Every day, all the same. She's always sitting in the same corner, same table, the same song playing over and over on her phone. At school, everyone tried avoiding her; they always have since Kindergarten when she kept playing by herself, explaining
she was playing with her friends. No one else could see them, her mother wasn't worried though. Her teacher called almost everyday to let the young girl's mother know her daughter was acting up, that she kept saying her friends were real and not her imagination.
Counseling has come up in conversations about her hundreds, if not thousands, of times, due to her wild imagination. The young seven year old never had friends, besides those she created. Her mother still was not worried, it was normal. Everyday she asked about them, engaged in conversation with her daughter about her friends.
"How's Emily, dear?" She asked as the first grader climbed into the car, setting her bag down on the seat.
"Fine, she's mad at Jack again, though. They got into a fight." The black haired girl buckled her seat and threw a glare towards the other side of the car.
"What did he do?" Her mother replied, glancing back at her daughter, who was still glaring at Jack.
"Emily got into a fight defending me from the mean girls."
The mean girls were naturally known to show up in a conversation whenever Emily got into a fight. It was always with them. Nameless girls the seven year old created to bully her so she felt safe with her friends.
She was only seven.
At ten, when her mother asked about the group, she would only reply with one or two word answers, or nothing at all. Her mother took that as a sign she was growing out of imaginary friends. At least, she hoped.
Days would roll by and the young girl would hardly even talk to people, besides the small group she created. Soon, everyone saw her as a mute and picked on her. In class, when the teacher assigned group seats or group projects, she would always go up and ask to do it, or sit, alone. Teacher asks why, she replies with "I don't do well in groups," when really she means, "I want to sit with my friends and not the people who bully me everyday."
At fourteen she stopped talking altogether. Using sign language to communicate with her mother and a white board to speak to teachers or other adults. Kids laughed, pointed, pushed, beat, kicked, and threatened her, knowing she'll allow it, won't fight back, and won't scream for help.
She couldn't see what was wrong with her. She couldn't tell why others picked on her. She didn't want the sympathy of adults if she told them what happened. She didn't care.
Why should she care if she didn't live in reality?