Musical Oneshots

DEH - Imagination

TW: Self-harm and suicide

Evan's POV

I had a good imagination.

At the age of six I made my first imaginary friend. I named them Ro.

They always played with me and helped me with my anxiety and never ignored me like Jared did. Jared would only play with me so his mom would get him new toys.

But then one day, Ro left.

Fastforward to senior year. My best friend Connor Murphy, the first real friend I had ever had, killed himself.

He left me behind.

Until I imagined his ghost.

He guided me and helped me. In turn, I made sure he was never forgotten.

But then everything came toppling down.

My imagination was just so good that I had imagined he was my friend, that someone had come to get me at the orchard, that someone actually cared.

And I lost everyone.

Even the Connor that I had imagined.

Not before he made me promise that I wouldn't hurt myself.

But he was gone.

Dead.

So I felt no guilt as I pressed a razor blade to my skin. As I dragged it across, tearing away the skin and forcing blood to well up.

I didn't even feel guilt as I opened a bottle of pills.

I could feel them rattling as they fell onto my hand, one by one.

And downed the whole bottle.

With my arms dripping blood, I stumbled around my house as I waited for the pills to kick in.

I felt no guilt as I made a mess.

I felt no guilt as I opened my mom's closet and rifled through her things, smearing my blood all over the place.

I felt no guilt as I pulled out the gun she thought she creatively hid.

I felt no guilt as I turned off the gun's safety and pressed it against my head.

Bang.

And then I felt nothing.

Until my eyes snapped open.

Once again, my imagination was great. Amazing, even.

I curled up on my side and muffled my sobs with my pillow. I dug my nails into my palms. Biting back my sobs and screams, I curled up tighter. I tore at my scalp, pulling at my hair.

At least I didn't imagine that.

-Cronch