She Doesn't See Me Anymore

About an imaginary friend that becomes more imaginary day by day, to their child.

She doesn't see me anymore. I knew this day would come. All friends do. The day they forget about us. But we treasure the way they would talk about us. Say what we were wearing, doing, saying. How they would make us a place to eat at the dinner table knowing we wouldn't eat it but not wanting us to feel left out anyway. How they would protest to their parents that yes, we were real but their parents had forgotten theirs long ago also so of course they couldn't believe. How they would talk to us. Not like they would talk to anyone else but like we wouldn't tell anyone their deepest secrets because of course, we wouldn't.
The fading doesn't come quickly, it turns on and off. It's hard to break a habit but soon enough you get the hand of it and do. My girls name was Stacy. Bright red hair, the biggest green eyes, freckles. She named me Charlie, which I didn't mind. I never really knew my original name anyways, every kid was different. We would always wake up before the sun because she said we had to prepare the world for its brightness. We would run around the house turning on all the lights. Her parents though she was a little special but aren't all kids special? Next we would start to dress. Me always in the same clothes. Blue jeans, green turtle neck, white sketchers. She would always be different though. A pink dress here, a red one there. Yellow socks. Pink shoes. The kind that a little girl could dance and run in. We would race down to breakfast, seeing what her mother had made. Eat as fast as we could. Of course I wouldn't eat but she never minded. We'd race outside. Everything was a race til one day it slowed down. She slowed down. Some days she would wake up and forget to dress me,forget all about me. Forget to hand me my clothes so I would be left out cold, naked, until later in the day she would see me again, be startled and run to get me some. She would forget to ask for another plate. I wouldn't mind but I would at the same time. She would stop talking to me. Start talking to the reals. They say it gets easier, being forgotten. But I haven't felt the relief of the knife in my heart. I starting losing some of my traits. What was my eye color? She would think. What would I wear? Did I have hair? Was I a girl or a boy? Was I a monster? I would fade into the background of every scene. I felt a like creeper following and she would feel the same way if she took the time to actually think about me. Her parents look less worried. She's made new friends. Real friends. I thought I was a real friend but each time I get reminded I am not. She won't remember me in a few weeks. I'll be on to the next but I won't forget her. I never forget. I make up for them. The reals.
She forgot about me today.
She forgot about me this week.
It's been a month, I think it's time I move on.
I have a new friend, Sam.
She won't forget about me

Reviews

[Cthuloidism]

Usually the clumped up writing would make for an extremely boring story. Most 'authors' shouldn't even get the satisfaction of calling their so called stories, stories. But this deserves to be called an amazing story. The run-off sentences fits well into your voice I'm guessing. It usually wouldn't work out for most writers, but it works for you.

I like the timid, and naivete in this story. You committed to a voice of a character and revealed what was going through her mind. A couple spelling errors but nothing I really cared to be frustrated about.