"Cool it with the makeup, friend. You haven't got much face left."

"Ugh!" Tilda's Ravish Raspberry lipstick rolled beneath the sink. She shot me a dirty glance before stooping low to inspect the even dirtier bathroom floor. Her voice sounded tinny against the pink and yellow tiled walls. "When I get nervous, I cake on the CoverGirl. You know that!" With a small gasp she crouched even further, attempting to weave her arm through low and exposed piping.

Straining, she said, "I've already been confused for a hotel housekeeper three times today!"

I leaned against a hand dryer and crossed my arms. "I mean, you ARE clumsy," I said. "Maybe people keep finding you...picking things up off the floor."

Tilda snagged her lipstick. After a silent beat, she exploded with what sounded like a mix between a growl and a yodel. She avoided my furrowed gaze and washed her hands. "Why is this my life?" she sniffed, inspecting her eyeliner in the mirror.

"Forget about those doofuses! You're a writer at a writer's retreat! Childhood dream accomplished! Now you can work on your audition tape for Dancing with the Stars."

Tilda made that horrible sound again. "This retreat is KILLLLLING me!" My maker's voice rose to an uncomfortable octave. I covered my ears and watched with disgusted awe as she applied her lipstick while screaming once more.

She reached for her Plum Plush blush and began dabbing at her cheekbones. "I have zero inspo, HM. ZERO! Like, what even is there to write about?"

"Well-"

"Please, no snark right now, HM," snapped Tilda. She checked her face one more time in the mirror. Shrugging, she said, "I just don't fit in here. I'll never be a real writer. I'll probably pen some garbage and go home in shame...you know, the usual." She stood a little taller, forced a smile, and marched out of the restroom.

I sighed and slouched. I paced about the room.

"Think, HM, think!" I said. "There's got to be something you can do."

Plink.

Tilda's lipstick. She'd forgotten to take it with her. I crouched down and uselessly grabbed at it. For the first time in my life, I lamented being imaginary.

"A small plastic vial," came a frosty voice in my ears. "An inaccessible want. Your fingers scratch and scrape, like bellowing ghosts on unbelieving ears. Heard and brushed aside."

"H-hello?" I said, still compelled to reach for the lipstick.

"So close, yet still inaccessible," the voice continued. "Your outstretched hand begins to quiver; tendons groaning, straining under unjust commands. Still the sulphurous yellow tile taunts you, its derision pinning the tube of waxy wine into the corner. Inching forwards, stoic fingers lean towards their goal.

A stretch too far...

Always too far...

Just like your dreams...

Past, present and future..."

"Wh-what?" I stammered.

"Then, like your dreams your acromioclavicular joint buckles under societal pressure. Muscle fibres extend before fraying like abused ship ropes. With one final groan the twisted strands of drowned hair recoil violently with a resounding snap. Rendering the arm useless, just like your future hopes."

I took a quick break from screaming. "NOT MY FUTURE HOPES!" I said.

"Indeed your future hopes will crumble before your eyes if you just stop believing... Which you will, when I have finished with you."

I gulped. "If I survive, can I go home?"

"Go home where?" asked the voice. "Do you even have a home? I'm sure I can find you a nice corner of Hell to reside in, I mean, it's warm. You'll never get cold in winter again."

"Do imaginary friends even have an afterlife?"

"Everyone has- wait...what? You're a what?" The figure fiddled around the pockets of her streaming inky gown. She pulled out a pair of glasses. "No..." she said, returning them to her left side. She picked up another. "Fun, but...nope." She dug once more. "Ah!" She placed her glasses over her draping blonde hair. "Forgive me, I didn't have my glasses on."

I blinked.

"Now I can see you," said the voice.

"See me, huh?" I said, in a size 3 font.

"I'm surprised you can see me considering I'm so dark," she laughed.

My hollow laugh trailed behind hers. My words abandoned me.

"I am Dede," said the woman, slightly nodding.

"Nice to meet you DD," I shivered. "Does that stand for Dark Disco?"

Her laugh was as sage as it was soft. "It's Dede, friend."

"That's what I said. DD."

She sighed, blond hair rippling where her mouth must've been hiding. She said, "You're saying it right, but thinking it wrong. Add e's to your d's."

"...DeeDee?"

Another sigh. A shake of the head. "I know you've more pressing issues, fellow Imaginary, so, for now, that will have to do." Her laughter surrounding the words "pressing issues" made me blanch.

"You don't know my ‘issues,’ pal," I said.

"Oh?" she waved a hand as though batting at flies. "Your maker is on the brink of giving up her craft." With a shrug she added, "You die, if your maker gives up..."

"Shhhhh! No one asked you to creep in here spewing truths and whatnot," I spluttered. "Keep the 'd' word on the down low."

"I'm a Gwisin, friend. I think about death every day."

"SHHH!"

"I'd offer to help you on one condition," said DeeDee.

"So... will you help me?" I asked. "I'm too pretty to die!"

DeeDee's heartless laughter whooshed through my self-confidence.

With narrowed eyes, I said, "And your condition is...?"

"My condition is my condition and you will have to figure it out sooner or later. Or you'll have to become familiar with my Knife of Decision."

(Cowritten by HM & Dede)