Mr. Tim, was a huge part of my life growing up. It started off as a friendship that escalated over time into something else. I always felt he had good intentions at the beginning. I thought he just wanted to be there for me.
He made me feel calm and confident before my first day of school. He told me I should be proud when I received my first exam results. He taught me how to read and how to speak a secret language only the two of us would understand.
He made the noises go away when my parents would argue, and made the pain go away when my father would hit me.
He made me promise to never mention his existence to anyone else and he told me not to call the police when he pushed my father down the stairs.
He was not perfect, but as I said, I thought he always had good intentions. My father was an evil man and he dealt with him the only way he knew how.
I was the only one who could see Mr. Tim. I would not always see him, but I could always sense him watching over me. I would always be excited to talk to him in our secret language, whenever I got a chance. I would rush home to see him after school and we would talk for hours on end. He would tell me fascinating stories from his past.
My mother did not understand why I would spend all of my time alone in my bedroom. She felt that I was lonely and depressed. I was not alone though, I was far from it. I felt that I had the best friend anyone could ask for. I wished I could tell her about him, but every time I asked, he would just get angry and remind me of the rules. I respected that.
When I began to get older and gain more of a sense of what was right and wrong, I realised that the way Mr. Tim reacted to certain things, was not always right. I tried to teach him how to act differently but he would just look at me with disappointment. I hated seeing him upset.
It was when I turned 14 years old, that I eventually realised that Mr. Tim was not as good of a person as I thought. He had begun telling me to do things that would get me in to trouble. He would tell me to hurt anyone that got close to me and he became extremely jealous and possessive. He was the only person I could speak to. Even when I spoke to my mother, I could see the displeasure in his face.
I could not have any friends other than him and if I did make a new friend, something would happen, that would push them away. I was never sure what he would do, but the next time I saw them, they would ignore me. If I tried to speak to them, they would just look at me with a glazed over, fearful expression.
So, I would sit alone and keep to myself. I knew the other kids thought of me as a freak. I was just trying to protect them from him.
I tried to ignore him for a brief time. I tried to get him out of my head and convince myself he was not real. I had told him that I wanted him to leave, but he did not like that at all. The thing he hated the most though, was when I would threaten to tell people of his existence.
He would threaten to hurt anyone I cared about if I told anyone about him and then forcibly make me sit on the naughty step. I was far too old to be doing that and if my mother saw me, I would always be embarrassed. I would always have to make up some excuse. I eventually just accepted that he would be in my life forever.
He started to become more mean and sadistic as I got older. He would no longer compliment or praise me. The long talks I once looked forward to, became less and less. He would instead just sit there and look at me in disgust. The only talks we would have, would be about how worthless and useless I was. I would cry myself to sleep most evenings, while he laughed from the corner of the room. That seemed to be the only time he was happy anymore.
I had attempted suicide before on multiple occasions but he would always prevent me from doing so. I could barely even think about it, without him knowing.
On my 16th birthday, as I went blow out the candles on another year of this miserable existence, I grabbed the knife that was placed next to the cake. I aimed it at my wrists and began to slash uncontrollably. I felt the knife drop to the floor as he appeared soon after, but he was too late, the damage had been done.
I awoke a few days later, in the hospital, with bandages covering my wrists. I scanned the room expecting Mr. Tim to be furiously looking over at me, but he was nowhere to be seen. The nurse entered the room soon after and told me that I was lucky to be alive. They had lost me for a little while.
I recovered from that incident and after extensive therapy, I eventually began to rebuild my life. I graduated from college and settled down in a new area, with my now wife. A few years later we were blessed with a baby boy. I have never spoken of Mr. Tim to anyone since. I firmly believed that part of my life was over. I had tried extensively to block out any memories of him.
I returned home from work this evening and saw my son sitting on the steps. His face filled with shame and guilt.
“Hey buddy, what you doing down there?”
“He said I have to sit here” he said, as he immediately looked back down at the floor.
“Who said that?” I said, as my heart began to race.
“He said I can’t tell you”
“Who said it? You can tell me buddy!” I said, as I felt a strange sense of familiarity fill the air around me.
“He said he’s an old friend of yours and he’s back now. He said he missed you.”
Credit: Speak Easy Here