Walking On The Edge

I had an imaginary friend, once. Mulberry. Yes, that was his name, I'm sure of it. He was a small friend, more like a pixie than a human. He didn't have wings but he could hover a few feet from the ground. I was always jealous of him for that. His hair had been—I don't remember. Red, maybe? I know it was curly and I know it was short. Perhaps it was blue. He always wore orange plaid shorts and a white tank top, but I'm pretty sure his skin was tanner than mine. I remember that the contrast between his skin and his shirt used to make me smile.

He left at some point. I'm not sure when, its so hard to remember things like that nowadays. I spend more time remembering things that never happened than things that did. Sometimes I feel crazy. Sometimes I know I am crazy.

They had me locked up for a while. In a small white room that made me think of hospitals. I always had to wear one of those secured coats around my arms because they thought I was dangerous. In that room, Mulberry visited often, I think. Or it may have just been my imagination. Either way, he helped make the time bearable. He would tell me jokes, and even though it hurt to laugh because of the tight arm jacket, I would.

People tell me I'm insane, but I'm certain that sanity stems from insanity. I mean, if insanity is all someone has ever known, then wouldn't it be the same thing as sanity. Others might believe the person is insane, but if the person in question feels sane when insane, then why would it matter what anyone else thinks? I feel sane. Sometimes. People tell me I'm insane, but I try not to let it bother me. A lot of the time, I like my quote on quote “Insanity.” Its my normal. Its my blanket from the cruel outside world.

I see the world through a window. It's like my insanity is the glass and it warps everything past it. Just a little, but enough. The doctors like to send me to therapists now that I'm not in that room anymore. I like not wearing the arm jacket, but now I'm confined to my house. My little, wonderful house. They like to send me to therapists though. Wait. I already said that. I forget so easily now. It feels good to forget. I don't have to remember what happened. Mulberry helps with that sometimes, though I hardly talk to him anymore.

Sometimes they send me to therapists to talk. I hate talking, because it forces me to remember, to open that window again and remember what happened. Honestly, I'd like to put in a second window, just to make it harder to break through. The therapists don't like me. I'm a mute by choice, but sometimes they can get me to talk. Usually its just rambling. I only talk to Mulberry, or when I'm alone in bed at night.

I'm not old. I'm not even thirty yet. But I feel so frail, so fragile. Just like my window.

My house is tiny. It works for me though. There's a small kitchen and a living room and off to the side down a little hall is a little bathroom and my little bedroom. Its a sweet little house, with little pillows, little pans and little pictures of my family. They all stay away from me. They think I'm crazy and they don't think its safe to be around me.

I have a picture of Zachary and I holding Lisabel when she was born. The picture is dusty, though. Its just a snapshot, right? It captured a moment but it will never be the same as a real hug or kiss, or hearing their voices. Sometimes I hear their voices in my head. Sometimes Mulberry brings Lisabel along, just for me to say hi and comb her beautiful auburn hair. They forgot about me. Zachary still writes me letters, but I don't read them anymore. I used to, but I couldn't take how many times he said he blamed himself for my mental disintegration. He always wrote how he wished he could have known how to help me, instead of just walking out on me and taking Lisabel with him. I couldn't bear reading those words. They made me angry. Angry that he didn't help as much as I needed him to, and guilty because I know he tried as hard as he could.

Right now I'm laying on my lawn chair, in my enclosed backyard. I'm staring at the sky. I really like staring at the sky. I love it when those planes fly overhead and leave a trail of smoke behind them for miles. It makes me smile.

“Oh, Anna, why don't you fix yourself?” I surprised myself with my own voice. It was strong and confident, but there was a melancholy sound to it.

“Because I'm not capable of that anymore. You know that. You know I don't have the will,” I said, my voice now scratchy, with a deep husk to it. It wasn't melancholy, it was hopeless. It was a voice that was showered with shade and shadows and everything dark in this world.

“Will or no will, maybe if you opened yourself up, you would find it,” The confident voice said quietly.

“Find what? Myself?” I answered huskily, sarcasm layering my words.

“Yes, Anna. Maybe you'll find yourself. Maybe you can fix yourself, but you're just too stubborn to try.”

“Why don't you keep to yourself and stop trying to change me?” the scratchy voice shot back.

“I'm just trying to help. You know you have it in you. Stop yourself from slipping over the edge you know you're so close to,” The strong voice pushed, and I set my mouth in a frown.

“Shut up Anna! You're wrong. This is what I am, and I've come to terms with it. Now stop trying to fix me!” I screamed, my husky voice hurting my throat.

A streak of imagined lightning strikes across my eyes. I grew rigid as the light faded from around me and I was in the tower again. This happened sometimes and whenever it did, I lost my sense of reality. I could hear nothing. There was an eerie silence filling me, a ringing as I tried to block out the horrific scene. I couldn't bear to look and so I closed my eyes tightly. I could feel the heat of the flames on my back and however hard I tried to remind myself that they were fake, I felt myself grow even more afraid. I kept thinking maybe I'll hear a voice beckoning me to safety. Maybe someone would come to help me. And when I felt the world trade center building that I stood in shudder, I felt again the same terror I had when I had actually been there, so many years ago. I wrapped my arms around myself begging myself to wake up from this terrifying nightmare.

I felt something tug at my conscience. Just as I felt the concrete under my feet giving way, I snapped back to reality. I was sitting on my lawn chair in the backyard, with my arms wrapped around myself. My knees were pulled into my chest and I was gently swaying back and forth. Inside, I tried to lock the window that my insanity was holding shut. All the rubble from the memories began to tug it open again and I just managed to lock it before it flew open and immersed me back into the terrifying nightmare.

I was shaking and I was pale. Beads of sweat trickled down my cheeks, my chest and onto the lawn chair.

“I'm here, Anna,” A voice came from behind the large oak tree in the corner of the yard.

My head snapped up and a smile split my lips. Mulberry came sauntering out from behind the tree. I felt my shaking come to a slow stop as we spoke.

“Mulberry?” I asked hesitantly, even though I knew it was him. “Is that really you?”

“Yup! Me in the flesh. Anna, its okay, you don't have to worry. I'm here now,” he said softly, walking up to me and taking my hand. “I've got you.”

“You keep leaving me. Your vacations get longer and longer. When will you stay with me?” I asked him, my voice on the verge of desperation.

“I don't know, Anna.”

“But you're my friend. Why don't you know? Just choose to stay,” I argued, confused at his vague answer.

“I'm your imaginary friend,” Mulberry reminded me with a whisper. He tucked a strand of my hair behind my ear.

“No. No you're not. Where did you get that idea from? That's crazy.”

Mulberry hushed me and stroked my hair. His eyes darted to my chest and lingered for a moment before he regarded me once more. “No. Please, Anna. Don't do this. I'm not really here. This isn't the way to fix you're problems.”

His hand moved up my thigh and he lay his head upon my chest. I smiled, even when I heard him moan in agony. He didn't want this. He knew it was wrong for me to want this. It wasn't the way to deal with my memories. I was crazy, insane even. But was I this insane? Perhaps I was.

Mulberry broke away from the will I was keeping him under. I was making him want this, but he was fighting it. He was trying to fight it. He shook his head violently.

“Read Zachary's letters, Anna. Watch the sky you love so much. Distract yourself. You don't want this. I know it. It isn't you,” he pleaded with me as I forced him back down onto my chest.

Before he could break out of my compulsion again, I threw all that I had at him. Finally, my imaginary friend consented to what I wanted, to what I needed.

“I knew you'd be okay with it. You want this. I need this. It's been so, so long,” I whispered.

His hands disappeared under my shirt. I pulled his off quickly and before long, the yard was littered with clothes. It didn't take long, but it felt like forever. Forever in a very good way. I was breathing heavily and my skin was flushed. I was overcome by happiness, even in my darkest moment with my best imaginary friend. We had so many memories together, so many good times to remember. This would be my favorite.

Mulberry sighed heavily with pleasure when it was done. I knew he had loved it, and I lowered my control over him for a moment. He seemed to be confused before it dawned on him what he had done. He began to shake his head in disbelief. He shot up from the lawn chair and dressed himself. Pacing, there were tears that welled in his eyes. I could not understand his tears. I could only understand the physical bliss that was still settled over me. Why was he so sad? He should be happy, not somber. We had just sealed the friendship between us.

“Friendship? Anna, that was more than friendship and I hated it. Why would you make me do that? Why would you do that to yourself?” Mulberry rambled. Sometimes I forgot that he could hear my thoughts.

“I needed it,” I said in a small voice, his anger wafting over to me. “Don't be angry with me, Mulberry.”

He stopped abruptly and came closer to me. He spoke in a significantly softer voice. “Don't believe for one second that I'm angry at you, Anna.”

“Then why are you yelling?”

He took my hand, not because I made him but because he wanted to. That's what the problem was, I suddenly realized. I felt guilt flow over me, and soon I felt myself slipping back into dumbstruck insanity. His fingers were warm over mine.

“Because I know that wasn't you. Anna—you've changed. A lot. We used to be friends, equals. But we're different now. You're different. I can't stay friends with someone who has changed like you have. I cannot be part of you when that is how you deal with things,” Mulberry paused to wipe the tears falling from my eyes. It did no use. “There's still a part in you that's the person I used to know. I know you're in there; the real you. This time, I can't come back- No. I won't come back until you find her again, okay?”

I nodded, guilt racking my thoughts. I couldn't think, my brain was mush. My one last friend was leaving me. I had pushed him away. I looked towards the ground, ashamed of what I had done. After a moment, I felt his hand under my chin, lifting it to look into his eyes. There was sadness in them, but compassion and empathy as well. He was not angry, I realized. He only wanted me to find myself, just as some little part of me did.

“I'll always be your friend, okay?” Mulberry asked me, compassion heavy in his words.

I nodded as he faded away before my eyes. When he was gone, I sat alone. My head sagged back down, his palm no longer lending strength. I sat on the lawn chair, naked and alone, as a plane rolled by in the sky far above me.