Who Are You Talking To?

Veracity: n., pl. -ties (ca. 1623) 1: a devotion to the truth : TRUTHFULNESS 2: The power of conveying or perceiving truth 3: Conformity with truth or fact of reality: ACCURACY 4: Something true
-Merriam Webster's Collegiate Dictionary: Tenth Edition

I stared at the ceiling, just looking at the tiny dots making up the rough, oddly moon-like surface of my ceiling. I couldn't help it, it was eerily hypnotic.

My friend and I had been quiet for a while, after giggling about some hot jock or another from school. I munched some more on her separate plate of cookies, she said she wasn't hungry and I had skipped lunch to study for History.

She stared at me from across the bed. "Um," she began, rearranging her legs Indian-style as she spoke, "There's something I really want to talk to you about. It's important."

I turned on my side to see her better. "Yeah?" I asked while propping my head on my hand.

"Yeah, have you ever had someone over, talked to them for hours, and they weren't even there to begin with?"

"What?" I stared at her, incredulous. Then I laughed, think she was joking when I ran through the speech in my head.

She looked like she was about to burst into tears.

I stopped laughing and my eyes grew wide.

"I think I'm going crazy." She choked. "I talk and talk and talk, and these people laugh and everything! Then my mother or dad comes in and demand who I'm talking to. And my 'friends' aren't even there anymore--the room is empty!"

I stare at her, utterly dumbstruck. "Oh," was all that I could think to say.

"They were never there to begin with," she said bitterly. "Never." Then she stared at me, her eyes suddenly capturing a strange glint of depression that I had never seen before. "Are you real?" She whimpered, like an animal hit too many times. "You might not be real. This might all be another mistake, another 'loss of reality.' And I would not even know it."

I took her hand in mine. "I am real." I said resolutely. "Feel?" T he warmth of her skin touched mine, and I held it, hoping against hope she would believe me.

She smiled at me. "Yes," she said, "I feel." She closed her eyes to me, and smiled wider in thanks. "I know, at least right now.that I am not crazy now."

The door opened. I looked to find my mom standing in the doorway, holding a recent basket of clean clothes for me. She frowned and looked around the room. "Who are you talking to?" She asked.

End.