Dear OP, I'd like to say that I valiantly resisted the urge to write this, but the powers of your prompt were stronger than my resolve...
~!~
I don’t remember when I started hearing his voice. I think it was shortly after I lost my father but I can’t be sure. Everything was a bit blurry - social service, orphanage, foster care… At first I heard just snatches and echoes of thoughts but gradually they resolved into questions and then into quiet words of consolation.
Looking back I see that they were just usual, standard phrases you say to the bereaved: “Everything’s gonna be okay”, “Don’t loose hope”, “Be strong, you’re a big boy”… But the sad thing was no one else bothered to say them to me and I was so pathetically grateful that someone still gave a damn that I didn’t care if it was just a voice in my head.
When I spoke about a friend who sometimes talked to me in my mind my first set of foster parents marched me straight to a shrink who spent half an hour explaining how that was perfectly normal for kids of my age especially after such a traumatic event as loss of a parent. So that was that; I was justified in having my very own imaginary friend and I intended to make the most of it.
Being the stupid selfish kid I never asked anything, only talked and talked about myself – the good times, the bad times, and the weird times that made my parents look at me funny and return me into the system. He always listened and made all the appropriate noises to keep me going. I was happy with it – where else would I find a person patient enough to listen to a six-year-old’s little woes? Eventually I started calling him Johnny even though I was reasonably sure his name was something else entirely.
When I was adopted by Justin DuMorne nothing really changed. I never told him about Johnny but it was mostly out of habit – no matter how many psychologists insist that imaginary friends are perfectly fine and you just need to let your kid grow out of it, grown ups still tended to treat it with suspicion. Again, looking back I think my mentor’s conclusions would have been vastly different from those of vanilla mortals but that doesn’t change the fact that I was glad I kept Johnny secret.
I had the impression that my friend didn’t believe me about magic. I guess these doubts were quite strange for a person living in my head but I always felt that he was humoring me when I started telling him about this new spell I’ve just learned. You know, like when the kid tells his mother that “really, there was a pink unicorn in our backyard”, and she answers “Of course, sweetie, should we leave it some carrots to snack on when it comes back?” . Anyway, he never outright said he didn’t believe me so I was not offended. Too much.
On the other hand Johnny was quite helpful with the tips on how to act around this one girl I’m living with. There is nothing embarrassing in talking these things out inside one’s head, right? And again, who else was I to turn to? DuMorne?
By the way, Justin was the reason of my only quarrel with Johnny. I liked Justin – he gave me a big house, a whole new world of magic and a playmate/girl I had a first crush on; what else could a boy want? But Johnny didn’t like him at all; almost from the beginning he cautioned me against my mentor, telling me I should be careful and ‘had he done anything funny to you?’. I could never be sure what he meant by funny and my stories about magic shield training with tennis balls didn’t seem to placate him in the least.
~!~
When it all went south Johnny was the first to notice. One night a voice in my head suddenly said: “You haven’t talked to me in a week. What is the matter? Did he do something funny to you?” And just like that all the Johnny memories that were mysteriously blocked before rushed back into my brain. My friend was definitely right this time, though I’m sure he didn’t suspect Justin of rearranging my mind. I even had time to thank him for the warning before the binding ritual started in earnest.
~!~
The next time I’ve heard his voice I was on my knees before the raging inferno that was DuMorne estate, frantically gulping air and coughing and still trying to wrap my mind around the deaths of my almost-father and the girl I loved. I heard Johnny as if from very far away… and could mental voices grow hoarse from shouting? Because his was, as if he called my name frantically for hours nonstop.
“Harry,” he kept saying, “Harry, talk to me. What’s going on? Are you all right? Harry!”
“I am…” I was going to say fine, but made a mistake of answering aloud and was gripped by a new coughing fit.
“What happened? Are you hurt? Talk to me!” His voice was authoritative but mostly it was just worried so I answered:
“I’m fine. Justin is dead.” I could have sworn John muttered good riddance under his non-existent breath. “Elaine too.” Stars, how those words hurt my throat, even though I didn’t use my vocal cords to say them!
There were no condolences this time.
“Where are you, Harry?” he asked. “Tell me the address, I’ll come and get you.”
There was nothing in that moment that I wanted more than for him to miraculously appear and take me away from all the horror and pain. The cruelty of it almost made me cry.
“It’s no use,” I muttered, “you are only inside my head. And even if you weren’t,” I continued over his protests, “I’ve broken the Law. There is nothing you can do to help me.” Johnny was busy talking about lawyers and child abuse and permissible self-defense but I saw what he didn’t – two men in gray cloaks coming to me through the smoke and ashes. How come they were quick to appear now when it was a helpless teenager who committed the crime, but they were suspiciously absent when a powerful wizard tried to turn his two apprentices into mindless slaves?
~!~
I was taken before the White Council just as they’ve found me – in torn and charred clothes, covered in soot, blood and tears (although the latter was hidden by a bag over my head). My grasp of Latin was tenuous at best (Justin always favored evocations over grammar) so I knew enough to make out my death sentence but not nearly enough to try and defend myself.
I was light-headed with terror and the only thing that grounded me in the blood-scented darkness of the bag was Johnny’s voice cursing steadily and without repetition. I guess I was even impressed with his vast knowledge of swear-words and imagination for different positions he proposed to put Council members in for trying a minor for crimes he committed to preserve his own life. But more than anything I was glad that in these last moments of my life I was not alone.
I can’t say who was more relieved when my sentence was changed to Doom of Damocles. Johnny breathed out some phase in Italian that mentioned Madre di Dio and was probably part of a prayer. “Never scare me like that again, Harry,” he added and went abruptly silent.
I think I could have justified his behavior as my own projected worry over impending death; and it is known that subconscious retains a lot of knowledge that is not generally accessible for the conscious mind. But on that day I started believing that Johnny was no just a figment of my imagination.
My friend was a real person and I was so grateful for his existence that the reason he could connect with me didn’t matter at all.
~!~
Now that I got at least a part of it off my chest I can finally go to sleep
My (not so) Imaginary Friend (1/?)
I don’t remember when I started hearing his voice. I think it was shortly after I lost my father but I can’t be sure. Everything was a bit blurry - social service, orphanage, foster care… At first I heard just snatches and echoes of thoughts but gradually they resolved into questions and then into quiet words of consolation.
Looking back I see that they were just usual, standard phrases you say to the bereaved: “Everything’s gonna be okay”, “Don’t loose hope”, “Be strong, you’re a big boy”… But the sad thing was no one else bothered to say them to me and I was so pathetically grateful that someone still gave a damn that I didn’t care if it was just a voice in my head.
When I spoke about a friend who sometimes talked to me in my mind my first set of foster parents marched me straight to a shrink who spent half an hour explaining how that was perfectly normal for kids of my age especially after such a traumatic event as loss of a parent. So that was that; I was justified in having my very own imaginary friend and I intended to make the most of it.
Being the stupid selfish kid I never asked anything, only talked and talked about myself – the good times, the bad times, and the weird times that made my parents look at me funny and return me into the system. He always listened and made all the appropriate noises to keep me going. I was happy with it – where else would I find a person patient enough to listen to a six-year-old’s little woes? Eventually I started calling him Johnny even though I was reasonably sure his name was something else entirely.
When I was adopted by Justin DuMorne nothing really changed. I never told him about Johnny but it was mostly out of habit – no matter how many psychologists insist that imaginary friends are perfectly fine and you just need to let your kid grow out of it, grown ups still tended to treat it with suspicion. Again, looking back I think my mentor’s conclusions would have been vastly different from those of vanilla mortals but that doesn’t change the fact that I was glad I kept Johnny secret.
I had the impression that my friend didn’t believe me about magic. I guess these doubts were quite strange for a person living in my head but I always felt that he was humoring me when I started telling him about this new spell I’ve just learned. You know, like when the kid tells his mother that “really, there was a pink unicorn in our backyard”, and she answers “Of course, sweetie, should we leave it some carrots to snack on when it comes back?” . Anyway, he never outright said he didn’t believe me so I was not offended. Too much.
On the other hand Johnny was quite helpful with the tips on how to act around this one girl I’m living with. There is nothing embarrassing in talking these things out inside one’s head, right? And again, who else was I to turn to? DuMorne?
By the way, Justin was the reason of my only quarrel with Johnny. I liked Justin – he gave me a big house, a whole new world of magic and a playmate/girl I had a first crush on; what else could a boy want? But Johnny didn’t like him at all; almost from the beginning he cautioned me against my mentor, telling me I should be careful and ‘had he done anything funny to you?’. I could never be sure what he meant by funny and my stories about magic shield training with tennis balls didn’t seem to placate him in the least.
When it all went south Johnny was the first to notice. One night a voice in my head suddenly said: “You haven’t talked to me in a week. What is the matter? Did he do something funny to you?” And just like that all the Johnny memories that were mysteriously blocked before rushed back into my brain. My friend was definitely right this time, though I’m sure he didn’t suspect Justin of rearranging my mind. I even had time to thank him for the warning before the binding ritual started in earnest.
The next time I’ve heard his voice I was on my knees before the raging inferno that was DuMorne estate, frantically gulping air and coughing and still trying to wrap my mind around the deaths of my almost-father and the girl I loved. I heard Johnny as if from very far away… and could mental voices grow hoarse from shouting? Because his was, as if he called my name frantically for hours nonstop.
“Harry,” he kept saying, “Harry, talk to me. What’s going on? Are you all right? Harry!”
“I am…” I was going to say fine, but made a mistake of answering aloud and was gripped by a new coughing fit.
“What happened? Are you hurt? Talk to me!” His voice was authoritative but mostly it was just worried so I answered:
“I’m fine. Justin is dead.” I could have sworn John muttered good riddance under his non-existent breath. “Elaine too.” Stars, how those words hurt my throat, even though I didn’t use my vocal cords to say them!
There were no condolences this time.
“Where are you, Harry?” he asked. “Tell me the address, I’ll come and get you.”
There was nothing in that moment that I wanted more than for him to miraculously appear and take me away from all the horror and pain. The cruelty of it almost made me cry.
“It’s no use,” I muttered, “you are only inside my head. And even if you weren’t,” I continued over his protests, “I’ve broken the Law. There is nothing you can do to help me.” Johnny was busy talking about lawyers and child abuse and permissible self-defense but I saw what he didn’t – two men in gray cloaks coming to me through the smoke and ashes. How come they were quick to appear now when it was a helpless teenager who committed the crime, but they were suspiciously absent when a powerful wizard tried to turn his two apprentices into mindless slaves?
I was taken before the White Council just as they’ve found me – in torn and charred clothes, covered in soot, blood and tears (although the latter was hidden by a bag over my head). My grasp of Latin was tenuous at best (Justin always favored evocations over grammar) so I knew enough to make out my death sentence but not nearly enough to try and defend myself.
I was light-headed with terror and the only thing that grounded me in the blood-scented darkness of the bag was Johnny’s voice cursing steadily and without repetition. I guess I was even impressed with his vast knowledge of swear-words and imagination for different positions he proposed to put Council members in for trying a minor for crimes he committed to preserve his own life. But more than anything I was glad that in these last moments of my life I was not alone.
I can’t say who was more relieved when my sentence was changed to Doom of Damocles. Johnny breathed out some phase in Italian that mentioned Madre di Dio and was probably part of a prayer. “Never scare me like that again, Harry,” he added and went abruptly silent.
I think I could have justified his behavior as my own projected worry over impending death; and it is known that subconscious retains a lot of knowledge that is not generally accessible for the conscious mind. But on that day I started believing that Johnny was no just a figment of my imagination.
My friend was a real person and I was so grateful for his existence that the reason he could connect with me didn’t matter at all.
Now that I got at least a part of it off my chest I can finally go to sleep