Lots of people say that they love fictional characters, right? But do they actually care? I did. I cared about Will. I knew everything about him-his thoughts, his feelings, his actions. I liked to think that he could look out to me, from between the pages, but of course that wasn’t true. I cared too much. And here’s how it began.
I sighed, throwing my blimp-like, azuline (faded blue) backpack onto my bed. Walking past my full length mirror, I winced. I could see the definite marks where I had cut gum out of my hair that morning. At school, the only one who had said anything about the extremely visible lack of hair in that spot had been Bishop. But then, he would. That’s what friends are for, right? He was also the only one to bring up the topic of Will. He thought it was bad for me to immerse myself in the fictional. He was right.
I flopped into my old, aubergine (light purple) armchair; remembering first to reach up with two fingers that lightly brushed against the surface of my only poster; Selcouth, where Will was. Selcouth (unfamiliar, rare, strange, and yet marvelous). Also the reason I got gum in my hair. I was staying up late, reading it for the millionth time, while chewing gum (stupid, right), when I fell asleep. My book light had died, too.
From my vantage point, curled up in my giant armchair, I looked around the spacious yet cozy room. The armchair itself was tucked into an indent in my wall, gradually sloping towards a large window. My bed was tucked into another, larger one, and the wall opposite was completely dominated by a full bookshelf. Hey, I read other books, too. It went to the ceiling, and had a white, wooden stepladder next to it. The floor was carpeted in damson (dark purple) leaf patterns; the walls were a glaucous (blue-grey, the color of morning mist) color. My room was oddly shaped, so my door had its own (small) side of the room.
I picked up Selcouth from my antique wooden bedside table, and ruffled through its worn pages, its plain xanadu (greenish-turquoise) cover (no author listed). My thumb rested on the back cover, but I set it gently and barely caught my phone as it was pushed off. It was damp from a spreading calaccino (the ring left on a table by a cold glass), and I wiped it on my old ACDC tee.
I checked the time, 5:23, and frowned. Ever since we were little, Bishop (my best, and only friend), had called me around five. When we were still neighbors, he’d finish his chores and homework and come over then; we had called it the ‘o-five-hundred’ (we’d seen it on TV) and he almost never missed it. I called him back.
Click. He answered.
“Yeah, Sera, what is it?” why had I called him? It’s not like something bad could have happened to him.
“It’s Serafina, Bishop!”
“Whatever,” he replies, “what do you need?”
“Nothing, well you missed your call, but it doesn’t really-“
“Ack! It’s already five thirty! Be right over.”
Click.
Though Bishop almost never forgets to call, he always does something drastic and a little weird to compensate. Like, one time he bought me a giant pocket watch, ‘so I would always remember to make sure he called’. Where did he even get that?
Fifteen minutes later, Bishop bursts through my door (he has a key to our house), with a plastic bag containing: takeout pancakes, eggs, plastic silverware and a checked tablecloth. Breakfast for dinner, an indoor picnic. So Bishop.
“Sorry for missing the call,” Bishop handed me a fork,
“Like I care,” I smile, “Loser.”
?
School. I walked through the hallways, air and people thrumming with life and flowing around me. They didn’t know who I was; they weren’t part of my friend group, and I wasn’t part of theirs.
But I was a part of my friend group, however small. Bishop tapped my shoulder, opposite of the side he was on, and I exaggeratedly looked that way, sparking a laugh that I couldn’t help smiling at. His eau-de-nil (pale green) eyes were set off by his spiky, dirty blond hair and galaxy of freckles. Eau de nil was high up in my color-prioritized mind.
I plodded through the rest of my classes, sixteen yawns doled out to each teacher like late homework, until I was finally waiting for Bishop outside; we only lived a short distance away and walked together. Suddenly, he grabbed my arm.
“Race you,” he said, and took off.
I started to chase him, enjoying the wind in my face, ignoring the other people, when I stopped for a microsecond, taking in the speeding car and Bishop only looking left, and the cinereous (dark, ashy grey) road, and no, no, no, Bishop, Bishop, Bishop. I was so much closer, and then my vision flickered, like a faulty light.
I was in the street, Bishop’s bloody face was over mine, dripping into mine, and he was yelling, but I couldn’t hear him. And I had a thought. I wouldn’t have done this for Will. When-if I ever woke up, then I…