real | original short [✓]

people think i'm insane.

except my best friend.

he's always there for me, yet no one else saw him. it confused me, how he hid himself for everyone else except me. it was also comforting, in a way.

he called himself sam. he told me it wasn't his real name, but he wouldn't tell me what that was, so i just stuck to calling him sam. he was tall, with blue hair and green eyes. he had this smile that i really could never get out of my head. literally, he was always there.

after a good year of having sam by my side all the time, i finally told my parents about him. he had told me not to. told me bad things would happen if i did.

thinking back, i should've listened.

my parents were happy for me. i wasnt keen on making friends with the people at my school, and i guess they were happy for me. they wanted to meet him. little did they know, he was standing there behind them. he was shaking his head at me, like he was disappointed. i had told them, he was mad at me. he was my best friend; i didnt want him to be mad at me.

so i muttered a response of 'maybe' and headed to my room. i knew he would already be there, and he was, arms crossed and disappointed look in his eyes.

"sam, i'm sorry-"

"cut your bullshit. do you not know how to listen to me?"

"i-i do but-"

i was cut off by his hands against my shoulders, pushing me into the wall.

he leaned down with a scowl on his face, eyebrow piercing shining in the bright light of the room. "next time, listen to me when i tell you something. got it?"

"yes."

i had never regretted a decision more in my life. i should've said no; should have fought for what i believed in.

i listened to him, i listened to him for a year and a half. i was only twelve, and fuck, i hated my life. i felt trapped. i was never alone, i knew it, he was always watching me.

my parents started becoming concerned for my health when i turned fourteen. i lost sleep daily and my grades had dropped dramatically. i was a wreck, in all honesty.

my parents fought over my health constantly as well. whether i should be taken to a doctor or not, or whether this was a serious issue. they thought maybe i was lying, making up the personality, the face of the boy that i called my best friend - that i loved so dearly.

i wanted to shout out, he's real, mama and papa! i'm telling you, he is! he lives and breathes and talks and he loves sunsets and the sounds of birds and crickets in the mornings of summer. he's real.

the only thing that made me happy now, was when the clock struck three and sam muttered in my ear, "i'm still here; i'll always be here. remember that i still love you, even if no one else does." he did it every night, and i was glad for something to hold on to.

my parents said that i was to be taken to a doctor when i was sixteen, as i started having nightmares about sam. imagining him leaving, going away from me and never coming back. when we visited the doctor, i told him everything. i could heard sam screaming at me, telling me to stop, telling me he would kill me. i carried on, until finally, i couldn't take it. i shouted at sam. i cried.

"you're not in control of my life anymore! let me leave!"

"you can't leave me, kianna. please don't. you're my life; my existence. it's all you. it's always been you and i. remember? no one else. please don't do this." i remember for a split second, i felt bad. this was my best friend. did i really want to leave him?

did i have a choice?

the answer to both questions: no.

the doctor diagnosed me with schizophrenia, something i had only heard about once or twice. i was to be taken to a mental institution in three days time. it was perfect.

sam knew what i was planning; knew what would happen. he begged me not to, said we would have a good life if we just left. i didn't listen, just like the first time. this time, though, i was confident in my decision.

the night before we were scheduled to be taken away, my parents went out. it amazed me how, after all this, they still trusted me. they wouldn't trust me after this, would they?

i had found an old rope and several razorblades scattered across the garage days before, and when i ran that razor blade across my body for the first time, it felt like heaven. oh god, it was addictive already, and i wanted more. so i did, i sat there, blood dripping from my wrist onto the paper with the ink from the pen in my other hand and i wrote in rushed handwriting three words, unintelligible even to myself.

i stood on the chair placed in the center of the room and finally fastened the noose around my neck. they would see me; they would know why.

sam's standing behind the chair as i mumble the line i had written down.

"he's not real."

sam pulls the chair away just in time with my foot kicking it back.