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 for the last two months, one week and six days. 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. Or that I’ve been skipping the gym.

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. Once again, I walk over to the window. For the third time that afternoon, I lean forward and grab the window handles. This time something touches me - 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 him. Not sure it’s anything. 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 strange. 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. 

At first he disturbed me. He’d show up randomly, bumping and rattling and shuffling like he was learning to walk for the first time. 

I knew it was him because of the pattern. Window, bed, book. It’s the same thing he did for the four years that I knew him, if a bit less coordinated now. I wish I could see him. 

It’s stupid to wish. Wishing won’t bring him back. It won’t change the fact that he suffered until the end and it certainly doesn’t make me feel better. 

I hope he feels better. 

I turn toward the bed, listening for any signs that he’s still there. “Jack?” I whisper. “Are you still there?” A page turns, signifying his presence. I get up once again and sit on the edge of my bed. As if I’m the one intruding. 

“I miss you,” I say quietly. “I wish-” A page flutters. He’s not even reading. 

I sigh, feeling defeated. “Can you even hear me?” A few seconds pass with no sound to be heard. Then - a thump. He’s thrown my book to the ground. My eyes widen. 

“Do that again.”

I wait impatiently. Maybe it was a one-off thing; an accident. I open my mouth to speak when it happens again. This time louder. 

I hear the clank of spoon on pot come from downstairs. My mother’s voice calls out. “Louisa! What are you doing up there?” 

Oh shoot. I turn toward my bedroom door. “I just dropped something! Sorry!” I call out. Then I turn back toward Jack. “You are going to get us in trouble.” I can almost hear him retort: you told me to do it again. 

I feel dizzy, and sit down once again at my desk. He can hear me. And respond. Kind of. Why hasn’t he done this before? “Jack…” I begin, and pause. What do I want to say? “What else can you do?”

I stare expectantly at the bed, waiting to hear something. There is a rustle. Then footsteps. Then the window opens again. “No, wait. Where are you going?” The only reply is the sound of clumsy climbing and the warbling of a Brown Thrasher. 

What did I expect? Nothing has changed. He’s the same as ever: quiet and elusive. I’m the only one who’s changing; I can’t tell if it’s for the better or worse. 

Author's Note

This is really short and I'm thinking of expanding upon it. Is my grasp on magical realism strong enough?
Edit: I just added some more after "But I know he won't stay. He never did."
I would really love some specific feedback and criticisms. Thank you!!

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.