto the lonely streets of Blackridge on this hellish Friday morning.

A relentless wind tears across the city, hurling itself into overflowing gutters, kicking up the dirt of the unpaved roads into the air, flaunting itself in a city that doesn’t care for it. 

Blinking so that I can regain a semblance of my surroundings, I peer around the garbage pile to the Grocery Store at the end of the street. A couple people scurry in and out of the Store, hoping not to get jumped or shot by one of the many living ghosts that haunt Blackridge’s streets—the gangs, the gun-wielding psychos, or the other starved souls hungry for spare change.

And me? I’m just another one of the sorry souls Blackridge spat out of its gaping industrial mouth into—well, Hell. 

If only… I think. It’s my favorite phrase—If only—because it sums up my life in a nutshell. If only Mom hadn’t died, if only I had a friend, if only I wasn’t plagued with an incurable disease— 

The List never ends, but I have to shove it into my subconscious somehow so I can address my ravenous stomach because the List doesn’t help me survive—it doesn’t help me escape the nightmarish reality of my existence. Mom always told me to “take stock” of where you are and where you want to be because that will get you far. It’s seven years since she died, and every day, I find time to stop and “take stock” of my surroundings.

Ahead—a line of dilapidated buildings sagging under the weight of sheer exhaustion, leaning against each other for support, rooflines tilted, doors unhinged, tar dripping from hastily patched cracks. Behind—the remnant of an old barber shop, since boarded up and closed down, now occupied by alcoholics, whom I can smell from here, vomit and booze tickling my noise. To my right and left—a cracked sidewalk. Up the hill, the Grocery Store: a shining silver trophy on the rotting pedestal that is the city. The putrid smell of decomposing garbage floats to my nose, smoke from a nearby factory clouds the sky above my head, and the crackhead mumbles to himself as he lays sideways in his own urine. 

“Good morning, Blackridge,” I mutter with a wry grin. Running my fingers through my hair whose color I struggle to remember, I step out into the street and take off running in the direction of the Grocery Store. 

When I arrive, I crouch behind a broken-down Transport. Around the yard in front of the Store, there’s only one transport parked in front of the store: Class 8 Model W with a shiny violet exterior and Hover capabilities. Its owners are nowhere in sight, so I plop down to wait for them. 

It takes longer than expected, but soon, a clack clack clack draws my attention to the Store’s entrance.

Traipsing out of the store is a woman with beady eyes, pasty white skin, and voluminous lime-green hair. She’s middle aged; her tattooed eyebrows arch to the heavens, her leather trench coat trails behind her like an entourage, and the sound of her emerald heels announce her presence to the lot. 

But what surprises me about her the most is the Helper that walks behind her, carrying her groceries. A Helper? My nose wrinkles. Only the Kats (the urban poor’s name for the very wealthy) get Helpers—personal droid assistants. What’s a Kat doing down in the East Side? I think, leaning forward to get a closer look. That’s when I see the girl. 

It’s no wonder I didn’t notice her earlier. She’s small, maybe twelve, overshadowed by the woman and the Helper. Her shoulders slump—feet drag as if they are boulders, eyes fixed on her dirty violet shoes. 

As they near my position, I begin to make out the woman’s shrieks. 

“Kid, can you imagine? Miss What’s-Her-Face had the audacity to rebuke us for wearing these kinds of clothes. As if we lived here! Who does she think she is?” 

“I heard it too, Mother,” the girl mutters, chin tucked to her chest. 

“Don’t you give me attitude,” says the woman, her hollowed cheeks turning red. “I’ve already had a crappy day, having to make the trek out to the slums like some Helper. Don’t start giving me crap, or else I’ll throw it back at you. Clear?” 

“Yes, Mother,” the girl says, her chin tucked to her chest. 

“And dammit, give me a thank you for buying your food while you’re at it.” 

“Thank you, Mother.”

At this point, they’re nearer to their Transport. Knowing what I have to do, I dart out from behind the crumbling Transport, making my way to the back of the Class 8. The Helper is waiting for the trunk to finish opening in order to unload the groceries. 

I stop right behind the Helper and then spit straight at the small circuit board on the back of the Helper’s neck. The water content from my spit disables it, and the Helper locks and falls straight backwards into my waiting arms. I ease the Helper to the pavement and snatch up the four bags of groceries it dropped. My stomach growls with enthusiasm now, but it isn’t safe to eat out in the open—even if no one can spot you. So reluctantly, I turn east and jog back towards my home, groceries in hand. 

But right as I near the edge of the Store, I hear a blood curdling shriek. Some drunk’s entered the lot, I think, ducking behind the Store. When I peek out into the center of the lot, however, it’s the mother—not a drunk—that’s gawking at the evidence of my sabotage. I grin with delight. 

That grin fades away when I see the mother turn on her daughter, seething rage etched into every line in her face. 

“You,” she spits at her daughter. “You thought it would be funny to disable the Helper, didn’t you?” The daughter shakes her head profusely but the mother continues, “And now, some hooligan from the East Side has made away with our food!” 

“Please Mother—I d-didn’t—I wouldn’t—ah!” 

For the mother had just struck her daughter hard across the face. My mouth parts in shock. In all my years living on the East Side, I’ve seen a few drunk mothers who may have done things like that. But I’ve never seen one of them sober hit a kid—not like her. 

“Now I’m going to go back inside to buy what you lost us,” the mother continues, “And I’m not letting you back in the Transport. If you get mugged while I’m inside—well, so be it!” And with that, she turns on her heel and walks back into the Grocery Store, the entryway sensors beeping as they scan her in. 

You need to go, I think, but I remain rooted to the spot. I somehow can’t leave this whimpering Kat. Before I can stop myself, I’m rummaging through the grocery bags for something sweet. When I find some caramels, I shove six in my mouth, letting their flavor explode across my tongue. My stomach sighs with relief. The rest I chuck across the lot. They land with a light pattering some inches away from the girl’s feet. 

She looks up in alarm, peering all around. “Hello?” she asks into the empty lot. Cautiously, she reaches forward and grabs a couple caramels. Then, she chews them; a small smile breaks across her face, but almost instantly, it’s replaced with a fresh peel of sobs. 

I’ve only witnessed someone cry as hopelessly as this girl once before, two years ago…

~

Downtown, I’d heard a sob belonging to a young boy, about five years old, shirtless, his stomach caved in. Next to him, there was an old man who had just snatched a loaf of bread from the boy’s hands. The boy sobbed because he realized that he might die before he ever tasted food again. 

I tried to help that boy (who I later learned was named Jacob), tried to find him food, tried to befriend him. But he was so lost in hopelessness that he refused to eat the food I gave him, refused to listen to me, insisting it all wasn’t real, always talking about “my imaginary friend” that distracted him from his cold reality. He went comatose on the streets of Downtown and died a few days later in my arms, ignoring my desperate whispers to please let me help…

But this time it’ll be different. Maybe this time, you can convince her that you aren’t just an imaginary friend. I smile at the thought because of how badly I want it to be true. I haven’t had a friend since Mom died seven years ago—when the last person to see me as visible disappeared from my life. Without her, I couldn’t stop the disease that she’d helped me fight off—I didn’t have the fight to stop myself from disappearing as well…

~

Now standing here, staring at this girl, I wonder if having a real friend will help me become real too. 

Take stock. Make the most of this moment. 

It’s something Mom would say. And so I step out from behind the Grocery Store and jog to the sobbing girl. 

Crouching in front of her, I say, “Hey, it's okay.”

The girl looks up in alarm, looking all around. “W-who’s there?” she stutters, wiping her eyes. 

“Eve.”

“Eve?” the girl asks, scrunching her eyebrows together. “Well, Eve,” she says with skepticism, “Where exactly are you?” 

“That—that’s not important. What-what’s important is that—oh, I dunno why I thought this would work.” Frustrated, I get up from the ground and start off in the direction of my groceries. 

“Wait! Come back!” the girl calls from behind me. I turn ‘round. “Won’t you come back?” she says, more tentatively. “I’m so lonely.” And so I do. 

Minutes pass and I think that she’s beginning to like me. I learn that her name is Cheyenne Wethers but that she went by Chy (pronounced “Shy”) and that she lives in the East Plumhills region of Blackridge, an eight minute trip by Transport. She has a library in her house, an idea I can hardly fathom. Her mother always tries to make Chy more social but Chy believes it's her destiny to be alone. 

Listening to her, I know that she can’t see me and that she probably thinks I’m imaginary like Jacob did—but I really do think I can convince her. I failed with Jacob but I have a feeling Chy will be different. 

~

Chy’s house is one of the few in Blackridge that is Laser-Gated, so when I go to visit her for the first time, I have to spend 15 minutes fiddling with the Gate to disable it temporarily. 

After climbing through her bedroom window, I find her sitting on her floor, reading a book. I tap her on the shoulder and she looks around, eyes wide and nervous. 

“Hey, it’s me—Eve. I met you the other day, remember?” 

“E-Eve?” Her eyebrows scrunch together, straining to see the source of the voice that appears to come from nowhere. 

“Yes, Eve.” 

“So…Eve,” she says, while her eyes dart around the bedroom, unsure of where to look, “Where exactly are you from?” 

“I live a little bit south-west of you but still in the East Side, in an empty lot behind all the trashed factories off of Greywood Lane.”

“I’ve never known anyone that’s from that part of town…much less anyone outside my neighborhood,” Chy says with a far-off look.

“What about you? I mean—I know where you’re from, but what’s something about you I wouldn’t guess just by looking atcha?” 

“Me?” asks Chy, shrinking back. “I-I don’t know.” She’s as nervous as a small child would if they found their mother high for the first time. 

She blinks, rubs her eyes and presses her hands to her temples. 

“Chy—Chy, whatcha doing?” 

“N-nothing,” she mutters, eyes trained on her lap. Then, she stuffs her fingers into her ears and whimpers. 

“Chy…you okay?” I reach out to touch her shoulder and she nearly jumps out of her skin. 

“I cry myself to sleep every night after tutoring, okay? “Now will you please leave me alone?” I stare at her in shock for a moment before slowly standing up. Just as I’m about to climb back out through the window, 

From behind me, Chy says, in a much meeker voice, “She, she tells me—um, she tells me about what a miserable failure I am every session and she’s-she’s pretty close with my mother so my mother says the same things to me too…” 

“Well, do you believe them?” 

She looks up. “I—” 

Silent tears begin spilling out of Chy’s eyes and I instantly regret my question. But to my surprise, she keeps going. “I—try and fight her words, but sometimes—they’re too powerful. How do you even fight them before you become who they say you are?” Here, she almost bursts into tears, but checks herself. 

“Chy, I’m so sorry you had to go through that.” 

“Yeah—me too.” There’s an awkward pause between us that stretches into forever. 

“But,” says Chy, breaking the silence. “She hasn’t crushed my love of reading.” She holds up a battered copy of the book she had been reading. 

“What’s it about?” I ask. 

“Well…” begins Chy, her eyes lighting up. As soon as she starts talking, she can’t seem to stop—it’s as if something I said has freed her. Words roll off her tongue like clouds rolling across the sky in a heavy gale. Eventually, Chy’s dinner alarm goes off and she has to leave. 

~

For the next two months, I come to Chy’s room every day and we just talk—about books, about life, about the loneliness that once plagued us. 

Today, I’m sitting criss-cross on the floor in Chy’s room, earlier than normal, waiting for her to come up from tutoring downstairs. 

When Chy enters, she’s in a state of shock. “I—My tutor’s gone,” is the first thing she utters. 

“What?” 

“Gone. Poof!” She lets out a giddy laugh as she shuts the door behind her. Her body convulses unnaturally. Her eyes light up like the stars do if the smoke clears away. 

“Gone!” she cries, flinging herself onto the bed, laughing at her ceiling. “I told her—I told her how I felt and told her to never teach me again. She was so shocked and said ‘okay’ and just left! Left! And I did it—I—” She looked down from the bed to the floor, almost right at me. 

“I couldn’t have done it without you, Eve.” 

At this—I feel so elated, so sure, that I decide to ask Chy the one question I’ve been afraid to ask all this time. 

“Chy—I’ve never come out and said it straight, but—I’m invisible. It’s ‘cause of a super rare disease that people don’t have ‘cept in the slums of big cities. And—I’ve been afraid you’re thinking I’m all in your imagination, but I’m not. I’m real. And I wanted to ask if you thought so too or if I’m just an imaginary friend to you.”

It was the biggest thing I’d ever told another human being. My heart balloons in my chest, my eyes water, and, strangely enough, my teeth chatter. Then, her lips part and she says—

“I-I believe you, Eve. I believe you’re real.”

There’s a pause in which the words sink their way in through my skin, into my head, trickling down through my body to my toes. Once they do, a weight lifts off my chest; my eyes well up with unimagined tears and I fling myself around her, squeezing the air out of her. For the first time in seven years, I feel validated, complete. The reality hits me harder than it ever had before:

I have a friend. 

—Chy—

It’s been twelve years since I first met Eve and I haven’t found a more faithful friend than her. The day I told Eve I believed she existed was the day I felt that we had both been freed. 

Since then, I haven’t held onto our friendship with the same desperation as I did then and we don’t see each other as often. 

She still comes by every so often—she’s there to remind me of who I am. 

Ever since Eve’s been away, I’ve had a couple relatively successful friendships, but none as meaningful as hers. It almost makes me feel bad for the day I lied to her twelve years ago, when I told her I believed she was real. 

~

Part of me feels terrible for building a relationship on a lie, but when I remind myself that I’m only lying to myself, it doesn’t seem as bad. Eve shows up in my life to help me cope through things. Without her, I don’t think I would’ve ever gotten through my adolescence. If I told her I didn’t think she was real, she might’ve left me forever and—I couldn’t live with that. She was a friend when I had none. 

I guess there’s no such thing as the “real friend” I used to wish for before I met Eve—”best friends” are just as unlikely. Best friends are the perfect ones that live in your head. 

But despite everything, I wouldn’t trade the world for the precious friendship Eve and I have. 

I wouldn’t trade the world for my imaginary friend.