What the hell is wrong with Kelsey, starting all these damn stories? Yeesh. Well, whatever. This one has been in my head waaaaay longer than anything else I've got up right now. I'm talking, in my head for like, practically a year. So I don't want to hear it. haha. Obviously since I've got like, four things up now, some stuff's not going to be updated as much, but I finish my stories I put up. For real. So don't fret, it will all get finished. It just might not be on your time schedule. Alright, so this story is probably going to be more along the lines of an AU, even though they're all in the same place and whatnot. This first chapter's just a prologue. I like prologues. Go cry about it. So...yeah...

Disclaimer: I do not own the Boondocks. Don't sue. I am one broke b!$#.

February 21, 2003
Boston, Massachusetts

"Alright, honey." The counselor sat up in her chair, flipping through a few forms on her clipboard. "Tell me a little about yourself."

The eight year old girl squirmed in her chair, her shiny black Mary Janes clicking together. Her favorite doll was in her lap. Her poofy strawberry blond ponytail sat on the top of her head. She frowned, staring around the room as if examining her surroundings of the children psychology office. Her eyes landed behind the therapist, staring out the long windows that offered views of the city. The counselor offered her a reassuring smile.

"It's alright, honey." She leaned forward in her chair, catching the girl's eye. "You can talk to me. I want to be friends."

Her frown deepened. "I have friends," She said softly, her green eyes falling to her feet. The woman glanced down at her notes.

"You know," She said in a melodic tone, so polite it was almost as if she weren't disagreeing with her. "A little friend of mine told me the opposite." She peered over the edge of her glasses. "You've been having problems in school?"

The little girl shrugged, not looking up. "People pick on me. They laugh at me."

"Well." She sat up. "Do you know why?"

The girl swallowed, looking up. She looked afraid. "I see things. I hear things that no one else does." He voice was softer. The counselor nodded, writing down something on her clipboard.

"I have been told that you have a big imagination." She looked back up. "Is it okay if I say your name?"

She shrugged.

"Alright then, Jazmine." She offered the girl a gentle smile. "I feel like we're better friends already."

"I have friends," Jazmine repeated. The counselor went on as if she didn't hear her.

"Your parents told me that you're picked on a lot." She flipped through her paperwork. "You're teased, called names, pushed…they took you out of your old school after you were cornered on the playground." She rested her chin in her hand. "What happened?"

Jazmine shifted in her chair. "They said I was crazy."

"And what made them say that?" When Jazmine merely shrugged in response the woman scooted closer. "You don't have to be afraid to talk to me about it, sweetie. There are no wrong answers."

"They laughed at me for talking to imaginary people." Jazmine swallowed. The counselor pushed a strand of brown hair behind her hear, leaning over her papers.

"It's okay to have imaginary friends-"

"They aren't imaginary."

The counselor looked at her. "They're not?"


She sat up straighter, folding her hands over her clipboard. "Can they talk?"


"Can you see them?"


"Does anyone else see them?"

Jazmine frowned, staring down at her lap. "My Grammy does."

"Ah. Your grandmother." She glanced down at her notes. "Freda Marie Alston." She gazed back towards Jazmine, who was wiping her palms on the skirt of her purple jumpsuit. "You two are really close, huh?"

Jazmine nodded, her ponytail bobbing furiously. "She's my best friend."

"Well. Grandmothers are very wise." She leaned back in her chair. "They also enjoy telling wise tales. Don't you think she's playing make believe when she tells you of her invisible friends?"

"No." Jazmine sat up herself although her voice was small. "Because I've seen them, too."

The woman smiled. "I'm sure."

Jazmine's frown turned into a little pout. "You don't believe me." She sighed, staring down at her doll. "No one ever believes me."

"Well." The woman set her clipboard on the desk beside her and folded her hands over her knees, crossing her legs. She smiled lightly. "Why don't you tell me about your friends?" When Jazmine hesitated she shrugged. "You want to be my friend, right?"

"Mommy and daddy made me come." The little girl sounded hurt. "I don't want to be here. I want to go home."

"Don't worry. You won't be here much longer." She tapped her watch. "So while you're here, why don't you just talk to me? I won't tell anyone. I pinky promise." She ran her fingers across her tightly closed lips as if zipping them shut, then threw away the key. Jazmine took a deep breath.

"They aren't my friends." She clasped her own hands together and stared at the floor. "They're gone."

The woman tilted her head to the side. "Gone?"

"They were here before." Jazmine didn't look up. "They're ghosts."

The woman's expression smoothed over so that when Jazmine looked up she couldn't tell what she was thinking. "They talk to me," She practically whispered. "Some of them are really nice. Some of them are scary."


"I dream things, too." The woman closed her mouth again. "I dream things that come true afterwards. I see people in my dreams. Sometimes I'll be in math and all of a sudden I get this headache." She stared down at the floor again. "It hurts. And then I see things. And when I see these things, they haven't happened yet." She looked up, tears in her eyes. "But after I see them, they do. It scares me. Grammy said there's nothing to worry about, but it makes me feel crazy. And other kids call me crazy, too. They say mean things. They hurt my feelings." She sniffed. "I want to be normal."

"You are normal." The woman reached for her clipboard again. "You're perfectly normal. You just have an overactive imagination-"

"It's not my imagination!" Jazmine suddenly yelled, causing them both to blink. She wiped at her eyes with her sleeve. "It's not. It's real-"

"The mind is a very complex thing-"

"-and nothing stops it-"

"-that leads us to believe sometimes that illusions are our reality-"

"-You're not listening to me!"

"Because, Jazmine." The woman rested both her feet on the floor. "There's no such thing as ghosts."

Jazmine's eyes narrowed. "That's not true."

"It is, and I think deep down you know it's true." She smiled. "I'm sure you think that these…so called visions you have are from the future, but they're simply from subconscious recognized cues you gather on a day to day basis. Premonitions are not real."

"I knew you wouldn't believe me." Jazmine slouched in her chair. The woman sighed.

"I still think you're a wonderful girl. Maybe you just have these…overactive imaginations to cover up something deeper in your life. Tell me, do you and your father have a good relationship? Your mother?"

"They think I'm crazy, too."

"They don't. They're very worried about you." The woman's brown eyes bore into Jazmine's green ones. "They love you very much. They just want to help you."

"They don't understand me." Jazmine shook her head. "The only one who does is my grammy. I wish I lived with her and not mommy and daddy."

"You don't mean that. You love your parents."

"But they don't love me."

"Do you really think that?"

Jazmine nodded. "Sometimes."

"If they didn't love you, they wouldn't have come to school to get you when you were attacked by those kids." The woman scribbled something down on her paper. "They wouldn't have put you into a different school. You wouldn't be here."

"I want to go home."

"You're almost done. Don't worry. So, how often do you see your grandmother?"

"I used to stay over her house on the weekends but now mommy and daddy only let me see her if she comes over. She lives in Salem."

"I see." She wrote something down. "And she tells you that your imaginary friends are real?"

"She sees them, too."

"Are you an only child?"

"Huh?" Jazmine blinked. "What do you mean?"

"Do you have any brothers or sisters that make you feel unimportant?"

"No." Jazmine shook her head. The woman stared at her.

"Do you feel like no one loves you?"

"No!" Jazmine's voice was shrill. "I feel like no one believes me! It makes me mad."

The woman stared at her and she stared back. After a few seconds she cleared her throat.

"Let's say I gave you a chance to prove to me that what you're telling me is real." She set down her notes again, placing her elbow on her arm rest and resting her chin on her thumb and index finger. "Right here, right now." She shrugged. "Could you do it?"

Jazmine faltered. "I…I don't know."

"Well, if it's real, surely you can prove it to me."

She shook her head. "They don't come because I want them to. They come because they need me."

"They need you?" The woman smiled. "Now, what does anyone need from an eight year old girl?"

"They want me to tell their family something, or return something to someone," Jazmine said, causing the woman's smile to vanish. "Sometimes they just want someone to talk to. They're scared of the afterlife. They're lonely."

She slowly shook her head. "Are you afraid of death?"


"You're too young to worry about things like that. You have your entire life ahead of you." She tilted her head to the side. "Do you get lonely?"

"Yes." She seemed to draw into herself. "No one likes me. They think I'm weird. They call me names."

"I like you, which is why I'm going to do everything I can to help you." Her face turned serious. "But Jazmine, in order for me to help you, you have to stop lying to me. You have to admit that none of this is real."

"It is real!"

"If it were real," She replied casually. "Then you'd be able to prove it."

Jazmine started to open her mouth, but she suddenly stopped. Her eyes fell on a picture of a little blond haired girl that sat in a frame on the therapist's desk. They widened. The therapist noticed her gaze and stared towards the picture as well. She smiled once again.

"You like the picture?"

Jazmine didn't respond. She didn't even blink. The therapist leaned forward, snapping her fingers. "Jazmine."

She finally blinked, glancing back to the therapist.

"Do you like the picture?" She repeated. Jazmine took a deep breath.

"I know that girl."

The therapist frowned. "You don't."

Jazmine nodded. "I do."

The therapist forced a smile. "You don't." She picked up the picture with gentle fingers, holding it in her lap. "She's not with us anymore."

"I know." Jazmine paused. "She drowned. Right?"

The picture frame crashed to the carpeted floor, the glass cracking. The therapist slowly stared at Jazmine, who was staring calmly at her with unblinking eyes.

"How did you know that?" Her voice had lost all composure and had a slight tremor. "Who told you?"

Jazmine slowly lifted a tiny finger, pointing to the broken frame. "She did."

"Jazmine, stop it." Her voice was firm. "It's not real."

"Her name was Bonnie, and she was ten."


"She was at the beach," Jazmine went on as if she hadn't heard her. "She had a younger brother named Matthew, your son. You were so busy watching after him that you didn't realize she'd gotten out too far into the water until it was too late."

The therapist was speechless. Jazmine rubbed her lips together before speaking again.

"She wants you to stop blaming yourself."


"She said it wasn't your fault-"

"Stop it." She held up a hand and Jazmine stopped talking. "Jazmine…how did you know that?"

"I told you." She pointed to the frame. "Bonnie told me!"

"That's impossible, and you know it." The woman was visibly shaking, trying to hold in her grief. "That's not very nice, to lie about something so serious."

"I'm not lying!" Tears were dancing on her eyelashes. "She came to me!"

"You have an overactive imagination-"

"You took her death hard because she was your only daughter!" Jazmine shouted over her. "You went through three miscarriages and a stillbirth before she was born!"

The therapist froze. Jazmine scooted to the edge of her chair, the tears spilling down her cheeks, her eyes filled with desperation. She put a hand over her mouth, her own eyes watering.

Outside the windows, even outside the office, there was noise. There, it was only silence, the silence of a realization, the wait for judgment.

"So." Jazmine's small hands griped the armrests of her chair, so hard that her knuckles turned white. The therapist could only blink at her.

"Do you believe me now?"

In case some people are freaking the hell out (you'd be surprised), this is indeed before Jazmine moves to Woodcrest. Don't message me about it. I will jack you up. Haha.
Feeling it? Hating it? Want more? Want to punch me in the face for wasting your time? Well, tell me in a review!
Don't act like you have anything better to do. You're reading for fun. :P