The first time my parents invited her over, I was very little. She talked to me for an hour. She gave me a lollipop and asked about my dreams. I told her, and remember how she looked at me. She looked surprised, serious. Her shoulders hunched low and she leaned forward, “What else?” I didn’t tell her everything because I knew what would happen. My parents would find out, another lady would come, people would whisper.
Russ. My friend, my best friend. She was curious, asked so many things. The only person who asked about Russ. My parents shifted when I talked to him. My mom once threw her glass at the wall. “He’s not real!” she yelled. After, she found me and apologized. I know he isn’t real but he won’t leave. Even if I want him to, or ask him to, or pray; it never happens. When I was little it was Russ, only Russ, the mentor worried about.
Now. Everybody older; me, Russ, mom. And the others, three in total. No naming these ones. I won’t do that again. They sit around the house. Kind of like Russ. Only, they aren’t nice. They are distant and say nothing. Just sit, walk around, and watch. I have to catch myself before I yell at them to quit. It makes my mom ill, drink, and swear. Now Russ is like them. When I was little, we were different. I was more like Russ is now, and Russ was Russ, just different.
About the author:
Katie Manderfield is a writer currently living in Los Angeles. She has been published in Laura Hird, 3:AM Magazine, Dogmatika and Flask and Pen literary journals.
What an interesting world this child lives in. And the world she lives in gets more interesting as she gets older. When she becomes an adult, if she can project this inner world onto the computer screen, she may become a very good writer.