by Danae Ayusso
I nodded, biting my trembling bottom lip.
Price smiled reassuringly. “I’ve known for a while, Mikhail. I just needed you to tell me when you were ready to tell me. There’s nothing wrong with you, or your Philly minded side. Justice is a part of you, the part that wants to protect you. There’s nothing wrong with that. I understand and it isn’t anything to deport you over,” he tried to teased.
I nodded.
He slid down the couch so he was closer. “From what I understand, it’s a textbook case of D.I.D.,” he said softly, keeping his voice down. “They call it Dissociative Identity Disorder-”
“I know,” I interrupted. “I’ve been diagnosed a couple of times with it. I didn’t want to believe it… I didn’t want you finding out and regretting having a broken daughter. You’ve been through a rollercoaster of emotions and shit since Mr. Smith called you with the news that you’re a father,” I explained, wiping my eyes with the sleeve of the hoodie I was wearing. “Having him say you’re a father of a damaged teenager with a psychiatric condition that warrants medication and hospitalization would have freaked you out completely and not open your home to me. I understand that, and I wish that he wouldn’t have kept it from you.”
Price nodded, wiping his thumb across his eye to wipe away the tear that had gathered. “Even if he would have,” he assured me, “I still would have wanted you home and in my life. The condition you’ve been battling privately isn’t one you have to battle alone and in silence. It’s okay, Mikhail. There’s nothing wrong with you or Justice. You are both perfect exactly how you are, and I wouldn’t change anything about either of you. Okay?”
The fucker is making me cry.
You and me both.
Why anyone, any parent, would want to deal with a person, child, displaying multiple distinct identities or personalities, alter egos even, is beyond me.
“Did you want to talk to me about it?” Price asked.
“It’s diagnosed when at least two distinctive personalities are identified and it can cause lapses of memory or time, when the other personality takes over. Symptoms include multiple mannerisms, attitudes and beliefs, which are not similar to each other, unexplainable headaches and other body pains, distortion or loss of subjective time, comorbidity, depersonalization, de-realization, severe memory loss, depression, flashbacks of abuse and or trauma, sudden anger without a justified cause, frequent panic and or anxiety attacks, unexplainable phobias, lack of intimacy and personal connections, auditory of the personalities inside their mind, and paranoia,” I whispered; that was textbook.
Price nodded. “See, completely normal.”
I snorted.
“I used to, and still do but I’m better at hiding it now, talk to the love of my life that was killed in an accident when I was younger,” he whispered. “For so long I felt her presence, her touch when I closed my eyes, her voice carrying on the wind when I was alone. I didn’t tell anyone because I was scared of what they’d think or say. I kept it inside, bottled it up, until it ate away at me so much that I completely lost it for a while. It took time, but I eventually found the balance between the past where I can never hold her again and the present of feeling their absence to the future without her in it. We’re all a little crazy, Mikhail. You haven’t seen your uncles and cousins when they congregate. I swear, they ate lead paint as babies,” he said, sounding aspirated.
I giggled, covering my mouth with my hands.
Price smiled. “Why don’t you shower before dinner and I’ll see what kind of trouble Shep got in this time and try to put the fire out before it comes knocking.”
“He’s mad at me,” I said.
“Shep will get over it,” he assured me.
“You know why he’s mad?”
Price nodded, to my surprise. “Shep’s blond, but eventually he’d figure it out. I had hoped it’d continue to go over his head, but,” he shrugged as if that was answer enough.
That didn’t answer anything!
I know.
“I think he’s mad at me for my French delusion,” I grumbled.
“Delusion?” Price asked, giving me a look.
“Hey!” I whined. “You just said it was okay that I was crazy, and now you’re looking at me like I’m crazy!”
Absently he shook his head.
“French delusion, tell me about him,” he said.
“No. I don’t want to share him with anyone, and if I tell you Justice will find out about him more than what she already knows,” I huffed, pouting. “I thought you were okay with this? You let me have my morning time. You had to have known why I wanted it since you knew I was crazy.”
Price sighed, shaking his head. “Mikhail, you aren’t crazy in the least. Complicated, amusing in ways that should be criminal, but not crazy,” he assured me. “I didn’t know the extent of your morning self-therapy because it was something I was waiting for you to share with me. Now everything is starting to make sense.”
“Are you mad at me?”
“Of course not,” he assured me. “Shower before dinner and we’ll talk more later, if you like.”
I nodded. “Okay. Thank you.”
“There’s nothing to thank me for, Mikhail,” Price reminded me with a smile.
The shower did very little to help, not that it was supposed to help with anything other than B.O. I suppose. Looking at my reflection in the mirror, I was questioning my sanity and Price’s for his acceptance of my lack of sanity and for playing along with Justice.
“It isn’t right,” I said.
My reflection shrugged. Speak for yourself. That was a weight off my shoulders. Next time I hope he calls me Justice instead of Mikhail. That was awkward for all parties involved, I could tell.
“Doesn’t it seem odd to you that he’s so completely accepting of our lack of mental well-being?”
No, not really. You heard him! Daddy went through a bout of psychosis as well. Like Grams said, the apple didn’t fall far from the tree.
“She was talking about genius, not psychosis,” I argued.
Tomayto, tomahto. If you think about it, it’s a weight off your shoulders. You don’t have to walk on eggshells when it comes to the sharing your head with your stunning, brilliant, second personality thing anymore.
“Whoa, I’m not entirely sure what to say about that other than add narcissistic to the long list of shit that’s wrong with us in the head,” I said, turning off the bathroom light and headed into the bedroom. “It I didn’t know any better, I’d swear you were adopted.”
Bone structure like this cannot be duplicated. Besides, could you imagine if there were two of us running free?
“End of days comes to mind,” I admitted, stepping into a pair of panties.
She chuckled. I was thinking the same. Great minds.
“So you keep saying.”
Once dressed, I went to join the others, running into Shep as he headed up the stairs.
“Ouch, what hit you?” I asked.
Shep made a face. His nose was swollen and black and purple bruising went under each eye from his nose, bottom lip was split, and knuckles were bandaged up on both hands. “I hit something stupid while being stupid,” he said, making a face.
“I’m sorry I upset you,” I said.
What’d we do? We didn’t tell him to go hit a pole or whatever.
I know, but if he tries to hug me I’m kneeing him in the balls. I’m not in the mood to be touched.
That makes two of us.
“You didn’t,” Shep said, shaking his head. “I shouldn’t have assumed, and I’m sorry that I was a big jerk and went and did something stupid. I’m sorry. Forgive me?”
Uh, you handle this one. I’m on the verge of throwing up in my mouth.
I forced a smile. “Shep, there’s nothing to apologize for. I’m sorry for seeming so distracted lately. I have a lot on my mind and am struggling to adjust. School starts soon, I have to test still, meet the principal, and I’m simply terrified to look
in all those boxes Kieran’s been stacking up in my closet.”
He chuckled. “You haven’t opened them yet?”
“Hell no! I’ve seen the stuff he was looking at online for me. I can’t begin to imagine what he actually ordered. If you must know, I’m still coming to terms with the money Price spent at Footlocker. That was anxiety attack inducing and then some.”
Shep shook his head with a smile. “You are a strange girl.”
“I take that as a compliment,” I said.
“You would. I’m sorry for being a jerk, Mikhail. Did you want to go for a drive later?”
“Like a date?” I asked, making a face.
“No!” he quickly assured me. “We can grab some ice cream in town if you want, a way for me to apologize for being a jerk. Kieran and Bleu can come too, if it’ll make it feel less like a date.”
Huh, apparently he took my scolding about calling them Mc Creepy and Creepier seriously because he hasn’t called them that since I told him to stop.
“I’d like that very much, Shep. Thanks.”
“No, thank you, Mikhail,” he said, blushing, and motioned for me to lead the way to the dining room.
When we reached the foyer, I headed to the door to close it since it was left open again; old habits die-hard.
“I want to play,” echoed from outside as the sun dipped behind the mountains.
Oh hell no.
Chapter Fourteen
Breakfast of Champions
“Never again,” Max snarled, but his voice sounded strange.
It was slightly higher pitched compared to the deep booming voice I’m accustomed to hearing from him. There was venomous hate in it, something I’ve never heard from the three-hundred-sixty pound, six-foot six-inch mountain of a man.
“Did you think you could hide from me forever, you Salem whore?” he bellowed.
Not entirely sure what that meant or what was going on, I crept down the hallway of the seedy one bedroom apartment in Hunting Park, straining to hear.
The last time I walked in unannounced, they were having some freaky sex with the dude from two doors down. Crackhead threesomes are quite possibly the nastiest thing I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen some nasty shit so that’s saying a lot.
When I reached the door, I carefully pushed it open and peeked inside the room.
When I saw them, my hand covered my mouth.
Max’s massive body was sitting on top of Mom, his hand slamming down repeatedly on her chest. Whatever was in his clenched fist reflected the light from the knocked over lamp. He was talking, but I couldn’t hear the words over my pounding heart.
I didn’t realize I was holding my breath as I watched, and my lungs ached for air.
When I gasped, drawing breath, Max stopped in mid-strike, and his head snapped to the side.
For a fraction of a second, the light reflected off his eyes, and they were...
“No!” I gasped, sitting up in bed, struggling to catch my breath, and my eyes fought to focus on something, anything, but the room was overly dark. “Damn it,” I panted, struggling to calm my breathing. “No more ice cream binges with the boys.”
It was safe to assume that nightmares of Philly were brought on by the evil little white bitch in the woods that was seemingly stalking me. There was no other explanation.
The moment I heard the little bitch calling out for me to play with her, something Shep didn’t hear, I decided to stay in. Shep was upset over it, but Ellie pulled out her stash of Ben and Jerry’s and let us kids have at it after dinner.
It was a good thing we stayed in because I made myself sick with Phish Food and Chocolate Therapy. I thought the name was fitting.
Kieran and Bleu joined us and appeared to be enjoying themselves. They didn’t say anything or smile, but I could tell they enjoyed being included in something. I got the vibe that they were waiting for me to ask why they don’t talk, which I thought was amusing since no one has asked about Mom or what brought me to Anaconda.
Everyone knew, there was no way they didn’t, but no one had mentioned it. As grateful for that as I am, especially since Justice gets butt hurt when that’s brought up, it makes me curious as to what it is they are hiding themselves…
Oh, I see how it is. Now you’re starting to sound like my paranoid ass. Total bullshit.
“Shut up or I’m going to take Price up on the therapy offer,” I warned.
Do and I will make sure they send you back to Philly.
“Bitch.”
Yes, I know. Isn’t it awesome?
“No, not really,” I grumbled under my breath and she laughed.
It was an endless cycle of threats between us, which is sad since we wouldn’t act on them. Over ice cream, Justice and I came to a truce for now.
How long that’ll last? I don’t know. I was too scared to ask.
Take a deep breath so you don’t pass out. In theory it was just a nightmare.
“Good advice,” I mumbled, taking some deep breaths.
Whenever I wake up sweaty and struggling to catch my breath from what I assume to be a nightmare, I do something physical to work it out, to realign my mind with reality, I guess. Being new to the area and having a creepy white bitch trying to play with me in the woods, my French delusion only being around in the morning, not to mention the trees, it’s effectively keeping me from running around and physically expending myself.
If I were at Blue Boy’s house, I’d talk to him or De’Von or Mama…
You can talk to me.
“I talk to you too much already,” I sneered, kicking out of the blankets. “They initially thought we were crazy, and now they know we are. There’s no way Price didn’t tell all of them to not bring up the crazy thing.”
You, technically, are the one that told him of our level of psychosis. Besides, he wasn’t too put off by it so why hide what we are? I think I’m fucking awesome.
“You would,” I huffed, heading to the window and looked outside.
It was black out, only the lights from the fountain illuminated the area, and if it weren’t for my severe dysfunctions and fear of nature, it would be beautiful.
I rested my forehead against the glass and continued to look around, trying to shut Justice up, and trying to keep from talking aloud to her more than I already do.
My entire life, that I can remember, I’ve never been able remember my dreams or nightmares—just like this one, I can’t entirely remember what I just woke from—and only the feeling remains. The initial shock of whatever it was that woke me up floods my head with a fading replay of images, but they’re gone a few minutes later, and I never fully grasp what they were about.
The same with Justice.
That annoying bitch has always been around, that I can remember.
You act like that’s a bad thing.
“Shut up.”
It wasn’t that bad when I was younger because she wasn’t as vociferous. But the older I get, the more she rears her annoying head and talks, and now she’s a constant in my life.
You’re welcome for that, by the way.
There was a soft knock at the door and I sighed; I knew this was coming.
“Come in,” I mumbled, not bothering to turn to regard him.
“Is everything okay?” Price asked.
“Yeah,” I said, shaking my head, causing him to chuckle.
Thanks, Bitch.
You’re welcome.
Price slipped inside my room, closing the door behind him. “I was heading to get a snack and heard you,” he explained.
I turned around to face him and hopped up on the window seat and pulled my knees to my chest and hugged them. He was dressed in a pair of flannel pajama pants and a faded Anaconda High soccer shirt. His hair was slightly disheveled and his feet were bare, and that confirmed he wasn’t lingering in case I freaked out or started fighting with myself, and was, in fact, getting something to eat.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to cause a detour,” I apologized.
He offered a reassuring smile. “It isn’t a problem, Mikhail. Did you have a bad dream?” he asked, sitting on the edge of my bed.
I shrugged. “Most likely but… If I tell you something else off putting about my lack of mental well-being do you promise not to deport me?” I sheepishly asked.
Price chuckled. “I’d never.”
You cannot tell him everything! Shut up.
Oh I’m going to, Bitch.
“I don’t remember my dreams,” I said.
Huh, that wasn’t what I thought you were going to say.
Price gave me a look. “This one specifically?” he pressed.
I shook my head. “Any of them. I know it was a nightmare. The way my heart rate increased, the shortness of breath, increase in body temperature, the lingering sensations from when I woke… That all suggests I was awoken from a nightmare. I don’t think it has anything to do with the limbic system, it isn’t parasomnia either… I already checked into it,” I explained. “I haven’t ruled out that it isn’t an early onset neurodegenerative disorder or something wrong with the neurotransmitters. Though, it could be wrapped up with my apparent psychosis, which I’m leaning strongly towards.”
Shut up. We are not schizophrenic.
Speak for yourself.
A smile filled his face but I wasn’t sure why.
“I’m glad you find my inability to remember my dreams and my lack of mental well-being amusing,” I grumbled.
Price chuckled, shaking his head. “That isn’t why I’m smiling, Mikhail. When you let your guard down, your genius is clearly heard in your words and it only iterates that you are my daughter.”
I snorted. “If that isn’t the smuggest thing I’ve heard you say,” I said and he chuckled. “According to psychologists, PTSD comes with nightmares, and we all know that I’ve had my share of shit to be a textbook case of PTSD,” I continued and he nodded. “But nowhere do they say that lack of recollection of said nightmares is a part of PTSD. It could be supplement related, but I’m sure that after a few more weeks of eating Grams’ cooking that will confirm or disprove that hypothesis. It isn’t from withdrawals either. I’m drug free, in case you were wondering. Nothing I’ve found in my limited research sheds any light on my lack of dream or nightmare recollection,” I concluded.
