My Beautiful Mind

10.

When we return home, Dad insists I head straight to bed to sleep off whatever sudden illness he's convinced I've contacted within the span of two minutes. I don't have the heart to argue with my sweet, well-intentioned father and obediently trudge up the stairs. Dad shouts from below that he's heading out soon for some last minute Christmas shopping and that he'll be back in time to make dinner for the three of us–good old fashioned pho. I yell back my acknowledgement of his plans and turn the knob of the bedroom door–

–only to be met with the four girls once more. I've thought that Evan was too kind in letting me have the biggest of the rooms, but now, it feels like its shrunken to the size of a closet with the five of us cramped in here. Mila and Adela perch themselves on the edge of my bed, careful not to wrinkle the bedsheets, while Cordelia has made herself at home slouched lazily in my grey, fluffy, oversized dish chair, the matching twin of the one back in my dorm room. Emy has chosen to wait for me by the threshold and greets me with a pleasant and chirpy "hello." I jump in surprise, my heart beating a mile a minute and I'm about back out of my room, but Emy gently closes the door behind me.

"Fear not. I believe you are very well acquainted with the four of us," Emy says. Cordelia snorts and sends Emy a sly smirk, "Oh, like how you are well acquainted with Edwin? Do tell us about how the two of you finally did it; I demand details," she taunts in her British accented voice. Sweet Emy blushes a bright crimson that rivals her hair, but the glazed look in her eyes indicates her wolf wants out. Cordelia notices it as well and smiles delightedly. She unsheathes her khukuri. "Come out to play, wolf," she sings. Emy turns to her and stalks toward the young British woman. "You best shut your mouth–"

"Enough." Emy, Cordelia, and I turn to Adela, whose eyes are narrowed in warning. She tosses her blonde French braid over her shoulder. "You can both shove your privileged lives up your asses. We don't have time for this shit," Adela snaps, gesturing to Mila and herself. Years of homelessness in the darkest parts of the city reflect back in her drawn face still sporting fading bruises. Emy and Cordelia immediately sober and mutter their apologies to the street-hardened girl and the overworked violinist. While the three are all caught up in each other, Mila notices my wary expression and gives me her best comforting smile.

"H-how?" I manage to whisper dumbfounded as I scramble to find some sort of rational explanation as to why I'm talking to each of my girls, how they're interacting with each other. I stick close to the wall afraid to get too close to them. "You're all supposed to be figments of my imagination, you all aren't supposed to be real," I say slowly, hands beginning to shake as I'm beginning to feel overwhelmed. Mila stands up and Adela immediately goes to help steady her. "You created us and brought us to life, including the universes we live in," Mila explains patiently, "Elin, you have an incredible gift. Your story, our story has only just begun."

I stare at them impassively for a good solid minute before I turn to my vanity mirror to study my reflection. Aside from the paleness of my face, my tousled shoulder-length black haired and bespectacled, brown-eyed appearance seems just as average and harmless to me as before. I look nothing like a girl who could do such a thing. I just look like a girl who can no longer look at group of young men without shrinking away in terror. I just look like a girl who can't stand to be in the center of attention, a girl who can't raise her voice, a girl who prefers the comfort of her home over going out. A girl still aimlessly lost without her twin brother.

But through the mirror beyond my haggard face, I see the girls behind me as they wait for any sort of reaction. Mila hums softly to herself to block out the silence that she's convinced–I'm convinced–death will be entirely composed of. Cordelia's ready to force a response from me judging from her pacing, an impatience we both share. Adela holds herself with poise, but I know she's lost without her twin by her side as I've been. Emy places a gentle finger on a leaf of my ivy plant, wistful for the trees to envelop her again–the same love I'd shown as I once tied myself to a tree in a park that my neighborhood was planning to convert into a strip mall.