Page 52 of The Imaginary Friend's Obsession

The dinner table is silent enough to hear the clock’s movement and the soft scrape of utensils across plates. I push my food around, my stomach too knotted to eat. When I fumble and accidentally drop my knife, the clang of it against the floorboard rings out like a gunshot.

I flinch. My mother flinches too and then glares. My father does not look up from his meal, but his lips press into a thin line.

I lean over. When I lift the tablecloth, Dorian peers up from beneath it, holding out the fallen knife in one hand. A show of solidarity; he knows how I hate these family dinners. I don’t dare speak to him in front of my parents—I’ve made that error plenty of times when I was younger—but a smile curves the corner of my lips as I sit up again with the utensil in hand.

“Is something funny?” my father asks. His tone is enough to make the bruises on my wrists ache anew.

But they’re hidden beneath my sleeves. Beneath the façade of a perfect daughter and a perfect family.

I glance at him, but he still seems focused on his meal. And emptying his glass of whiskey. “No, Father. May I be excused?”

“You’ve hardly touched your food,” my mother says, tutting under her breath.

“Go on,” my father says.

“But Pat—”

“I’ve made my decision, Nina.” His voice is suddenly loud, cracking like a whip.

My mother and I both tense. She glares at me across the table. She’ll blame me, later, for what happens after he’s had a few more drinks. My heartbeat rises with the realization, and the lights flicker.

My mother looks up at them and back at me. My father continues drinking his whiskey. Nobody says anything; we are all very good at pretending that everything is fine and normal in this house.

I walk to the kitchen, emptying the remnants of my meal into the trash before rinsing my plate. The hiss of voices from the other room is audible above the rush of water.

“—caught her talking to herself in her room again,” my mother says. “It’s getting out of hand.”

“Something wrong with her. Always has been.”

I look up at Dorian, who is sitting on the counter beside the sink, long legs dangling. He shrugs at me, a silent question:are you okay?

I shrug back, a silent answer:it’snothing new. But I go still at the next snippet of my father’s words. I pause, water running over my hands, straining to listen without making it obvious.

“…Send her away somewhere…”

“But what will people say?” My mother’s voice grows shriller. “Our daughter in a mental hospital? We’ll be the talk of the town!”

“We already are!” my father thunders. He’s getting loud now, his words slurring, no longer attempting to prevent me from overhearing. “You hear what they say. Crazy Daisy, they call her.”

My stomach plummets. The lights flicker overhead once, twice. The conversation in the other room goes silent.

My power is a livewire beneath my skin, itching for escape. It’s been getting worse lately, harder to control. Sometimes I catch my parents glancing at me with fear in their eyes. Sometimes I think they’re right to be afraid.

I shut off the water and walk toward the stairs before they can start up again, or worse, call me in. The conversation, this time, is an exchange of heated whispers. My heart is pounding. What will happen if they send me away? If I lose Dorian? I can’t imagine it. He’s the only thing that holds me together. And without me, it will just be my parents in the house. Dorian will be stuck with them and—

I pause, bottom step creaking beneath my foot, as music sputters to life above me. My eyes flicker up to the hallway, where I hear the thump of the attic ladder coming down. The song “Run, Rabbit, Run!” spills from the space above, and my blood goes cold.

He’s here. I didn’t even think his name this time. He’s getting stronger.

In a blink, Dorian is in front of me, taking my hand between two of his gloved ones. Another presses over my eyes.

I shut them and let him lead me blindly up the stairwell. When he presses me against the wall in the hallway, I go still, eyes closed. I can hear the song playing and the sound of my parents arguing below, growing progressively louder though the words have become indecipherable. But louder than either is the thump of footsteps in the hallway, just a few feet away from me.

I clutch at Dorian. He’s trembling. We hold each other close as the footsteps approach. They pause beside us—and then continue onward, downward, creaking along the steps I just climbed. Dorian tugs on my hand and we head to my room. I drop to my knees and climb under the bed, and Dorian is close behind. He holds me, two arms wrapped around my waist, the other two covering my ears to block out the growing sound of my parents’ shouting.

“Where are you going?” I hear my mother shriek. “Don’t walk away from me—”

My parents can’t see the thing that lives in the attic, but theyfeelhim, whether they know it or not. Just like he feels their fear, their anger. He stokes the flames and feeds off the ensuing chaos. A vicious cycle. All I can do is block it out as best as I can. Whenever I look at him, give him my attention, eventhinkabout him, it only makes him stronger.

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