My Dead Best Friend

Magical realism short story - originally an assignment for school

My hands hover above my keyboard. Just type, I think. This is what you want to do for a living, it’s not that hard. I feel frozen, as I have these last couple of months. Some people claim that grief inspired them. I say that’s a load of crap. Why write anything if he’ll never read it?

A bird flies past my window, small and gray. I like birds, so did Jack. That was a Brown Thrasher, right? I’ll check the book later. A small shiver runs through my body, and I look back toward the window. Open again. Goosebumps prickle on my bare arms as I stand up. Closing the window takes effort. Maybe it's the cold. Maybe I’ve been skipping the gym too much. 

I grab a sweater from my closet and pull it on as I head back to my desk. My head pops out from the cover of cotton just in time to watch the window slowly fall open. I’ll have to do something about that in the morning. Reaching my arms out for the third time that afternoon, I lean out and grab the window handles, only to be met with an opposing force - what feels like a soft headbutt against my abdomen. 

I stand back and hear the sound of someone tumbling into my room through the window. It’s been two months, one week, and six days since he died. Two months, one week, and six days of Jack climbing through my window like always. “Hey, Jack. Good to hear you again.” As always, no response. I can hear his footsteps, and then the creak of my twin-sized bed. 

“You know...” My voice drops to a whisper. “My mom thinks I’m nuts up here talking to myself.” Silence. A shuffle.

“Make yourself comfortable, I guess.”

Talking to him is no use. I’m not even sure it’s really him. He only comes in through the window. I never could get him to use the front door. He was always pretty sneaky. Even now, he's hard to see unless I turn off the lights. 

I can hear him flipping pages from the book on my nightstand. The Goldfinch still sits there, but he’s holding it too. It’s honestly really cool, if a bit unsettling.

I sit back down at my desk, and turn to him. “I saw a nice bird today. Flew right past me. You just missed it, really.” 

A page turns. I turn back to my laptop, the cursor blinking at me. “We’re having chicken soup for dinner tonight,” I tell him. But I know he won’t stay. He never did. 

Author's Note

This is really short and I'm thinking of expanding upon it. Is my grasp on magical realism strong enough?

Reviews

[Marie Kinnett]

this was really good. You should expand on it :)

[lizziedoesitall]

Hey there! I just finished reading your story, and I’m completely blown away! Your writing is so captivating, and I couldn’t help but picture how amazing it would look as a comic. I’m a professional commissioned artist, and I’d be super excited to bring your story to life in comic form. no pressure, though! I just think it would be a perfect fit. If you’re interested, hit me up on Instagram(@lizziedoesitall). Let me know what you think!
Cheers,
Lizzie

[SkyLight_Jayden]

AH! Wait, this is so well-made! Never quit writing, you have skills! Good job!

[Qualx]

This is fantastic. The use of fragmented sentences by someone with a mind full of grief is a nice touch. Also, one sentence in particular stood out:

"I like birds, so did Jack."

This could've been two sentences, but I'm glad it was only one. It contrasts with the more fragmented style and, at the same time, ties the departed into a sentence that begins with something that the narrator likes, suggesting the entrenching of grief.

Very cool stuff.