Imaginary

Inspired by The White Darkness and JC's "The Illusions On The Park Bench," as well as the fact that I had Evanescence's "Imaginary" stuck in my head. Might be making a prose compilation next year about this stuff. Who knows.


We're fighting again.

He sits on the couch watching Pawn Stars in silence, without a word to me on the computer. There's nothing left to be said, I guess.

If I claimed he hated me I'd be lying, because he doesn't. I know that, realize that. But I don't know what it is in me that won't allow me to admit for once that I'm wrong. And so there he sits.

My grandma comes into the house. She seems surprised that I'm here. Well, it is three thirty, on a school day. Normally I'd just be getting out. We got out early and I got a ride home, though. As if I would skip, being who I am.

If I could have said anything I can't now, not with her around. She sits down in the chair and watches the History Channel for only a few seconds before changing it to Giada on the Food Network. I don't understand. She hates Giada.

Spencer would protest, but he knows it wouldn't do any good. So he pulls out a book- from what I can tell with my "discrete" glance at him, it's Firestarter, by Stephen King. But I could be wrong. I could always be wrong.

I mutter a "sorry" under my breath, which I know he hears despite the noise. He can hear me whisper across a room on a bad day, and he's very attuned to my voice. Thankfully my grandmother is not.

"I know," he responds. He sounds exasperated. "You've said it eight times now, I've counted."

I sigh and continue to type, ignoring his annoyance at my need to apologize for something that I know is my own fault. I've been ignoring him and he doesn't like it. This isn't exactly a new problem, either. You'd think I would have figured it out on my own.

I walk around the couch toward the jar of sweets and pick up an orange jawbreaker. The wrapper pops in my hand when I apply pressure to the opposite end rather than just sliding out and tearing the top as it usually would, which makes me jump a little. My grandmother looks up from her crossword puzzle, then shakes her head. Spencer is laughing.

"I didn't know you were afraid of candy wrappers."

"Just startled me, that's all," I breathe, which is completely inaudible to my grandma but clear as day to him. But I already said that, didn't I? I guess this is just me having a tendency to repeat myself again.

"Right. Just like that spider in Heritage just 'startled' you."

I frown. "You know I'm allergic to spider bites. And could you see the legs on that one? It could JUMP."

"Huh?" my grandma asks, apparently confused at my mumblings.

"Just talking to myself," I respond, loud enough for her to hear.

She goes back to the crosswords.

"You know, I really am sorry that I keep ignoring you. It's just that..."

"Other people are easier to see and hear. I get it. It's fine."

"If it were fine, then you wouldn't be so mad about it."

"No, I'm just being bitter. You can ignore me if you'd like."

"But that's what got us into this mess, isn't it?"

He doesn't respond. I type some more, working on my fanfictions.

"What's the Greek god of war?" my grandma asks.

"Ares."

"Ares."

"How do you spell that?"

"A-"

"I can spell it fine on my own, thank you," I mutter before spelling out "A-R-E-S" clearly.

I check Facebook momentarily and share a link featuring my favorite fictional character ever before I glance over at his look-alike.

"What?" Spencer stares at me with ice-blue eyes, looking over the frames of his glasses.

"Just... saw Syndrome again, that's all."

"Oh." His red hair bobs with his head as he looks back down at his book.

My mother comes in the door, her keys clinking in a distinctive way that lets me know it's her, no matter where we are.

"Did you know she was over here?" my grandmother asks. My mom nods. "She called me around one."

"Did you know she was here alone?"

And for a moment, I feel like crying.