My number 1
I have a few friends.
11 to be precise.
With so many friends it is hard to remember names. So instead of names, I have numbered them. So 1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10 and 11. Imaginary friends don’t get offended, so it’s okay to call them by a number. It seemed like a fair deal to me, imaginary ones are easier to please and a lot less drama. But real friends give you a lot more privacy than imaginary ones. One cannot do what one normally does when there are 11 others hanging around constantly judging and telling one what one must do. Now there isn’t much I can say about all of them. They are the usual talkative, repulsive and obnoxious bunch of friends anyone has. Only one of them is worth talking about. Number 1. Number 1 because I can’t understand her. This one doesn’t talk to me. She looks at me and she smiles at me. But she always seems guilty of something when she looks at me. I know she can speak, because I’ve seen her talk to the others, especially number 5. It’s weird that I still don’t know what they talk about. It’s not like I haven’t tried to find out,
What does she talk to you about?
Oh! Her?, you know, stuff.
Well, stuff, private stuff.
All of you are figments of MY imagination, how am I not aware of what you talk about!?
Everybody needs privacy, just because we are your imagination, doesn’t mean we don’t have our own shit to deal with.
At this point the conversation started becoming weird and I had to stop talking, so I asked him to leave. Fair enough, there is nothing wrong with them wanting their own space, it’s weird, but it’s okay.
I’m very accommodative like that
How many are there?
How often do they talk to you?
How long have they been with you?
What compelled you to come here?
I came here because I needed to find my reality.
This is getting out of hand. The past few days she has been talking to them and one by one they have all started leaving, I can’t find 3, 4,6,7 and 9. I started to panic, that fear, the fear of losing all your friends. Granted they were just figments of my imagination, but somehow they were real to me. The panic got to my head and I fainted.
After a while I was waking up; expecting to see the familiar scene of 10 faces staring at me, while number 1 just stays in the background, but it was different this time. There was only one face looking at me, with that familiar guilt ridden smile.
Hi this was the first time I heard her speak, she had a nice voice
Where are they?
They’ve all left
What do you mean?
I’m leaving too, goodbye.
Before I could say much she was gone. I followed her. She went outside, then onto the road and then she walked into this house, and as if urging me to come in, she accidentally left the door open, but she hadn’t seen me, of that, I was sure. I went in; she was sitting on a couch facing towards the door I came through. She saw me, but didn’t seem surprised; there was someone else in the room, sitting on a similar couch, but this one facing away from me.
What compelled you to come here? I heard the stranger ask.
What compelled you to come here?
I came here because I needed to find my reality, the others have left, but he doesn’t leave, he thinks he is real.
It hit me hard and I fell down, kneeling near the unknown woman’s chair, trying to hold back tears. She wasn’t my number 1, I was hers. She came running to me, with tears in her eyes.
Why? Don’t be, I will leave, this is your reality.
I left the room, I left her life, I left her alone with her therapist and her reality, after all it was hers.
While I walked I could feel myself fading away.
It hurt, I will admit that. The realisation that my reality was fabricated hurt. The realisation that she kept me boxed in the reality she created for me, simply to escape her loneliness, hurt. It might be fair for me to be mad at her, but I’m not.
I’m very accommodative like that.