He says, “I can’t be seen with you anymore,” like he thinks I really exist or something. The fingers growing from his hands from his arms from his heart begin to massage a headache away because I reply, But I’m never seen with you, Wes.
My smiling lips do not match his.
“Sherri…you’re not real…”
No, I say, looking down at my counterfeit fingernails, phony polish scratched and blue, I suppose not.
I’ve held onto him for quite some time now. They told us that we’d be forgotten by the age of eleven at the very latest, but Wes has passed that date by a solid decade. He was once a strange little boy, friendless with glasses and freckles and wandering eyes; those eyes, piercing in all their green beauty, are now refusing to acknowledge me.
He shifts his weight to the left; I can’t tell if the fault of this discomfort is the situation or the splintery foundation of The Lair. It seems so appropriate, him bringing me up to the tree house to tell me this. Back to the beginning to finish it.
But why?
He was always very careful with his choice of words, careful with emotions like fragile china. Gentle. Fiddling with the sleeves on his favorite flannel–worn, treasured, faded–he whispers, “I can’t.”
You won’t remember me once I’m gone.
“I know…”
At the age of eight, Wes Thompson proposed to me in a grocery store parking lot. Vending machine ring and everything. He told me, “Maybe if we get married, maybe everyone else will be able to see you. Maybe they’ll all believe in you.”
On his cell phone, a name lights up in white, pushing our conversation to end. Water droplets are prickling at my eyelids and I have no incentive to prevent them from releasing. He murmurs, “Sherri…” perhaps forgetting that pretend girls, too, cry.
The name flickers again.
“Remember when I was like…six, and we were playing pirates and ninjas in the backyard? We outnumbered your crew by a few dozen, but still, you led them to victory. And then you stood on the lawn chair with your makeshift eye patch and foam sword and shouted something like, ‘Aye! Captain Sherri takes no prisoners, matey!’ I think that was when I knew I loved you for the first time.” He shrugs at the phone in his hand, “I think I’ll always love you.”
That’s why…
“Yeah,” he nods, “That’s why.”
He wipes away an imaginary tear.
Will you promise me one thing? I ask, eyes scared of leaving him forever, of being moved to a new, temporarily friendless child who will also choose to forget everything. Dream of me?
He smiles–not just his lips, his eyes shimmer, too–and says, “I promise you, Captain Sherri and her unruly shipmates will always haunt my dreams.” Finally, kissing my make-believe forehead, he whispers, soft and sincere, “And you’ll always win.”
My smiling lips do not match his.
“Sherri…you’re not real…”
No, I say, looking down at my counterfeit fingernails, phony polish scratched and blue, I suppose not.
I’ve held onto him for quite some time now. They told us that we’d be forgotten by the age of eleven at the very latest, but Wes has passed that date by a solid decade. He was once a strange little boy, friendless with glasses and freckles and wandering eyes; those eyes, piercing in all their green beauty, are now refusing to acknowledge me.
He shifts his weight to the left; I can’t tell if the fault of this discomfort is the situation or the splintery foundation of The Lair. It seems so appropriate, him bringing me up to the tree house to tell me this. Back to the beginning to finish it.
But why?
He was always very careful with his choice of words, careful with emotions like fragile china. Gentle. Fiddling with the sleeves on his favorite flannel–worn, treasured, faded–he whispers, “I can’t.”
You won’t remember me once I’m gone.
“I know…”
At the age of eight, Wes Thompson proposed to me in a grocery store parking lot. Vending machine ring and everything. He told me, “Maybe if we get married, maybe everyone else will be able to see you. Maybe they’ll all believe in you.”
On his cell phone, a name lights up in white, pushing our conversation to end. Water droplets are prickling at my eyelids and I have no incentive to prevent them from releasing. He murmurs, “Sherri…” perhaps forgetting that pretend girls, too, cry.
The name flickers again.
“Remember when I was like…six, and we were playing pirates and ninjas in the backyard? We outnumbered your crew by a few dozen, but still, you led them to victory. And then you stood on the lawn chair with your makeshift eye patch and foam sword and shouted something like, ‘Aye! Captain Sherri takes no prisoners, matey!’ I think that was when I knew I loved you for the first time.” He shrugs at the phone in his hand, “I think I’ll always love you.”That’s why…
“Yeah,” he nods, “That’s why.”
He wipes away an imaginary tear.
Will you promise me one thing? I ask, eyes scared of leaving him forever, of being moved to a new, temporarily friendless child who will also choose to forget everything. Dream of me?
He smiles–not just his lips, his eyes shimmer, too–and says, “I promise you, Captain Sherri and her unruly shipmates will always haunt my dreams.” Finally, kissing my make-believe forehead, he whispers, soft and sincere, “And you’ll always win.”
You poison her dream is how it starts. Sticky sweet cartoon hearts in the air and fingers entwined, face-to-face bliss broken and stolen when she opens her eyes and suddenly you’re in her stomach. She can’t close them again, not with you there, elbowing, yanking, making everything slow and thick. The whole wide world turns to static.