[ WP ] You are an actor , hired by parents to pretend to be a troubled boy 's imaginary friend .

`` Where's the boogeyman live?'' 
 
 I remember a kid in my class asking me that, once. Never answered him. Did n't think I needed to; the question was idiotic. There's no such thing as a boogeyman in this world. There's just people. 
 
 Sometimes, though, that can be enough. 
 
 People could be pretty terrible, all their own. Look at me: a washed-up loser 30-year-old never-been, nothing but the gum on the bottom of society's boot heel. Less than that, maybe: I'm the dog hankering for a lick of that gum; anything to remind me I'm alive, really. 
 
 Some days I got to wondering if I was was really any less'imaginary' than the brat's fantasies. 
 
 Some days I wished I was n't. 
 
 I could be pretty terrible, sometimes.'Terrible'. I chuckle at the word. Does that really cover it? I feel that extra weight in my coat pocket as I wait to hear the distant diesel of the school bus behind old apple trees; waiting for the brat to come shuffling into the grove. 
 
 Only a terrible person brings a loaded gun to a meeting with an 8-year-old. 
 
 And people could be pretty terrible. 
 
 After a month of suffering the brat's delusions- his psychotic'play-times' and catty, vindictive mood swings- I'd had enough. It came on slowly, my decision, like rot in a coal miner's lungs. The job was easy at first: cater to the dumb kid's every possible'whim', pretending to *be* pretend. Not like the little shit had any friends of his own, not with his wild temperament and chaotic nature. 
 
 For a while I was just the fodder for the brat's'amusements', and the brat could be pretty creative in amusing himself. 
 
 I had the scars to prove it. 
 
 Now, it was n't the abuse that brought me to my decision, no. *That* I could handle; believe me, I've handled worse in my time. No, it was when I saw the reality of my situation, here: when I realized what the fuck I was actually doing. This was a kid who was such an asshole that he could n't have an friends, and so daddy had *bought* him a friend to have. 
 
 An'imaginary' one, to boot! One that could be kicked, punched- you name it- with no one the wiser! 
 
 That made me chuckle, when I thought about it. 
 
 And not'cause it was funny. 
 
 See, I could look back and remember what my father did to me, when I was feeling'blue', or'angry', or anything else at all. When he was n't busy lapping up the suds at the bottom of a bottle he was tanning my hide, or playing'games' with me, like burning a'fairy circle' of marks into my back with his cigarette. 
 
 `` Fittin' for a fairy,'' he'd say, laughing at me with those rotted teeth. 
 
 He thought it was funny; maybe it was, I guess. 
 
 It got a chuckle out of me when I remembered it, at least. 
 
 When I think about what I *didn't* have, growing up, and what this snot-nosed little psychopath *does* have, well, my chuckling stops, and I think other things. 
 
 And I bring a loaded gun to a meeting with an 8-year-old. 
 
 My eyes peek up and I blink, tilting my head; the rough cough of a diesel engine pierces the gloom, startling ravens from their trees. A moment later I hear that dreaded sound: tennis shoes tromping over the ground. 
 
 He stops a few feet from me, looking up at me with those dead black eyes, almost like a raven, himself. 
 
 `` Hey,'' he whispers. 
 
 `` Hey,'' I answer. 
 
 The boy shuffles past me, closer to the trees surrounding us. This was one of the'good' days, I thought. It was one of the days the little bastard was off his diabolical'game', at least for a little while. Sometimes he'd even just want to go off and take a walk, not saying a damn word. 
 
 Even to his imaginary friend. 
 
 But today would be a little different, because I was feeling a little terrible, inside. 
 
 Today this rich little piece of shit was going to learn that his'imaginary' friend was n't so imaginary, after all. 
 
 Today he was going to see a grown man die right in front of his eyes. 
 
 `` Listen,'' I said, `` we're done here, after today. You wo n't be seeing me anymore, kid.'' 
 
 The kid stopped walking, catching a breath in his throat. He turned, and those devilish little black eyes were wide as saucers. 
 
 `` Wh- what are you talking about? What you you mean? *Why*?'' 
 
 ``'Cause I'm done, that's why.'' I drew a tranquil breath, and a serene smile even crossed my face as I thought about the horror I was about to push on the brat. 
 
 I was n't happy about it, really. In fact, I did n't feel much anything at all, as I reached into my coat pocket. 
 
 `` Y- you *can't*!'' The boy's eyes trembled and he raced over to me. `` *No*! You ca n't just... just be *done*!'' 
 
 `` Sorry,'' I shook my head, `` but it's the end of the line for me-'' 
 
 `` *No*!'' The kid started stammering, holding my hand as he rattled off pathetic promises. `` I- I'll let you take the lead when we're exploring! You can have whatever snacks you want from me- I got Sun Chips from lunch, you know! Y- you can... you can *hit* me, if you like!'' 
 
 The brat held up his chin to me, eyes tightly shut; I pushed him away. 
 
 `` I do n't wan na hit you, kid-'' 
 
 `` Just *do n't go*! Please!'' 
 
 `` You ever beg someone, before?'' My smile widened. `` You can do better, ca n't you?'' 
 
 I know that was a terrible thing to say. 
 
 But maybe I just *am* a terrible person after all, who knows? 
 
 The boy hung his head, defeated. I took a few steps back; it would n't do to get any brain matter on his pretty little coat, would it? 
 
 I'm not *that* cruel. 
 
 `` W- wait!'' The boy raises his head and again shuffles up to me. 
 
 `` Do n't waste your time, you little sh-'' 
 
 My words trail off as I watch the kid hunker down in front of me; his face is a panicked mess, and his lips are trembling like violin strings. He quickly reaches up and grabs my fly, trying to yank it down, but I bat his hand away. 
 
 `` The *fuck* are you doing?'' I bark. 
 
 `` I... I can give you a'favor','' The boy's voice is only a reedy whisper. `` T- to stay? You will stay, right, if I do?'' 
 
 `` Favor? What are you talking about?'' 
 
 The boy stares at the dirt beneath him, hanging his head. 
 
 `` Like... like Mister Perkins asks for. F- favors. I could give you one.'' The kid looks up at me, but his trembling eyes barely meet mine before he looks away. `` Or... *other* favors, even. He says I'm good at them...'' 
 
 The color drained from my face; I could only stand there, shocked, watching as the brat's desperate, lonely eyes took to quivering. The tears started soon after, and I could n't move a muscle. 
 
 `` Mister'Perkins'?'' I finally managed. 
 
 The boy nodded, wiping snot on his sleeve. 
 
 `` H- history teacher. He's nice... says that no one else would treat me as nice as he did; and he's... really nice. Even tutored me... at his house. In private, you know? I guess, well, the only person who's ever treated me as nice as him is *you*. But you do n't count, do you?'' 
 
 These words turned *my* eyes into saucers. I drew a slow breath, my hand still tucked inside my coat, caressing the lines of my revolver. 
 
 I stare at that pathetic kid in the dirt, sobbing, and at that moment I saw more than the chaotic, psychotic hate in him. I saw another pathetic kid, sobbing with every strike- bottle and hand- screaming as a'fairy circle' of scars was seared into his back with a nasty, red-hot cigarette. 
 
 I saw a kid that did n't matter, and that would n't amount to anything after 30 years of life. 
 
 Some days I really had got to thinking that I was just as'imaginary' as the kid's fantasies. 
 
 Today I was glad I was n't. 
 
 A kid in class asked me a question, once, and I did n't answer him, because I thought I knew the answer. 
 
 But I was just a kid that did n't matter- and I'm still a penniless twit who does n't matter worth a damn- so what's my answer mean, anyway? 
 
 I smile when I think about what I *could* mean to this kid, right now. 
 
 And *this* smile makes me feel something. It was n't happy, not really. I did n't know what that felt like to begin with, honestly. 
 
 But, if I had to guess, it'd feel something a little like this. 
 
 I tilt the kid's chin up, and in his wracked sobbing he looks up at me; my smile widens. 
 
 `` And where, exactly, does Mister Perkins live?'' 

