That is also a new one.

Everything about this situation is “a new one.” Save for the aforementioned imaginary friend from my childhood that I barely remember, none of my previous delusions have repeatedly appeared, nor stuck around this long, nor even engaged with me the way this one is.

And none of them have ever told me that I’m going to die. Today.

“That’s...not funny,” I say -- to her? To me? To my brain? I am no longer sure.

“Do I sound as though I am jesting?” She arches her brow.

No. She looks dead serious, no pun intended. But wait…

“I can’t go off and disappear with you -- you’re not real! I shouldn’t even still be talking with you. It’s not like I’m a little kid with imaginary friends anymore.”

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

“If you believe I am not real,” she sighs, like it’s taking everything in her not to roll her eyes, “does that not make this precisely what is going on--”

“Prove it.”

“What?”

“Prove to me you’re real and not just another one of my other delusions,” I say, hating that my voice shakes. Her telling me that I’m going to die today scares me enough to stop myself from leaving and acting like none of this is happening.

“Others...” she grumbles, frowning.

“Yeah,” I tap my temples. “Schizophrenia.”

“You are not insane.”

“A long line of doctors and specialists would beg to differ with you on--”

“You are the son of Lucifer.”