Prompt Writing #4

This one's certainly different, but it's not the worst.

Prompt: [Yeah Writers blog]

"Write a story from the perspective of an imaginary friend of someone who is not a young child anymore (over 12). But they only exist while the person is thinking of them, lately there have been many other things on their mind."

Randomly Selected Story and Character (after rejecting a few randoms that just wouldn't fit): Bloom, M

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

I doubt she has much need for me anymore.

I know I've been her lifeline for a while, years, even. A dark cage can't be the best place to find friendship, nor keep one's self sane. As alone as she's always been—well, without any "real" companionship, at least—I don't think she would be able to talk now if it weren't for me. She wanted me to listen, so I did. She wanted me to speak back, so I did. Whatever she needed—someone else with unexplained abilities, with girl problems, with dreams of the outside world—I was. I had no choice; I was hers.

There was never anything wrong with that. She was the reason I even existed; why wouldn't I want to be her friend? Why wouldn't I want to help ease the pain of being alone for so many years? I needed her, too. Just as I listened to her, she listened to me. I knew there were others out there, some like her, some unlike her, but I never wanted to leave. I was needed in that cage, and I really did belong there with her.

When she left, finally ran outside and pulled me along with her, I was excited. We even had a new friend, Lawrence. Or, she did. He could never hear me. I don't know why I expected him to. He wasn't my special friend, nor I his.

At first she would talk to me about him, like girls are supposed to talk. But she started to talk to him more. That was all right. Then the real running started.

We always knew she was kept in that cage for a reason, and that she wasn't supposed to be let out. I couldn't have been any more surprised than her when the others tried to hunt us down. When her thoughts turned more to survival than friendship. When she only had time for friends that could actually interact with the rest of the world to help her keep running.

I was patient. They couldn't stay after her forever, and, once they pulled back, she and I could start talking again. But she kept talking to Lawrence. She kept running. I kept fading.

Sleep felt strange. When she was asleep, when she had stopped thinking of me in the cage, I would sleep. When she turned a blind eye to me in her waking moments, I still slept. I actually started missing things. I didn't see her for days. Weeks.

Even now, as we chat quietly over a fire and a sleeping Lawrence, I can barely hang on. She's not focused on me. She hasn't been lately. I'm not even sure when the last time I saw her was—her hair seems longer, her body thinner.

Maybe she'll keep me around to talk about Lawrence sometimes. Maybe she'll let me stay awake—alive—even if she barely needs me. We've been best friends for years, and we can't turn our backs on that. Right?

I can't fight the feeling that she might do just that. Would that be all right? I've only existed to help her stay sane, and now she doesn't need my help with that. Is it okay if I sleep forever, having already served my purpose? It sounds like it should be. Maybe I can come to believe it wholly if I have the time.

For now, I'll cling to life whenever she needs me to.