Page 10 of The Imaginary Friend's Obsession

“Hi, Dorian,” I say softly, my eyes flicking to the window.

We both pause, but there’s no sign of a response. Dorian still doesn’t appear. I swallow my disappointment. I suspected it wouldn’t be that easy, but still, I’m desperate to see him.

“Before we jump in today, I wanted to ask if you had any suggestions for ways we could help X-15 talk to us,” Ezra says. “He’s trying to reach out. I’d like to do anything we can to make that easier for him.”

I chew my lip, considering. My mind wanders to that dream—was it a dream?—I had last night, and the half-familiar song drifting through the halls of my old house. “He’s always liked music.”

Ezra nods. “I could see if I can get approval to bring in something for him.”

“Maybe a record player. We used to listen to one in the house.”

I can clearly see that old record player spinning, the scratchy sound of a very old tune. What was that song, again? It’s right on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t seem to recall. I shiver and push the thought away when I realize Ezra is giving me an odd look.

I force a smile. “I’m excited to try.”

“Now, tell me about your childhood with Dorian. He stayed in your room after that first contact?”

I nod. “He wouldn’t come out from under the bed, though. He said he didn’t want me to see his face… I thought he was just shy.”

“And your parents?”

I go rigid in my chair. “What about them?”

“Did you tell them about Dorian?”

“Yes. Well, I tried.”

“And what did they say?”

“That I was too old to have an imaginary friend.” My fingers curl into fists in my lap, my shoulders bracing. “I don’t want to talk about my parents.”

“Okay. Talk about whatever you want, then.”

I tell him the first few things that come to mind. Talking to Dorian every night as I fell asleep, putting my stuffed animals under the bed so he wouldn’t be alone when I was out of the house. The more I talk, the more memories come to mind. Small everyday moments that I haven’t thought about in years.

A wet warmth on my face surprises me. When I lift my hand to my mouth, I realize it’s blood trickling from my nose.

“Oh,” I say. “Sorry. It must be the dry air.”

“Hang on, I’ll go grab you something for that.” Ezra pushes out his chair and heads for the door.

As soon as he leaves me alone in the observation room, I beeline for the window. “Dorian,” I whisper, looking into his cell. I bring my fingertips to the window and touch it, straining to see some sign of him in the emptiness. “Are you really here? Talk to me.”

Movement flickers in the corner. But before I can focus on it, the door behind me opens again. I turn to face Ezra, and as I pull my hand away from the window, it leaves behind a streak of red.

* * *

Sharing my memories of Dorian doesn’t seem to do anything but heighten my grief. My chest and throat are tight by the time we call it a day. And even after I wash the blood off my face, the taste of copper lingers on the back of my tongue.

And the more I remember, the more aware I am that I’ve been shoving all of this into a corner of my brain for the last seven years. How could I have forgotten so much? How could I have ever left Dorian behind?

When I get home, the house feels emptier than ever. The memory of the record player lingers. Where was it, again? I wander from room to room, searching, until I see the pull string for the attic in the upstairs hallway.

Unease ripples over my skin. Something urges me not to reach for it, not to go up there.

I shake it off and yank the string. A dusty ladder unfolds before me, providing stairs up into darkness. I force myself to put one foot up, and then another. There’s nothing to be scared of in this house, I tell myself. Not anymore.

The attic is small enough that I have to hunch when I stand, dustier than the rest of the house, and bitterly cold. Stacks of old boxes line the walls. But as I glance around, familiarity flickers within my mind. A faint memory of passing afternoons up here, lit only by the single small window, listening to music. I must have been up here a million times as a child. It’s strange my mind didn’t immediately go here when I thought of the record player.

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