Grim anthology. Christine Johnson

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СКАЧАТЬ however, he must believe in me.

      Eli draws in a sudden hiss of pain between his teeth, then shakes out his hand. He’s played too long.

      Sucking the pad of his right thumb, he turns and slides off the bed. For a moment I wonder what it would be like to unfold long legs so effortlessly—or to move at all. He lays the guitar in its case and starts to close the lid.

      Eli, wait.

      He hesitates but doesn’t look at me.

      You can’t hear my words yet, I tell him, but you can feel what I want. Please, put me inside. It all starts there.

      Eli snatches me up by one ear, then drops me facedown in the compartment in the guitar case’s neck. “There, Dad. Happy?”

      He slams the lid shut and flips the latches. But instead of shoving the guitar case back under the bed where he got it, he lays his hand over the place where I am, pressing this end of the case against the floor. The carpet gives a little.

      All it takes is a little belief to bring me to life.

      Thank you, Eli.

      His breathing stops. A soft suction pop marks his sore thumb coming out of his mouth.

      I’m inside the case. But don’t worry, I won’t suffocate. I don’t breathe.

      Eli’s whimper has a question mark at the end.

      Yes, I’m real. Sort of. I used to know your father. If he bequeathed me to you, it means that you were important to him. Or that I was not. In any case, we’re together now.

      “What the—” The latches rattle as he fumbles to open them. The lid lifts, letting in light.

      Eli doesn’t pick me up. I wish I could see his expression, but I’m still facedown and can’t turn over.

      He tugs my tail. “I’m going insane.”

      On the contrary, you have a normal, healthy imagination. That’s what keeps me alive.

      He lets out a curse and slams the guitar case shut again. A few moments later, he speaks in hushed tones, but not to me.

      “Ty, have you had any, like, weird thoughts since Saturday night?”

      The phone speaker is loud enough—and my cat ears sensitive enough—that I can hear the reply. “What kind of weird thoughts?”

      “I don’t know. Hallucinations?”

      “It was just a little weed. You didn’t even smoke any.”

      “I know, but even secondhand, I definitely felt the effects.”

      “Are you saying you’re seeing things?”

      “Hearing things,” Eli corrects.

      “It was a loud concert. My ears were ringing afterward.”

      “This isn’t a ringing.”

      “What is it?”

      Eli pauses. “Nothing. I guess it is sort of like a ringing. I gotta go. Mom’s calling me for dinner.”

      His mom’s not calling him for dinner, but after hanging up, Eli stalks from the room, shouting her name.

      I hope she has answers.

      * * *

      “So you’re from Cleveland?” Eli has propped me up on his other pillow so that I can see him, but he doesn’t look at me as we talk. He sits against his headboard beside me, arms crossed, legs straight out, looking stunned.

      Not originally, but that was where my essence was encapsulated in this temporary form. The musician who gave me to your father was from there. He was in a band called Raise an Axe. Ever heard of them?

      “No.”

      That’s because they had only one heavy-metal hit in the late eighties, off their self-titled album, Raise an Axe. Can you guess the song name?

      “‘Raise an Axe’?”

      Very good. That singer abandoned his band to embark on a solo career. He also abandoned me. When he realized his mistake, it was too late. I had no luck left for him.

      Eli groans. “This is so bizarre.” He sweeps both palms over his wavy dark hair, holding it back against his scalp. Under all those tumbling locks, he has a pronounced widow’s peak, just like his father. “So who are you?”

      A figment.

      “That’s your name?”

      It’s what I am.

      “Like a figment of my imagination?”

      I give the vocal equivalent of a shrug. A bit redundant, since by definition a figment is something that exists only in the imagination.

      Heels together, Eli taps his bare feet against each other. “Like an imaginary friend.”

      Precisely.

      “I thought only little kids had imaginary friends.”

      They’re not the only ones who need them.

      “I’ve got plenty of friends.”

      Friends or fleas? His father’s penthouse had been overrun with bloodsucking sycophants, people who only loved him for his money and fame.

      Eli pulls his knees to his chest and rests his chin on them. “What I mean is, I’m not lonely or anything.”

      I decide not to challenge this assertion. May I ask, what became of your father’s career once he left Boyz on the Korner?

      Eli scoffs. “Nothing. He never had another hit like BotK had with ‘Ready, Set, Dance.’ Because he basically sucked. People realized that after he hit twenty-one and wasn’t adorable anymore.” He looks at me quickly. “Wait. Was that when he put you away?”

      That’s when I entered the envelope, yes.

      “Wow.” He shakes his head hard. “This can’t be real.”

      You need to redefine “real.”

      “Obviously. So why are you here?”

      To help you succeed in life by bringing you good luck. You need the right people in the right place in the right mood. I can make that happen. Your talent will do the rest.

      Eli gives me a sideways, suspicious look. “What’s in it for you?”

      If I help you, you’ll believe in me, and I get to keep existing. I remember my image in the mirror. Also, I’d very much like some clothes.

      * * *

      Eli, СКАЧАТЬ