Writing Prompt Stories (And Other Things)

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Instead of Heaven or Hell, when you die, you find yourself in the room of a six year-old girl, who invites you to join her tea party. It soon dawns on you, you're her imaginary friend.

I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth, having been the sole heir to one of the most prestigious families to have ever existed. But although I had servants to tend to my every whim, and my every desire fulfilled at the snap of my fingers, I had grown up in a place devoid of love and affection, isolated from the attention every child craved. When I was 6 years old, my father had died, leaving his only daughter behind with his depressed widow and the mountains of old money he'd inherited. It was about the same year I gained a new friend. His name was Fred.

Fred was as tall as he was wide and had a big curly moustache that stretched across his upper lip. He wore a big feathered hat and a purple suit, and he was my first and only friend until high school. Although I remembered little of my father, I remembered that Fred my imaginary friend was so like him, I sometimes used to call him "Dad".

But even someone as bright as Fred couldn't fill the hole in my heart that my parents had made. My mother, driven to madness and depression, began to beat me until my body matched the bruises on my heart. 2 years later, at age 8, my mother took her life, and along with that, Fred disappeared as well, leaving more alone than I had ever been before.

I vowed that I would change my fate, make sure I didn't tread the same path my mother had. To surround myself with happy people, in hopes that their happiness would rub off on me, leaving me with enough to create my own with.

But now, 25 years later, I'm on the verge of taking my own life.

It was funny how life works, because even though I didn't follow in my mother's footsteps, we still managed to come to the same outcome.

My senior year of high school, I met a man. He had this bright blonde hair and shining green eyes, with this gorgeous personality I knew I couldn't resist. But a few years after our marriage, it was revealed I fell for a façade and our marriage had been a lie all along. I accepted the first times he'd hit me, because maybe I was the one at fault, I had obviously done something wrong to make this wonderful man angry. But as his crimes became worse, so did his attitude, until he had become a demon in my mind.

The tipping point was the affair. 6 years after I gave birth to my saving grace, Alison, I discovered he'd been seeing a 17-year-old high schooler from the next district. He was 28 at the time.

I couldn't bear it. I had stayed, taken everything he'd burdened me with gracefully, hidden his actions behind a careful smile and dutifully covered the bruises with makeup. So, one day, I took a knife and experimented, drawing in my skin the most beautiful patterns. After all, I was an artist at heart. It ran in my blood.

The one thing I was grateful for was that he'd never touch Alison. Despite him having no qualms hitting his wife, he never did anything to Alison. The one thing that both of us cared for deeply was our daughter. And so, I knew that if I left this earth, Alison would be taken care of, even if it meant she'd never know what her mother had gone through.

Today was the end. I had given all that I was capable of, and hopefully my daughter carried those pieces to give to her children in place of their grandmother. I loved her, with all my heart, but I wasn't sure if I could keep doing so if I had to endure much more. The only thing I'd ever want to do is to love someone as fully as they deserved. And in Alison's case, she deserved the world.

I squeezed my eyes shut as the cool blade of the knife touched my wrist. "I love you, Alison. I hope one day, you'll finally understand why I've done this." A tear slipped down my cheek. "I love you so much, baby."

And then my eyes were filled with red flowers flourishing out from my wrist, blooming until my eyesight went white.

"Hello?" A little girl asked, standing up from her place at a little play table. "Who are you?"

I blinked in confusion, and looked around, taking in the pink and purple interior and the little girl shifting from foot to foot in the middle of the room. Her dress was hand-made and if I squinted I could see my signature sewed into the pale pink material.

My signature...? My head snapped up and took in the little girl's face. The same honey brown eyes and blonde hair. The perfect bow shaped lips. I would recognise my child from anywhere, dead or alive.

"Alison?" I breathed, reaching out a hand to touch her cheek. A tear slid down my face. My baby...

"Yuuup!" She twirled around, smiling. "Do you like my dress?" Her expression suddenly sobered, her smile tinged with sadness. "My mommy made it..."

"Did she?" I asked, tears still gliding silently down my face. "I-it's pretty. So are you."

"Thanks! Are you hungry?" Alison trotted over to the play table and held up a plastic tea pot. "I have tea."

"I...sure..." I sat down on one of her little chairs and realised my body had become a shimmery silver, almost like a ghost. In the light streaming through the curtains, I appeared almost iridescent. Alison stared at me from across the table, her mouth hanging open.

"Woah...you look like an angel!"

"H-huh, thank you..." I stared down at my hands. What was I? A ghost?

"Do you want some food?" Alison offered, holding an empty plate out to me. "Sandwiches?"

I laughed softly, and felt my heart seize up in my chest. My daughter was growing up to be a lovely little lady, with all the manners of a princess. "Thank you." I pretended to take a sandwich and smiled at Alison.

"Hmmm...." Alison hummed before she leapt up. "I'm gonna show you my pictures!"

She came back with a pile of picture frames in her arms, her face straining with effort as she carefully dropped them on the table. There was silver, and wood, and even the occasional gold frame. I could see that many of them were of...myself. There I was as a young 15-year-old, posing shyly for my school picture. And then my wedding day, my face aglow with happiness standing next to a younger version of my husband. You poor silly girl. I can't believe you fell for his tricks.

"Is this your mommy?"

She nodded. "Yes. She's my favourite." She picked up my wedding day picture. "This one is the best." Alison squinted her eyes at me. "You look like her, you know? Oh!" She snatched up another picture. "This is my second favourite."

"This is my Grandpop!" She giggled shyly, holding up a silver frame. There was a plump man dressed in a feathered hat and purple suit, smiling at the camera. His brown eyes were squinted from the sun, and his mouth was wide open as if he was laughing.

"Fred...?" I whispered, my phantom hands slipping through the picture frame.

"Nooo, that's my Grandpop!" Alison grinned, placing the picture back on her shelf. "I found it in one of my Momma's album thingies, and he looked really really happy and I wanna be really really happy so..." She trailed off, fingering the stray threads of her dress.

"You're not happy?" I said faintly.

"I am!" She protested. "But daddy never really plays with me anymore. He's always with this girl and she's seven and teen. I mean seventeen, yeah."

"You're lonely..." I murmured, gazing into her eyes. She ducked her head and turned towards the window. Tears glistened in the corners of her eyes, and for a moment, she looked angelic.

"Yeah..."

"You know?" I whispered quietly, "I promise to be there for you as long as I can." Alison looked at me, and I could see my 6-year-old self reflected in those eyes. I know that I can never take back my mistakes, but maybe, this was my chance to fix them. As my daughter's imaginary friend.