My Friend Sam

A young mans imaginary friend may be more than he seems....

For as long as I can remember, Sam has been my closest friend. He’s been my only lasting friend, and for good reason. I’m the only one who can see him.  As I’m sure you can imagine having an invisible friend doesn’t make you the most normal kid in school. To everyone around me Sam is imaginary, a figment of my teenage mind. By my age, you’re supposed to have been rid of your imaginary friends. But how can I abandon Sam? He is as real to me as anyone else is.

The best times are when Sam and I are alone. He is the only person I can really talk to. Write, I guess I should say. You see, Sam cannot speak. To communicate he writes in my notebook. I don’t mind much though. It’s much easier for me to write than to carry a conversation. After years of being the “odd” kid, it’s sometimes difficult to speak at length to people. So, we write back and forth. I tell him about my day away from him at school, and he talks to me about my problems.

The only complaint I have with Sam is his anger. Anytime I have a hard time at school, anytime people call me names, anytime my parents tell me to get out and get some real friends, Sam gets angry. He writes terrible, violent things. He tells me of the things he would do if only I would let him.

I’m not sure how my parents found the notebook. They must have searched my room pretty hard, likely trying to find drugs to explain my behavior. They read the notebook, seeing all the horrible things Sam wrote about. I tried to tell them that I hadn’t written the bad parts. I told them that it was Sam. They didn’t believe me of course. They told me it was time I went to a therapist. Even though I knew it would piss Sam off, I agreed to go.

The therapies sat across from me in a high backed leather chair. I had gone in expecting a couch to lie on, but there was only another, smaller chair, in front of her. As soon as I walked in she spoke to me in calm, soothing voice. “Please sit down Dylan. Is it okay if I call you Dylan, or would you prefer Mr. Grayson?” I sat down and tell her Dylan is fine. The woman speaks again in that calming tone. “My name is Janet Morrison. I would like it if we could talk about this situation. Would that be okay with you?” I nod my head in affirmation, and we begin talking.

There wasn’t a clock in that room, so I don’t know how long exactly we were in there. She asked me about school and my home life before getting to asking about Sam. She was just as ignorant as the rest of them. She acted like she wasn’t judging, but I can always tell. I told Sam about all that she said. He was unusually calm about it. That should have been the first sign that sometime was going to happen.

The next morning when I awoke, Sam was waiting to speak to me. He tells me that he had gone to jannet's office late last night. She had been working late, and Sam followed her home. Right outside her home he strangled her to death. It took longer than in the movies, he said. After that, he dragged her into the woods behind her house and pushed her body into a river running very near her house. I was upset with Sam. Not because I thought it was wrong. No, she deserved to die for talking about Sam like he didn’t exist. I was mad at him for being so careless. He could have gotten us into trouble.

My parents didn’t send me to another therapist. They thought her death, which the paramedics had assumed was an accidental drowning, would be traumatizing for me.  To avoid future problems, I no longer speak about Sam. He tells me he doesn’t mind. He didn’t like when people call him imaginary anyway. From then on we took it upon ourselves to learn sign language, so as not to leave evidence. For a while there were not any problems. That is, until I had the pleasure of meeting Viktor west.

Somehow, Viktor new that I had been to a therapist. He loved to tease me about it. He called me all kinds of names and smashing into me in the hallways. When he found out that she had died, he started telling people that I had killed her.  Sam did not like that. He told me that he wanted to kill Viktor too. I tried telling him it wasn’t worth it, but he was furious.  I made him promise not to do anything. He swore to me that he would do nothing. In a way Sam kept his word.

Two days later I awoke from a hellish nightmare. Reaching over to turn on my lamp I see blood on my hands. In my sleep addled state I assume I had a nosebleed in my sleep. I flick the light on. There is too much blood. There is no way it had come from me. Sam is sitting calmly at my desk. When I ask him what he had done, he told me he had done nothing just as promised. He tells me that he had taken my body like he had many times before.  Anytime he had written to me, it was him controlling my hands. Anytime he had moved objects, it had been me under his power. He made me see him doing it all. He didn’t want me to know he had that power over me.

Sam told me that Janet wasn’t the first murder “we” had committed. The few close friends I had when I was younger had died in strange accidents. He was very careful not to let suspicion point toward us. He didn’t want anyone to come between us. He wanted me all to himself. He tells me that he is all I need. For the first time I truly fear Sam. I sit on the edge of my bed in a frightened stupor.  I know he will kill again. No telling how many times he had already killed. I must be locked up. I can’t let him kill more innocent people. I run out of my room, headed for my parent’s room. I get to the end of the hall before he catches me. He grabs me by the throat and arm and drags me back into my room. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. It’s my hands around my throat. I try to stop, but I can’t. Sam throws me onto the bed and pins me. The darkness shields my vision.

The next morning Dylan’s parents call for him to come to breakfast. Getting no response, his mother goes up to his room to wake him up. She opens his door and sees he is not in his bed. She sees a stain on the bed and lifts the covers. A large blood stain spans the bed.  Panicking, she yells for her husband. He runs up to her and they both follow a trail of blood leading to the closet.  When they open the door, the boy’s mother lets out a bloodcurdling scream. She collapses onto the floor in front of the cold body of her son. Dylan’s wrists are cut all the way to the crook of his elbows, bone and muscle exposed. His face is lifted up in a joyous smile.

The parents of the boy hold each other and cry shamelessly. They blamed themselves for not seeing he needed help sooner. Silently sobbing, the father calls the police. They have to tell them about all the boys’ problems. They tell all about Sam and the notebook. They leave out one part though. Something they never even told their son. When the boy’s mother was a child, she had a brother that killed himself in the same way. He had slit his wrists all the way to the elbows and he had done it with a smile on his face. Her brother’s name was Sam.

Reviews

[kendric martin]

This Story has been published in Blood Moon Rising magazine #53, as well as the 2013 issue of Seminole State Colleges yearly news paper, The Muse.