Aunt Ila Murdered My Imaginary Friends

I didn’t plan on spending the holidays accusing my aunt of murder. But then again, she didn’t plan on killing my imaginary friends.

When I was six years old, I had two best friends named Kocky-Kocky and Coy.

They lived in a golden glass ashtray that sat untouched on the coffee table. It was one of those heavy, decorative ones with grooves for cigarettes to rest.

In our household, no one smoked, so the ashtray was purely ornamental. But to me, it was sacred ground.

Kocky-Kocky and Coy stood in the center of it. They wore long white robes, the kind men wore in old gladiator movies. Their hair was dark and thick, and they both had short beards that made them look wiser than anyone else I knew.

They looked up at me with patience and curiosity. I shared my secrets and my worries with them. Also, thanks to Star Trek, I explained my grand idea of exploring space and leaving my older brothers behind to live out their boring lives.

These friends were where my thoughts went first. They were my encouragement, my safe little audience in a noisy house full of older siblings. For a shy youngest-of-six kid, they were the only ones who always paid attention.

Then came the family gathering.

Aunt Ila arrived in a cloud of perfume and honey-thick conversation. She was the kind of woman who made every room brighter just by walking in. She was cheerful, chatty, and always halfway through a story before she sat down. And she never went anywhere without her Marlboro Lights.

Sometime between the mashed potatoes and the pumpkin pie, she spotted the golden ashtray.

“Oh, good,” she said with delight, tapping her cigarette on the rim like it had been waiting just for her.

By the time I wandered into the living room, the ashtray was overflowing with ashes. Gray dust spilled over its edges like a miniature volcano.

My heart sank. My safe place. My friends. Gone.

“You killed them,” I muttered through pouting lips.

Aunt Ila froze mid-puff. “What?”

I pointed wide-eyed at the smoldering heap. “Kocky-Kocky and Coy. They lived there,” I whispered, my lower lip trembling.

Her jaw dropped so far, I thought her cigarette might fall out.

“Oh my lord,” she gasped, waving the smoke away as if that might undo it. Then came the nervous giggle. “I am so sorry, honey. I didn’t know.”

The room went quiet. My siblings looked up from their mashed potatoes, probably hoping for dessert and a good show.

Even then, I didn’t think I really believed Kocky-Kocky and Coy were gone. But I didn’t tell her that. Maybe I liked the attention. Or maybe I realized I was getting too old to keep talking to imaginary friends, even if they were my best listeners.

I sometimes think back to that golden ashtray and laugh at how serious I was about it. But looking closer, I see what was really happening.

In a loud house full of older siblings and cousins, I found a way to create a space where I could be heard. Kocky-Kocky and Coy weren’t just imaginary friends; they were my first audience. A place to practice speaking, wondering, and being myself without interruption.

As a child, I didn’t yet have the language to explain what I was doing. I only knew that communicating my ideas mattered, and that sometimes you have to build a small, quiet world to hear yourself think.

I didn’t lose that instinct when I grew up. I just stopped needing an ashtray to access it.

 

Merdhin Wylde is a gay writer of nonfiction, fantasy, and horror. He lives in San Francisco with his chosen family, including his muse, Jinx the dog. When not writing, he devours fantasy and sci-fi, enjoys local theater, and looks for opportunities to celebrate life in everyday moments.