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Your Oldest of Friends

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Hello there.

I’m not shocked that you don’t remember me, although... It is rather offensive to think that someone who spent your entire life with you could be forgotten so easily.

Don’t worry, you and I’ve still got a long trip ahead.

Well, some of us a bit longer.

Let’s start at the beginning.

I was there at your conception, and, depending on the circumstances, laughed with joy, or stood stock-still, biting my lip in thinly-veiled horror; although, I’m not one to keep that horror thinly veiled for long.

Over the years, you’ve given me many names; Jimmy, Sara, Harry, Mark... but my favorite of these was the one I was addressed by you first as; you called me friend.

I was there for your infancy, which, in truth, was one of the best times for me. It was the first time you had taken the initiative for the expansion of what you knew and what you ultimately wanted accomplished. I loved it because it was then that you learned to implore, to seek out the world around you.

I watched you grow throughout your childhood, as you learned the basic principles of mathematics, art, language, music, all things that fostered your creativity. You may not have had many friends at this point in time, so you sought to give me a specific form of one you could play and learn with. And, oh how we played.

As you grew though, you withdrew gradually from my presence. I understood, for you had made friends throughout the years. I was not jealous, per se, so I gave you distance. At this point in your life, you were able to more easily perceive me, granting unto me a new title, the one you called "Boogeyman". The old rocking chair in your attic still works, by the way.

As you grew into your teens, I again withdrew my presence, becoming more subtle in my methods of observing you. I watched from afar as your tastes grew in maturity. Some of you fostered your desire to create, others honed your talents in sports, or music, or even writing. I must say, some of your pieces were quite impressing.

That spiral of yours might need a little work, but you’ll get there.


And now we end at your late teens. I observed in almost nauseating detail as you fell in love, or in sweet relief if you didn’t.

Do you have any idea how large a concentration of bacteria that the human mouth contains? Simply disgusting.

Undoubtedly, for all of those who survived till this stage, there are dozens that didn’t. I must say, they did make the most pleasing sounds as the worms and other creepy crawlies made Thanksgiving out of their fragile bags of flesh.

By now, you’re undoubtedly recoiling from this unexpected statement. Allow me to feed off my own ego for a moment. I love the ones who created me. You just gave me a name to go by and a form to occupy. In no way were you influential in how I came about. I would exist and observe you whether you named me or not.

Do you remember that old Animal Science lesson about the wonderfully, interesting deathwatch beetle? You know, the one you completely ignored because you have the attention span of a housefly bathed in caffeine?

That’s the beetle that describes me; I lie in wait, ready to bring about your funeral knell, not in the form of a knock, but in the form of a blaring car horn, a flat-lining heart rate monitor, a series of gunshots, that final rev of the chainsaw.

I claim to be your friend, because it’s my job.

In truth, I’m the reason you wake in the early morning.

I’m the chill that runs down your spine at the feeling of being touched by unfamiliar hands.

I’ve had my hand in every tragedy, big or small, since civilization started.

I am the last thing your fragile mind sees before the chilling grip of death rips your consciousness from your hollow cage of existence.

I am the one borne in many, my seven heads bringing a hunger that cannot be slaked.

And before you die, I shall plant a single kiss, drawing the air from your lungs, deoxygenating your blood and dragging your flagellated, lifeless corpse beneath your floorboards. It’s nothing personal; the market demands it.

Despite the value that the Christian faith places on them, one’s “soul” is really only worth two or three of your "dollars" in reality.

You know, your dog’s barking is getting a bit loud for my tastes. Let me just go fix that.

As usual, I’ve no doubt that at this point in time, you’ve passed this conversation off as a joke, a long-winded narrative, spoken by some loser on an old, broken down computer. After all, who would ever possibly believe that someone’s imaginary friend would follow them their entire lives, just to break into their house, murder their loved ones in the midst of a pleasant conversation, then do the same for them?

My poor, sweet, delusional fool, what gave you the impression that I was imaginary?

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