Michelle Fleischer, Grade 8
The red of her jumper slowly faded to a dull grey as I called out her name. “Mary! Mary! Please look at me! Mary!” I pleaded. But she didn’t answer; all I could do was watch the red from her shoes fade into the same mind-numbing grey that took over her jumper. Tears started to well up in my eyes, as I stood there numb. “Mary, help.” I choked out, collapsing to the ground in a puddle of tears.
“Sonni?” She said, walking over and kneeling beside me. “Why are you crying?” Her seven year old voice continued.
“Y-you ignored me.” I sobbed, looking down at the grass and wiping the tears away. Her tiny arms wrapped around my shoulders, her hands clutching the back of my shirt.
“Sorry.” She whispered, hugging me. I buried my head into her shoulder, picking at the grey grass that covered Mary’s backyard. She sat beside me, making popping noises with her mouth, which would usually cheer me up but at the moment all I could focus on was the dull ache that stabbed at my chest. “Do you like the colour of the grass?” She said, attempting to cheer me up again.
I slowly turned my head to look at her, whispering in a low voice “I can’t see the colour of the grass.” She looked at me, biting her lip in confusion, a habit she picked up from her mother.
“What do you mean?” She asked. “It’s green.” I shook my head, plucking a piece of grass and holding it in front of her face.
“No, it’s grey. The grass is grey, your shoes are grey, your jacket is grey, the sky is grey, nearly everything is grey and it’s all your fault.” I whispered back harshly, standing up and towering over her. “Every time you ignore me, a colour turns to grey. It’s horrible! I hate it! I hate you!” I yelled, running away from her.
“Sonni!” She cried, but I ignored her, running to the side of the house and sitting against the wall. I heard the back door open and her mother call out.
“Mary?” Her mother said, walking out of the house and kneeling beside her. “What’s wrong? Did you fall?”
“N-no.” She sobbed, hugging her mother. “Sonni is angry at me.” She barely managed to get out between her cries. Her mother smoothed down her blonde hair and hugged her tighter. I felt a pinch of jealousy at this. No one has ever smoothed down my hair. I thought bitterly.
“Your imaginary friend?” Her mother asked. Mary replied with a nod of her head, hugging her tighter. Imaginary? The word echoed in my head. I didn’t feel imaginary; I didn’t know I was imaginary. Tears started to fall from my eyes again, tracing grey lines down my skin. I wasn’t real. How hadn’t I noticed this? I was someone’s imagination. My whole life had been a lie, every memory was fake. I was fake.