A/n: I'm a giggling mess; I can't believe so many of you like this

…

Mary fiddled with glitter and tinkered with clay. She was upset and embarrassed and needed something to distract herself. Tens of little clay graves laid out in front of her, all engraved with an epitaph of "R.I.P." She knew that it was unlady-like of her to call out her sister's flub so bluntly, but she couldn't help it. Ib needed to know, one day or another, that Garry wasn't real. Sure, she did have an imaginary friend, Redeyes, whom she may or may not have made a doll of previously, hiding under her bed, but she was mature enough that that was just a game.

Glitter filled the atmosphere, causing Mary to sneeze violently.

Part of her wished that Ib was just lying; hoping that she was just pretending to have a babyish thing like an imaginary friend to have her parent princess her as their "baby girl", but Mary knew that wasn't true. She handled the glue as her mind went to the worst case scenario: she remembered once sneaking a peak into her father's phycology magazines. There, she was attracted to the article with the biggest, brightest pictures; an article that she read, despite the tough words, very thoroughly. It was about people being sick with something called schizophrenia; hearing voices and seeing things that weren't there. It was almost as if they had an imaginary friend. . . .

No, Mary refused to believe this. She crushed and reformed all of her graves out of a fit of rage. She knew that this probably wasn't the case, but the questions that she had couldn't help but swirl in her head. What if Ib really was sick? What if she was the only one who would find out? Would Ib never get better? Would it be her, Ib, and Garry for the rest of her life? She cringed at the idea. Yet she didn't know what to do if Ib did have this, Mary tried the world on her tongue, schizophrenia. It was a bitter thought. Mary didn't know if she could stand seeing her sister sick like that.

But back to reality, Mary had decided that rather than millions of tiny grave for the millions of tiny victims, she would make one big memorial statue of a bowl, the plastic object that brought her tiny friends to death. She toyed with the clay: repetitively rolling it, then flattening it, then rolling it up again. Before long, Mary realized that she would need more clay. She went downstairs to get it.

She leaped down the stairs skipping every other step. The staircase led Mary to the living room. She rolled her eyes at the bland grey room with the, her mother's choice, red accents. Mary always hated the room and its stuffy velvet couches, and its stiff, life-draining portraits of stuffy old blue bloods in powdered wigs in stuffed up shirts. Mary agreed that both her and her parents liked art, but didn't agree on the style of art they liked. Mary felt that the room was off-putting; it irked her. It felt as if she was in some kind of haunted art gallery.

She almost crossed the room without noticing the faint whispers emanating from the couch. She turned to see that it was none other than her baby sister mumbling to herself. Mary had not seen her at first because Ib was facing the window. Despite it being midday, she was in a pair of dirt brown, greyish pajamas, which blended into the couch flawlessly. Ib was chirping on about going to a café with her dear friend. "We can go and have macaroons "she said, "Mary would want to come, but I could find a way to prevent her from if you don't want her to." Luckily, Mary could barely understand the jabbering of her younger sister

"Ib?" Mary tried getting Ib's attention, but her sister continued. "Ha ha, then later we can go to the pet shop and see the rabbits. . . . What do you mean you don't like rabbits? . . . . Garry, you're such a leporiphobe." Mary felt a pain growing in her stomach. tried again to release Ib from her sickness. "Huh, what do you mean? Of course I know what leporiphobia is; that's you. Why would I use a word that I didn't know the meaning to? Do you take me as a moron Garry?" Mary gasped. It was no use; she couldn't get her sister attention, but that didn't stop her from trying one more time. She took a deep breath and swallowed hard, coating her dry throat in saliva. She wiped her eyes so that no one could see them watering. She decided that she was the only one to fix Ib's problem. She would be the one to get rid of Garry. Ib would be her sister again and no stranger would get in her way. Mary was poised and ready for interaction. She repressed a whimper and, with no more hesitations: "Ib! Why won't you answer me?!"

The young brunette turned her head. Mary could see how her eyes glimmered like hot coals. Ib pushed her hair back and said: 'Don't you see, we're trying to ignore you?"

That was it. Any emotion that Mary tried to repress came out then. Her whimper came back, this time it was noticeable and unrepressed and evolved into strong, fierce sobbing. Her face was red and drowned with tears, which touched her tongue and fed her a salty taste. She was broken down, crying nonstop, while her sickly, cold-hearted sister watched without a word. It took a few minutes for Mary to calm down. She wiped the tears off her face and felt the sensation of heat. She stood up and smoothed the wrinkles out of her dress. She one last glimpse of Ib, with her glassy, red eyes, before she ran upstairs.

Their room was exactly as it had been before Mary left. Glitter was thrown around the room and clay was ground into the carpet, but Mary didn't care. She knew that her parents would be mad to see her room like this, but she didn't care about that either. She laid amongst the mess and started crying again. She couldn't take this. She hated how immature her sister was. She hated how easily her sister would rather spend time with an imaginary friend that with her own sister. She hated how Ib had watched her break down and had done nothing but stare. She was so angry right now, but the only way she could express it was in tears. She wanted, no needed Ib to get better, or she might go insane herself.

She would cry for the rest of the evening with a set of red button eyes watching her from under the bed the whole time.