The last thing I remember is excruciating pain. Streaks of artificial light from the streets of Los Angeles against the murky sky had blinded my drunken, glossy eyes, and the countless shards of glass had decorated my skin in thick streams of crimson. I also recall the sickening thud of my body colliding with the weathered, lukewarm asphalt. Limp and unresponsive to the calls for help and commands to keep my eyes open and stay awake just a little longer, the woman who cradled my bleeding head in her arms knew, even as she laughed miserably at some horrible joke I cracked, that I was as good as gone.
Beatrice Illingworth. We hadn’t filed for the papers yet, but I knew better than to call her my wife. Our marriage had just barely scraped past its tenth anniversary when everything came to a screeching, rocky halt. I was a flimsy shadow of a man in the later years, one who replaced his spine and every nerve in his body with liquid courage the darker the sky grew. Mistakes were made, and the 2-inch fake eyelashes, the long auburn locks of hair…I realized far too late in my whiskey-laden spell that it wasn’t my wife sprawled out on the bed before me, porcelain flesh unlike the sun-kissed skin I knew so well. She was an angel, and the sight of me unraveling any last knotted strand of sanity deep within some college graduate in our shared bed shattered her.
In the midst of the searing white-hot pain, I managed to brand her smile—her beautiful, perfectly imperfect smile—into my memory. She had always complained about the faintest off-white tint her teeth had, but I loved them all the same. And, being the devout believer in God that she was, she still graced me with a little grin and prayed I would have my shit together as soon as conceivably possible. Even after seeing me in the state I was in on our bed, then crumpled up on some random street, she wished me well—and it stung.
I was never exactly a believer myself. Sure, I entertained the idea of karma and some immortal person or thing knowing what shitty decision I was going to make two days from now, but concrete consequences delivered by a human hand and mind were far more fathomable. The justice system, the police force, the military, crooked politicians—I could see these things with my own eye and make sense of the nonsense, but an all-knowing being said to have put us all here with the promise of being booted up to Heaven or down to Hell was a little too much for me.
That’s why I feel as stumped as I do when I stare dumbly at the little girl in front of me. Cotton candy pink stains the walls distantly surrounding her, and her frilly blue dress perfectly complements her ocean eyes. The faintest hint of freckles accent her fair, rosy cheeks, and her hands, small and dainty, cradle a ragged stuffed animal. Stranger yet is the golden string looped around my wrist, its other end tied around hers.
We’ve been eyeing each other for about ten minutes, now, her orbs swirling more with wonder while mine flit anxiously between her sitting figure and the room. I was dead just a bit ago; double-jointed in all the wrong ways and in all the wrong places…and now I’m here, probably scaring the girl a little bit more every second she has to watch the confused glower resting on my face. Even worse, every time I blink, I still see her smiling down at me. I was too broken to wipe the tears off her face…
“I’ll name you Thomas,” the child suddenly chirps, and her cute, albeit shrill voice startles me. “Let’s play outside!” Before I could open my mouth to speak, she stands up and darts out of the room with her stuffed animal in hand. The golden string yanks harshly on my wrist, with another pull following shortly after as I hear the distant pitter patter of her footsteps tumbling down a set of stairs. Stumbling not too far behind, the line finally goes slack when the girl plops down in the shade of a colossal oak tree. She offers me a radiant smile and pats the patch of grass next to her. As if knowing full and well that I’d comply immediately, she turns her attention to the numerous wooden blocks scattered in front of her and picks some up.
A gentle whistling sound from beyond the tree stops me in my tracks, and I turn my gaze upward to see someone tall and lean, dark-skinned and adorning a crisp black suit. They stand with a clipboard hugged tight against their chest. Once we lock eyes, the stranger nods and waves me over. Only when I stand in front of this individual do I realize how strange and otherworldly they look with large catlike eyes, a thin-lipped smile, high cheekbones, shaved head, and warm, practically glowing skin.
“So she decided to call you Thomas, hmm? Nice name,” the person chuckles, their voice rich and deep. Every few words I could swear I hear multiple voices closely intertwined in one.
“I’m sorry, but…who are you, exactly?” I eventually bring myself to ask, and I internally kick myself for the ghost of a tremor in my voice.
Another chuckle. “You don’t need to worry yourself with that. But if it makes it easier for you, my name is Phanuel. I’m just here to discuss your role.”
“What are you talking about?” Baffled, my eyes dart between the girl, the golden string, and the stranger. I raise my wrist in the air. “Does this leash have something to do with it?”
“Yes, the string does,” they laugh gently. “You are serving as her imaginary friend.”
What? I stare dumbfoundedly at the girl, who continues to stack up the blocks in multiple intricate formations. “...I’m her imaginary friend.”
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“Yes.” An additional pause is all I can afford to give the stranger, Phanuel, as my way of expressing how confused I am. To my relief, they seem to catch on immediately, pulling the clipboard away from their chest and peering at it amusedly. “You passed away on August 17th, 2022 as a result of a car crash. Avoidable, really,” they say with a hint of a smirk, “if you hadn’t been drinking so much. Your drunken state not only landed you with a serious offense, but it also killed you before you could properly reflect and repent.”
“What’s the serious offense?”
A grin, smaller this time, plasters itself on their face. “I think you know, Liam.”
“You’re going to be late,” Bea said in a tired singsong voice. Her fingers danced across my shoulder while she gazed at me. We both rested comfortably on our sides, facing each other, while we basked in the late morning sunlight pouring in through the open window.
“I don’t want to go,” I muttered. I raised one hand and cupped it against her cheek, then pulled her head closer to plant a chaste kiss on her forehead. “C’mon, let’s stay here a little longer.”
“So stubborn.” Chuckling, she lifted the hand that was now drawing circles on my arm and pinched my cheek. “Any longer and you won’t have any breakfast. How could you live without my eggs benedict, Liam?”
I pulled my hand away from her and swooned dramatically. “The cruelty; the horror,” I wailed.
“Well, if you want it so much,” she shrugged and mumbled, “you’ll have to beat me to the kitchen.” With only enough time to give her a puzzled stare, I watched her hand dart behind her head and yank one of our decorative pillows forward. In an instant, the silky, feather-stuffed fabric of the cushion smashed into my face. By the time I pushed it out of the way, I spotted Bea as she slid in her socks out of the bedroom door and darted down the hall. Adrenaline pumped through my veins at the sound of her clamoring down the carpeted stairs, laughing all the way with me not far behind.
The flood of warmth and happiness—genuine, unbridled, beautifully familiar happiness—knocks the wind out of me, and my body folds in half from the crushing weight of what I had lost. My hand plants itself on the rough surface of the oak tree, its cool bark scraping against the skin of my palm.
“You remember,” Phanuel comments. “Good. Reflection here as an imaginary friend is much more effective when you can recall your memories.”
“So…I’m dead, right?”
“Yes, you are.”
“What the fuck?” I whisper incredulously. The fact that I'm somehow existing while being dead throws me off my feet. On wobbly legs, I stand up with a hand dragging down my face. I groan “I know I didn’t really believe in you and whoever you work for while I was alive, but I know I don’t want to be this girl’s imaginary friend—or an imaginary friend to begin with.”
They nod, but clearly more out of levity than sympathy. “Having been present at your hearing, I can say that the Liam I saw on the stand was far unlike the one I’m speaking with now. Heaven’s gates weren’t opened to you, so you were left to choose between Hell and the lesser evil of two in-betweens, the more evil being that you haunt a busy Los Angeles street and face eternal unrest.” Peeking over at me and needing no further encouragement to continue than the perplexed expression scribbled all over my face, Phanuel says, “You were pleading to become an imaginary friend.”
“Why can’t I remember this?” I say, eyeing the girl now. She stands up and dusts her dress off, then steps around the tower she had built.
“No one does,” they answer. “No one remembers what life they think they’ll live moments before birth, and no one remembers the painful process of forgetting everything they were as they’re born. I’d consider it a favor, really.”
Trading glances with one another, we both watch the girl wriggle leaves and twigs in the little spaces between the blocks. “How long?”
“Until she matures and no longer believes in you. At that point you will face another hearing to see whether you’re fit to enter Heaven or not.” Phanuel sighs and offers me their trademark surreal smile. “I’ve distracted you long enough. Enjoy every moment you have with Beatrice now, because your time here is finite.” They turn their back to me and stroll in the direction of an abnormally bright patch of sunlight just beyond the tree’s shadow.
The name leaves a heavy weight in my heart, stealing my breath away. “Wait,” I call out, “what’s her last name?”
With their now glistening hand outstretched in the pool of light, they grin over their shoulder at me. “I’ll let her tell you that.” The little girl—Beatrice, I’ve learned—bounds into the streams of light and beams up at Phanuel. Her ordinary dainty hands wrap around their lengthy fingers. “Take good care of your imaginary friend, Bea,” they say, voice soothing and almost like a lullaby. “He is in need of guidance, and I believe you’re fit to give him it. Will you do that for me?” The little girl nods excitedly, and Phanuel laughs. “Good, good.” Turning to me, now, Phanuel waves and calls out, “Farewell, Thomas.”
In an instant, the mystifying stranger vanishes, practically dematerializing in the sunshine. A lively breeze sweeps through the oak tree’s branches, but it does nothing to alleviate the throbbing soreness spreading across my chest. Beatrice… I find her staring at me from the same spot beyond the oak tree’s shadow, eyes bright and gleaming. “Hey,” I call out, voice slow and forced, “what’s your last name?”
She tilts her head, a spirited smile dancing on her radiant features. “Illingworth.”