The Crickle

My friend, my own special friend. A friend quite literally to the end.

It all started well. It’s nice to have a friend.

It ended badly. It ended sad. But thankfully it ended. Thankfully the pain wept away.

I’d known for sometime. I felt it with me, but not part of me.

Neither it nor I could hide any secrets as we shared the same thoughts, though we did not share the same heart and we existed as close strangers.

Until I found how it lived, how my relationship with it was much, much more to do with my death and less to do with my love.

Imaginary friends like normal friends need to feed.

Though the similarities end there.

I at seven had the energy of ten adults. The zest that affects all children.

It was at seven it appeared.

Never alone no matter how outcast I may feel, never to let me down like many so it seemed had.

I started dying.

It was feeding on me.

Digesting the magic-electric that powers all of us yet remains unknown to us.


Crickle told me its name.

In a world of enemies Crickle became my closest friend.

My reality.

As I grow sick Crickle came to understand I knew it was killing me.

Doctors, hospitals, tears and screams. Now my daily life.

It was bearable because I had Crickle.

Crickle told me it did love me as it had loved all its hosts.

But like all before I was depleted.

It must move on like an animal of the African Savannah, one water hole to the next.

I was drying up.

The last days of my life I spent locked within a torture chamber outlined by the boundary of my skin.

Blood choking my lungs.

Cold metal bars replacing my once warm agile bones.

The chill was growing within.

For Crickle it was time to move on.

As Crickle was leaving me, it was forgetting me.

Leaving me empty.

Taking my last particle of energy to power it to its next source.


A used battery.

I die.

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