Last week, I was sitting in a bar in the West End of Boston when I noticed a strange man. At first view, he seemed like your normal 30-year-old male, brown hair, subtle beard, wearing a gray raincoat. He sat next to me and offered to buy me a drink. I refused politely and asked him why. Surprised, he said, "Don't you remember me, Matthew?" I was startled. How could this man know my name? We were best friends when we were younger. We grew up just a few blocks from here and went to the same school. I'm John. I scanned his face closely. He did seem quite familiar. Maybe what he was saying was true. Maybe John was my long-lost childhood best friend. So I pretended to recognize him and we spent the rest of the night talking about our past. In the weeks following, John was very present in my life. We had coffee in the morning and went out for beer on the weekend. This was new for me, since as long as I could remember, I had been more of the loner type. I never had any close friends before John. And maybe it was true we had known each other before. One night, we were having dinner like on most Fridays, but John seemed different this time. He was acting distant and a bit colder than usual. When I asked him what was wrong, he said he had to show me something. I followed him outside towards my neighbor's house. Mary was a young widow living with her two sons alone since her husband died in a railroad accident. John climbed the window to Mary's house and signaled for me to join him, which I did hesitantly. We opened the window and stepped inside the empty living room. It was late, so they must be in bed, I thought. In the kitchen, left to the sink, there is a drawer. You will open that drawer and take the sharpest knife you find, said John. I was confused, but did it anyways. John dragged me upstairs and pointed me towards the door. I opened it to find Mary sound asleep in her bed. Slit her throat, said John. I shook my head in disgust. No. Slit her throat, ordered John more fiercely. I felt like I wasn't in control of my body anymore. My shaking hand grasped the knife tightly as I approached the sleeping Mary. It has been 2 weeks since John pushed me to murder Mary and her two young boys. The police haven't found me yet and I haven't seen John since then. I finally resolved to call my father and ask him about my supposed best friend. I asked him if he remembered anything about a friend named John from when I was younger. My dad turned, looked at me, smiled, and said, "Yes, I do remember John. He was your imaginary best friend." Mhm.