Fridays (Friday Number Three, September 1st, page 2 of 7)


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Perhaps the fact that my classes begin on Tuesday has me on edge. I've spent half-days at Cyrus P. Whitcomb Elementary School all week preparing for opening day. But no, that's not what has me so moody. I'm afraid it's Amy. I wasn't entirely truthful to this journal concerning my make believe friend. At times, she plays a far more important part in my life than she should.

One of those ancient Greeks, adept at insight said, "Know thyself." I suppose I do, at least fairly well, especially if Amy is nothing more than the alter me through whom I gain wisdom and answers. Knowing Lucy Peabody helps me to take pretty good care of her, not place her in spots uncomfortable, painful or awkward. I pretty much give her what she wants. After all, she's a fairly good girl and we get along just fine, with Amy often pointing the way.

I have a creeping feeling of impending danger in my secure little world and it frightens me like a dark cellar to a child. Amy continues to decry what she calls my obsession with my parents, more acute since my mother's passing. I suppose it's brought about by my Friday evenings with Mr. Anderson. Seeing him only serves to highlight my gross social shortcomings, and cause me to conduct a personal search for the reasons I came to be as I am. Amy is forever trying to get me to dig a hole and bury the past like a bulb for a plant in my garden. My other self seems to dwell upon happenings of long ago, dragging them to light until they are as clear as today as a fresh bloom. Remembrances, scary dreams I haven't thought of in decades, crowd my mind, looking for reasons and analysis. Amy strives to turn me away from them but I, in turn, continue to resurrect visions I truly don't want to remember.

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