I Have Two Faces; Blurry is the One I'm Not

|four|

I hate this fucking place, but it was the last thing I'd promised Allie, and with her missing for the last several months, I wasn't going to go back on my word. It was high time I tried to get help with this anyways.

Allie knows about Blurryface.

Allie has her own.

I lean back into the plush grey recliner of Dolores Churchill's office, closing my eyes and imagining that I was lying on a beach somewhere, listening to gulls call as crystalline waters lapped gently at white sand, rather than acknowledge that I was in a too-clean psychiatrist's office explaining to a former Barbie that there was another being coexisting in my body, and that he was, for the most part and in most cases, bad.

Churchill clears her throat before tapping impatiently on her clipboard. "So, how long has, er-"

"Blurryface." I cut her off, my annoyance clear in my voice. "His name is Blurryface."

"Right, right," I crack an eye open to see her lightly writing something down on her clipboard, "how long has Blurryface been a presence in your life?"

"Since I was a little kid." I say, my mind already flooding with repressed childhood memories. He'd had His own body then.

"Oh?" There is genuine intrigue in her voice. "What was he like then?" Her tone is semi-patronizing, and I have to fight the urge to get up and walk out.

"He was...He was separate from me then. He was his own figure. He had a separate body, but it was weird. No one else could see him...except Allie. Allie could see him. She's the one that named him Blurryface. It was because his face was all blurry, like it had been pixelated in real time. Except for his eyes. His eyes," I could feel my chest start to get heavy as I laid on the recliner, almost as if Blurry himself was sitting on my chest, begging me to shut up.

For the first time in a long time, I found myself wishing that Blurry would wake up and give me a reason to leave this damn office.

But there is no darkness in my head today. It's only me in here for now.

"His eyes?" She asked. "What about them?"

"They...they're white." I whisper, physically trying to make myself smaller, curling my knees up to my chest and sitting up, opening my eyes and looking at Churchill. "They're pure white. They're terrifying."

She pales, her long, thin face suddenly looking like death. "Go on."

"Well," I take a deep breath and clasp my hands together, pressing two palm-sized earthquakes together in a piss-poor attempt to end the shaking, "Blurry...He, he would start trouble. But only at home. He'd break things. Colour on the wall. The usual. And I could see him do it, and if I was fast enough, I could stop him mid-vandalism. But Mom always punished me for it." A flood of repressed memories came rushing to the forefront of my mind as the dam that I'd built to forget everything began to chip away. "Sometimes, I think she could see that I wasn't doing it. There was one time where he was throwing plates, and I was screaming for him to stop, and Mom came downstairs and," my breath hitches in my throat as I'm transported to that night, "she saw the plates and, and I was on the other side of the room, and she sent me upstairs."

My eyes are brimming with tears and I can see it all over again. Mom in her blue sundress, storming down the stairs with the paddle in her hand. "I'm going to fucking beat  the hell out of you, you absolute devil  child!" She'd screamed, her voice shrill and haggard.

"Blurry was on the counter, hunched and squatting, ripping plates out of the cabinet and launching them at the floor, his ever present black suit hanging in folds off of his frame. It was always so big on him, until I was sixteen." My voice trembles and grows scratchier and scratchier the more I speak,