The Stranger In My Bed

Belong To Me

I wasn't even sure what to say. Victor knew about Mr. Weston's condition? For how long, and how? One question stuck out more than the others.

"Does Thomas know?" I asked.

"No," he mumbled, "and I'd like to keep it that way, if possible. Could you do me a favor and not tell him."

I thought about it. Obviously, he wasn't telling Thomas for a reason, but, as his caretaker, shouldn't Thomas know? Wouldn't that be better?

However, I was going to be his caretaker soon. I knew, so why bother Thomas with this information. It would only trouble him. Victor looked at me pleadingly.

"I suppose," I mumbled, "but in exchange I want you to answer all my questions."

He nodded. I took a deep breath to sort through my thoughts.

"First off, why don't you want Thomas to know?" I asked.

He sighed. "I don't want him to treat me differently because I have this special information. I want him to treat me differently because he sees me differently."

I guess I could understand that. Never knowing if someone really liked you or was just trying to appease you. It would be confusing and painful.

"How long have you known?"

"About five years, I guess," he said, shrugging.

"How did you find out?"

He snorted with laughter.

"Accidentally," he said, smiling. "Tommy got careless. I couldn't fall asleep one night so I wandered around the mansion. He left his little notebook out. I didn't know what it was, I just picked it up and started reading. You can imagine my shock when I realized what it was about."

Could I? To learn something that important about myself by accident. It was unthinkable.

"At first I thought it was a joke," he continued. "Tommy left it to screw with me, or maybe he was writing a book or something, but then it all started to make sense. The huge chunks of time loss, the vague memories that I never remembered experiencing, the collection of different names I had stored away in my head.

Can you even imagine that? Suddenly finding out that you aren't even real? That you're just a figment of some guys fucked up imagination?"

Honestly, I couldn't. How would I even process something like that? Finding out a huge secret like that about myself? It must have been hard on him.

"So... what did you do?" I asked finally.

"My best," he said simply. "Of course, I was gone by the next day. The next time I was 'conscious' I told Tommy to leave me alone and spent the day trying to figure out what to do. I couldn't stop it, I couldn't control it, but I could try to keep track of it.

I started making a diary. Things I did, things I thought might be memories from them. I found out where Tommy hid the book and spent nights comparing these 'memories' to personalities. Like the world's most screwed up game of Clue. Arthur in the studio with the camera, you know?"

I smiled a little at this. I could understand what he meant. Who was I? Where was I? What did I do? It had to be frustrating.

"I've gotten better at it," he mumbled, mostly to himself. "The memories from 'them' are a little stronger now. I remember more of what happened, I've learned a little about who's who, how they act. I don't get why Tommy likes them so much. They seem boring as hell."

I guess to Victor the other personalities would seem boring. No women, barely drinking, throwing themselves into art and culture. Yes, Victor would be very bored. Another question came to mind though.