I grew up as a sickly child. Exposure to sunlight would cause my skin to crawl and just a tiny stumble or trip would easily lead to a sprained ankle. Needless to say, I was frail and far from athletic. I was always considered an oddball, not only due to my poor health, but due to how I would avoid other children. I was quiet and kept most things to myself. I found joy in drawing, writing, and other forms of art. Most of the others would avoid me. Some would even bully me with foul words, but the worst of them would attempt to hurt me.
Being non-confrontational, I alerted my elders in attempt to make such things stop, only to be ignored. Fighting back only led to further injury. More and more, I grew upset with the situation. Once I was even trampled so badly lost consciousness, along with a few of my baby teeth. Having no friends at the time, I believed I had conjured up an imaginary one. He was dreadfully terrifying. (Well, I can’t be CERTAIN it was a he, but I always claimed that it was male due to a lack of breasts.) I would tell him of my troubles and find comfort in what I believed he would say. I’ve always had the overactive imagination, but sometimes, I wonder if he was real. Often, I think he was a result of my emotional trauma. Strange events happened that I can’t explain; only making me question such occurrences. Once I started seeing him, I started seeing even more strange things. I’d see shadows in the shapes of humans and sometimes catch a full glimpse of what would pass in my peripheral vision.
My mother would see the pictures I drew. A blonde little girl stood holding the hand a spindly, deformed figure cloaked in blacks and grays. Rows of pointed teeth, those to the likeness of a shark’s, lined his grin. She looked unnerved. She never put the pictures I drew of him on the refrigerator. I remember his eyes, silver and reflective. My mother always asked who it was and I told her what I knew.
“He’s my friend, Mommy. He doesn’t have a name. Well, he does, but he said speaking it would have dire consequences.” At the time, I was nonchalantly coloring the image of a puppy in a Lisa Frank coloring book. She was well aware that I had an active imagination when I was small, as I would draw entertaining pictures and spin quite a tale whenever she asked me to come up with a story. She would often ask me to do so as we had very few books left that I hadn’t read, but something about the appearance of this new friend of mine seemed to disturb her, though apparently the conversations we held seemed pretty normal for a little girl and her imaginary friend.
“A silver and blue puppy?” I asked him, questioning his judgment. I took those crayons out of the box, deciding that was okay. “You’re so silly.” I would giggle and continue coloring. Eventually my mother quit being so concerned about that friend of mine. She figured the scary movies she watched, and that I decided to sneak peeks at, had finally taken their toll on me.
As I aged, I didn’t quite see him so much anymore, but I could still feel his presence. It never really disturbed me. Sometimes I would swear I felt clawed hands stroking my hair when I would find myself crying. But what strange things happened were odd enough to make me believe that maybe, just maybe, he was real.
I remember when someone purposely damaged a painting I worked very hard on in art class. Their house was broken into and many of their valuables were stolen. I assure you I had nothing to do with this.
Once, a girl spat at me on the playground. An unseen force pushed her and she fell from the monkey bars, spraining a wrist and an ankle.
I recall being called names by one boy on the football team to the point of crying. Over the weekend, I found out he had been in a car accident and it broke his leg, preventing him from playing.
Other events happened that I don’t quite remember, but I could always feel the presence hanging over me, even if I couldn’t see him. Even then, he didn’t always cause harm.
Once, I was walking in a larger city and a bus swerved in order to avoid hitting a child in the road. I was positive I would’ve been hit. It came so close; I felt the wind from the vehicle brush against my skin. I closed my eyes and felt every muscle in my body tense, only to find myself on the corner of the sidewalk, where I had previously been walking.
A tree fell mere two feet away from me because I thought I heard someone call my name and stepped a few feet to my left to take a look.
When I was having one of those whiny teenage angst moments and was about to carve a boy’s name into the palm of my hand, the knife I had rested on my dresser vanished. Honestly, to this day, that damned thing still hasn’t turned up. And thank god I grew out of that period. That guy was a dick, anyway.
A lot of strange things happen to this day, and I always disregard that feeling of being watched as being my guardian, though I’m positive he’s not an angel. Why he protects me, I don’t know, but I feel as though I’ll find out when my death draws near.
Written by Shinigami.Eyes.