That Fateful Day- Carrie

Carrie’s teacher prattled on about things interesting to most young students, but very disinteresting for her. She picked up her crayon box, set in order of the rainbow, and took out a well-used but still sharp black crayon and began to draw. It didn’t take long for her teacher to call on her name to answer a question she had asked, when she knew she wasn’t paying attention.

“Caroline. What is the answer?”

“I don’t know,” Carrie mumbled, still drawing.

The teacher crossed her arms, tapping one foot impatiently. “Is that because you’re coloring instead of listening to what I have to say?”

Carrie glanced down at her drawing with only a few black lines on it, not responding to the teacher. She eventually walked down to Carrie’s desk and took the paper out from under her hands. Carrie looked up at her through sad eyes, her mouth firmly closed. Inside, she bit her tongue to prevent herself from crying. Everyone was looking at her. The boys were sneering, the girls rolling their eyes. She was the outcast, alone in a crowded room, who was suddenly thrust into the center for everyone to see. She grasped her black crayon and subtly sheltered its box, hoping it wouldn’t be taken away from her as well.

Carrie’s only salvation was that drawing that slipped between her fingertips—like watching a friend trip and fall and couldn’t catch before they hit the ground. More than anything, she wanted to prove to others her definite existence;

“You’ll get this back for recess. Until then, pay attention.”

Carrie nodded, looking down at her desk. The boy who sat next to her nudged her shoulder.

“It’s not all bad,” he whispered as she went back to her lecture. “Your scribbles look pretty bad, and you just got in trouble but… actually, it is pretty bad. Sucks to be you!”

“Hey, don’t listen to him,” said the girl from behind, patting her shoulder. “It’s pretty… pretty ugly!”

To that, Carrie laid her head on her desk, still biting her tongue, but the tears gushed anyway.


The day passed routinely, but when Carrie came home, she threw her arms around her mother, begging her to come to school with her and protect her. Through her sobs, her mother calmed her down and took her into the kitchen.
“Why don’t you play with the kids at school, Carrie?” her mother asked the little girl. Carrie shook her head, her arms defiantly crossed across her chest, reminiscent of her teacher that fateful morning. She pouted and looked at the floor, prepared to defy whatever suggestion her mom might make on how to make friends. “Did they do something to you?”
Carrie sighed. “You don’t understand,” she moaned. Determined not to give her mother the satisfaction of actually answering her questions, she had closed her mouth tightly forming an almost perfect straight line where her lips met. She wanted to skip the lecture and play with her favorite doll.
“Try; I’ll understand eventually. I went through third grade too.”
The little blond let her arms fall limp, turning her head to the refrigerator where a drawing of her and her mom was pinned. “They don’t like me. They think I draw weird things. They say I’m crazy.”
Her mom kneeled and embraced her daughter. “They’re just jealous they can’t draw as amazing as you can.”
“If they were, they would ruin my drawings. They just don’t care about it. They don’t care about me.”
“Come now, I’m sure that’s not true. The whole world isn’t out to get you, right?”
“They all think I’m weird! I don’t want to be weird. I try to make friends with the girls in class, but they don’t like my drawings!” Carrie exclaimed, angry she had to be repeating herself.
“What do you draw?”
“People.”
“Any specific people?”
“My imaginary friend.”
Her mother hugged her tighter. “I want you to try and make some real friends, alright?”
Carrie finally nodded when there was nothing else she could do. She never had any initiative to go and make friends. How could a person who attacks drawings so meticulously created be anything but bad?
She went back up to her room and pulled the drawing out of her backpack that she finished during recess. It was a girl, around her age, with short black hair and green eyes. Carrie picked up the black crayon from a nearby box and wrote at the top, “Emi.” She had always liked the name Emily, and Emi was the perfect nickname. Emi was a perfect contrast to Carrie’s bouncy golden curls and innocent blue eyes. On the back of the paper, she wrote down her personality traits, carefully deciding each one. She perfected them, trying to make her a real person, with a list of both faults, pros, and things she liked to do. Eventually, she lied down on her bed, staring at the ceiling with her hands behind her head. She tried to imagine a top bunk, something she always wanted. She squinted at the area it should be, drawing lines in the air with her eyes. If she focused, it formed, and a ladder leading to it formed as well. It was like that part of her room was just drawn on, but she didn’t mind. Concentrating on the drawing, she pictured Emi in her mind: her voice, her size, and her personality.
It was the excitement of the moment that led Carrie to call out Emi’s name. Carrie formed the words she would say in her mind, and what she would do while saying them. She felt so much power it almost felt wrong. However, she soon could picture Emi sitting on the top bunk, and upon hearing her name, she hung her head over the side of the bed, her hair pointed straight to the ground.
“Yeah?”


The Next Day- Emi
We were spies, sent on a top-secret mission by the military. We were rock stars, jamming out to our own song. We were little witches and princesses and puppies and Pegasus-riding queens. Today, we were Hansel and Gretel, both girls, hiding from Carrie’s mom under her bed, who was actually the evil witch in disguise. Why would she even think to look in the last place expected: her own room?

No matter how hard we tried, our strained giggles never ceased to escape our talkative mouths. Every time Carrie’s mom would walk by the bed, we would watch her feet from under it, and laugh when she sat on top of it. Finally, when her mom decided the game was to be over, she would be quiet and then all of a sudden she would dangle upside-down from the top of the bed, her hair draping across the floor and grin when she found us.

“Gotcha!” she exclaimed, and she would pick Carrie up from under the bed and tickle her. I crept out nervously the other way, because Carrie said part of the game was for me to hide from her mom for as long as possible, even if she had already been caught. I snuck out the other way, towards the far wall of the bedroom. Like the ninja I knew I was, I poked my eyes out from the edge of the comforter and watched her mom finally show mercy and put the squirming Carrie down. Once her little toes touched the hardwood, she took off dashing across the hall to her bedroom. I followed her cautiously after her mom left too.

“That was great, Emi! A new record! She never knew where we were until we actually started laughing!” she said as she flopped down on the bottom bunk of her bed. Two drawers were on either side of her bed, and a ladder, which seemed to fade into the wall it was so obscure, led up to the equally obscure top bunk where I slept. I sat down on the edge of her bed, nodding enthusiastically.

“We’ll have to think of another awesome hiding spot. What about in the towel pantry by the bathroom?” I suggested. Carrie sat up and put a fist under her chin.

“That’s good, but there’s definitely only room for one of us. Why don’t you hide in the cabinet under the counter? The only thing in there is some pipe.”

“If I can fit, definitely! I can’t wait; she’ll never find us next time!”

Carrie jumped up off her bed and begun to twirl around her room, pausing only to curtsey in front of the mirror. I got up too and started twirling with her, and at that moment we were ballerinas in an opera house, and everyone was so impressed with our totally-professional dancing.

Professional, that is, until Carrie bumped into her bed and fell onto the floor. I stopped and reached down to help her up, but I was too far away and couldn’t grasp her hand, and I ended up reaching too far and falling down too. We both glanced at each other and laughed at our clumsiness.

“Caroline Flynn, what is going on in there?” her mother called from across the hall. Carrie smiled and assured her mother she was fine, which generally included me too. I liked to think of myself as a part of the Flynn family, and would imagine the days that Carrie’s mom would find me one day sleeping in Carrie’s room and ask if she could adopt me after I told her I had no place to go. I would be Emily Flynn, nicknamed Emi, and Carrie and I would be sisters, not just friends. I told this to Carrie one day, but much to my dismay, she narrowed her eyes and shot my wish down like a hot potato.



After our dance was over, Carrie had to go eat dinner with her family, and I stayed upstairs and entertained myself. I saw a doll with short black hair brown eyes that somewhat looked like me. I scooted closer to it, still in a heap from the fall, and simply looked at it. It reminded me so much of myself it was almost creepy, the difference being the eyes and the age, but similar nonetheless. I thought of what Carrie might think about this, and almost called out her name, but remembered she was eating dinner, and probably didn’t have time to come back to her room.

Whatever tried to assault me then gave no warning on the attack. Suddenly I felt woozy and horrible, like a part of me was missing. A very vital part of me had left, and I hugged my stomach in an attempt to keep the rest of me together. I was going to fall into pieces. If I moved my arm, parts of me would fall away. In horror, I saw my fingertip start to sparkle and turn silver, like crystal. I imagined myself shattering like a mirror, and scrambled up the obscure ladder to my bed and lied down, hoping that this would just go away in the safety and warmth of my blankets.
This has never happened to Carrie, right?
I shut my eyes, and the last thought I had before I drifted away into the void of unconsciousness was begging to be able to reopen them again.


Carrie came running back upstairs some time later into her room and shut the door behind her. “Are you in here?” she asked.

“I’m right here,” I murmured from the bunk, suddenly realizing I was awake and that I could speak. She glanced up at me and smiled. “Oh, I didn’t see you there!”

I sat up slowly, realizing that all pain had gone away. I thanked whoever woke me up before Carrie could realize I was hurting. I decided to keep that part to myself, not wanting to worry her. After all, I was fine now.

“Carrie?” I asked. The tone in my voice indicated a problem, which Carrie quickly picked up on.

“What’s the matter?” She stood up on her bed and grabbed hold of the spindles on the top bunk to keep her against the railing. She had to jump to reach them because she was too short.

“I think your mom might have seen me when she picked you up from under the bed. I don’t think she’s stupid or anything. She has eyes.”

Carrie shook her head. “Trust me, she didn’t see you. Besides, you’re too good at hide-and-seek for her to find you!”

My shoulders sagged. “That’s because I never stop playing it. Why don’t you want me to be found?”

To this, she hesitated. And all of a sudden, she let go of the spindles, shutting her eyes as gravity took her to the ground. I reached out for her, feeling the warmth and smoothness of her skin, but couldn’t catch her. Again.

She landed as softly as possible as one can falling from the top bunk. She bounced a bit as her mattress gave for her to fall. When she was finally still, she sighed and said, “My mom wants me to make friends.” She paused, as if waiting for me to respond. “She doesn’t think that you’re a good friend.”

To this, I got angry. “I think I’ve been a good friend,” I murmured after minor contemplation.

“I think so too! But Mom said that I’m too old… for a friend like you.”

“Like me?” How was I different? I looked at my hand and wiggled my fingers like I was playing a piano; C-D-E-F-G. They did the wave as they played the imaginary instrument, and I noticed where they all bent: the same places Carrie’s did. I turned my hand over carefully, like it was still a fragile child, and examined the markings on it. I traced a line from my wrist to my thumb, which Carrie had too. We were similar. Her mom was wrong; I am a good friend. I am a good friend to Carrie. But there was a strange part of me that thought she may be right. It had a desire to be voiced, but I didn’t want to say anything about it. I was one-hundred percent sure I was human. So what was this thing inside me calling for the contrary?

“But I think you’re the best friend ever,” she assured me. “We do the same things, think the same way, and love the same things!”

I couldn’t hold it back. “Then you won’t do anything new if you stay my friend,” I murmured reluctantly. It seemed to take Carrie by surprise. I heard her shuffle, and then she was very quiet. She began to speak through her comforter. “Do you want to be my friend?”

“Yes!” I exclaimed with no hesitation, determined to correct my mistake. “You’re my best friend too.”

Instead of a hug or a smile or even a nod of acknowledgement, she scrambled underneath the top bunk where her pillow was so I couldn’t see her unless I came down the ladder. A few minutes later I heard her turn the page of a book. She was ignoring me now. She was denying my existence.

Too old for a friend like you… like you… like you…



The next morning, I was again awoken by the incessant shakings of Carrie’s morning self. I realized she was much more of an afternoon person, so I had to be cool and calm around her in the early hours.

“Want to play dolls?” she asked me, gesturing to the blond doll in the corner that I was going to play with just before I blacked out yesterday. I eagerly nodded, happy that she was still willing to play with me. She picked up a doll from a tub under her bed before joining me in the corner so we could each have one. Carrie moved the doll’s legs for it as she scooted across the floor behind it. She aimlessly wiggled the plastic limbs, waiting for me to pick up my doll. I reached for it, just like I had reached for Carrie twice yesterday. But no matter how far I reached, I couldn’t quite grasp it. Carrie eyed me strangely as I struggled with this.

“Why can’t I touch you?” I wondered aloud. The doll didn’t answer me. Carrie picked up the doll for me and held it to me closer. I could brush its plastic skin and feel the strings of its hair. Yet I couldn’t wrap my fingers around it. My hand seemed to pass right through it. I looked at my hands, which still possessed the same lines and crevices, but could not do the same things Carrie’s could.

Carrie glanced at my saddened face and put the doll back on the ground. “Well what do you want to do, Emi?”
I clasped my hands in my lap, looking down at them. “I want to be… with you.”
“Then try to play with me,” she murmured quietly.
“I can’t—not the way I am now. But… what would it take for me to be like you?”
Silence. Alone in a crowded room I sat, glaring at the doll I couldn’t touch, angry it could be felt by her, when she couldn’t even touch me. It doesn’t even breathe. Do I breathe?
Her mom said I was different.

She was right.

For a short period of time, Carrie played by herself. I watched her, feeling like a doll myself. Only there to amuse, but not to give comforts like friends do. I wallowed in this confusion. Why was I different? Who or what made me different?

Carrie played with her doll and mine, breathing life into each and making their sealed lips talk. It was a phenomenon I couldn’t understand fully, yet seemed so simple to create. Speak words, and move their limbs: the dolls will come to life. The humblest actions eluded me, and I sat against a corner watching her perform magic. Why couldn’t Carrie bring me to life?

Carrie quickly grew tired of playing by herself and suggested we play dress-up. We, or rather, she pulled out another tub from under her bed filled to the brim with costumes and nail polish. She dressed herself in the most lavish gown she could find, and then held out an equally dressy gown for me. I tried to grasp it, and yet could only feel the soft velvet of its corset. I hung my head; all hope of actually being someone drained from my face. I was just Emi. Not Emily Flynn, sister of Carrie and daughter of Mrs. Flynn. I was Invisible Emi.

Carrie laughed as she strutted in front of her mirror, yet eventually ended up stepping on the front of her dress that trailed along the floor and tripped, ripping a hole in it. She cried out in anguish, tears forming in her eyes at the sight of it. Her face turned red as she tried to hold back tears, glaring daggers at the hole in the dress. It almost looked as if her eyes had burned the hole themselves.

“Oh no!” I exclaimed. Even though I only knew Carrie for a short time, I could tell it was her favorite dress. “Why don’t we go show it to your mothe—?”

“Why don’t you ever protect me?” she yelled, interrupting me. I was stunned into a perfect posture, like I had just seen a ghost. My eyes were wide open, my eyelids hiding behind the horror on my face.

“I don’t… I mean, I… But Carrie, I’m invisi—”

“I made you to be the perfect friend. Why aren’t you? Why won’t you play with me and help me up like friends do?”

I immediately went right to denial. She’s just tired. This afternoon, we’ll play hide-and-seek and she’ll hide in the towel closet and I’ll hide under the sink. And her mom will never find us, just like always.

I walked closer to her and sat down next to her, and reached out to hug her. I could feel her dress. Maybe she could feel me. As I opened my arms, however, she tried to shove me away. It didn’t work the way physics had in mind, and her hand went straight through my stomach, passing through me, momentum being conserved all the way through. She only succeeded in smacking her hand against the dresser that was next to her, and she cried out in pain again.

“See what you do to me?!” she yelled. I stumbled backward, supporting myself with shaking arms, tears forming in my eyes. “I didn’t draw you to be this way! I drew you to be perfect!”

“You… drew me?” Carrie is too kind to make me like this. Carrie wouldn’t put me through this lonely, unseen torture.

“You’re a sham! You don’t exist! You’re just a character that jumped off of my notebook! You’re a part of me, because all you really are is thought; my thoughts.”

I could hardly form words. “If you stop thinking of me… will I go away?”

“You’ll disappear, and I will get real friends that will protect me and play with me.”

I already felt myself fading away. It was the same sensation I had before I blacked out.
It was painful to be forgotten.
I watched as the obscure top bunk and the obscure ladder leading to it fade away. All that was left was a real bed with real drawers on either side. I looked down at myself, and I was right. Bits and pieces of me were flying away, turning to imaginary dust.

There was a knock on Carrie’s door. It was her all-knowing mother. “Is there someone in there, Caroline?”

Carrie shook her head, but when she realized her mother couldn’t see it from closed doors, she hollered “No, mom!”

My heart of a thought slowly sunk to the floor, where it too turned into naught. Carrie stood up and left her room, leaving me there to dissipate into the air. A life of a day, I had experienced friendship and love, but also loss and abandonment. Those feelings were all too real; at least they were real to me.

One day I’ll prove my existence to you.
I watched as my hand turned to crystal, the lines I had traced and retraced slowly broke apart, from my thumb to my wrist, along with my arm, my shoulder, my entire body. A thousand tiny bits of crystal dust made of nothing but memories drifted up, called by something in the sky.
You’ve shown me nothing is whole, but that nothing is also broken. You’ll forget me, but the memories themselves will never go away. Memories of you and me will be there inside, always.


Reminisce- Carrie

Dinner time in the Flynn household was never an easy thing anymore. Her parents were normally working late and would eat around eight, while Carrie was hungry at six, and would make her own dinner. On rare occasions would Carrie make all the dinner, and the day when September 11th would repeat itself would the family all sit down for dinner together.

Today was one of the latter days.
Today, hell froze over, the Mayan 2012 prediction came true, and some guy who walked under a ladder would have seven years bad luck. Yes, today was the last day of summer vacation, and Carrie would be moving on to her freshman year of college where she would study art. Her mother had already given the “they grow up so fast” speech, but insisted on continuing it.
“Oh, remember that time Carrie had an imaginary friend, honey? How many years ago was that? Eight, nine, ten years? Good grief, I’m getting old— ”
Carrie interrupted, “I had an imaginary friend?”
Her mother looked at her oddly, as if she should remember. “Why, sure, of course you did! Her name was Emily or Emma, I think. You talked to her for hours.”
“What did we do together?”
Her mother shrugged. “Acted like friends, played games, stuff like that. Then you started screaming to yourself in your room and I decided it was time for her to go away. You drew a picture of her, I remember that,” she paused to eat more mashed potatoes, and said through a mouthful, “It’s in your baby book somewhere; I’ll have to find it.”
Carrie laughed at herself, trying to imagine what she would look like screaming to a nothing. After dinner, she and her mother went through the cabinets in their family room, eventually finding said baby book, pulling out a folded piece of yellowing paper that was clearly colored by a child.
“Here you go,” her mother said, and left Carrie to read.
The portrait was of a girl wearing a triangle pink dress, with chicken legs for her limbs. Her hair was made up of only a few short black lines, and she was missing ears. Her eyes were green, an odd combination with her hair. The girl was grinning at her, and from the title, the girl was Emi.
On the back of the page was total nonsense that passed for English. Carrie’s childish handwriting was hard to understand, but she could make out the word “personality” misspelled at the top. Emi’s personality was categorized into three sections: good, bad, favorites. Under the good, Emi was nice, funny, strong, and sweet. Under the bad, she was shy. Her favorites? “Whatever I like to do.”
Carrie smiled, trying to imagine this girl in her head, adding on a couple extra years to her age. Emi didn’t just suddenly appear behind her eyelids like she somewhat expected, and no voice started talking in her head. It was hard to remember this girl was her own personal creation, and not some different entity. She couldn’t picture her, as she kept getting lost in the darkness behind her eyes. Carrie eventually gave up, folding up the piece of paper again and returning it to its final resting place in her baby book. She stood up and walked up the stairs to her room, closing the door behind her. It echoed into the foyer, bouncing off the walls until it reached silence again. Downstairs, her parents clicked on the television, watching the nightly news. All was normal in the Flynn household.
And yet, in the calmness, there lay the drawing, beaming at the unseen observer, so full of color and happiness and life.




There is always sleep between part and meet


With our usual words on the usual street.




So let us part like we always do,


And in a world without you,


I’ll dream of you.



When I come to, let us meet


With our usual words on the usual street.




-Kingdom Hearts