Me & Her

Her

The weekend passes in a blur and all too soon Alice is waking me up, forcing me to pack our satchel, to dress us up in what she calls 'ordinary clothes'. Curling my fingers, I eat breakfast in silence, scowling at Light from across the table. He's nursing what looks like a hangover, but we both know it's something else. Mr. Dark – we haven't found another name that suits him – sucks up all his energy, overtaxing his adrenal glands.

If Doc' is a locomotive, Mr. Dark is a bullet train.

As Light begins to clear the plates, Mum asks me about my subjects, and I try to answer with the enthusiasm that Alice would have. But History really doesn't interest me, never mind math. When the discussion turns to sport, my throat becomes a desert. How am I supposed to tell her my P.E. teacher is dead? I evade her questions, switching the discussion to physics instead. Tell her I'm thinking of joining the science club.

"That sounds amazing. I'm so proud of you hon'," she says, squeezing my shoulder on her way out to make coffee. I hold her smile for as long as I can. A warmth paralyses me, a warmth I've never felt before. Someone is proud of me. Proud. Not horrified, not disappointed. They don't have hatred in their eyes when they look at me. Swallowing the lump that might just be my heart, I head out into the hall to grab my coat, which is swung over the bannister. The floorboards turn hazy. Frowning, I blink back what shouldn't be tears. Only smoke, only fire should crackle within them, not water. Fire needs oxygen, so I take a deep breath. Breathe out.

Dr. Light emerges from the auburn doorway, expression hooded. It really does look like a hangover. Stifling a laugh, I raise my eyebrows as he heads up the stairs.

"Don't," he cuts me off. "Just don't". I clap a hand over my mouth. Fun times wait for everyone, everyone except me.

When the door to his room inches shut, I know it's time to go. Another week at school, hammering against the tick tock like a clock threat of finals. What if I don't pass? I know Alice will, but what about me? If she graduates, do I graduate? Do I have a chance to wear one of those pointy hats and pretend I'm a witch on Halloween? Or I am supposed to sit at the side-lines, watching Mum hug Alice as she casts her stupid knock-off, witchy hat into the sky? I bite my lip. I'm here, I should be grateful. I bit my lip harder, drawing blood. I should not be grateful for being allowed to survive. I should be grateful to myself, for having the courage to live.

"Alice?" Mum pokes her head around the kitchen door, a coffee stain that's drying like blood on her shirt.

"Are you ready sweetheart?" I nod wordlessly. Hide my scratched hands behind my back, pulling the sleeve of the coat over them once we're seated in the car. I could lie, could make a thousand excuses but I'm so tired. Tired of lying to the one person who has never lied to me. My mum. It's killing me, and I think I'm only just realising that I'm dying. She must know something, but she's probably keeping me in the dark for my own safety. She must think I can't handle the reality that I'm the property of an illegal facility.

Saying that, even in my own head, makes me think I am crazy.

Burying my thoughts, I scoop up my textbooks, my new folders Mum bought me to store all Alice's history work and my new P.E schedule since I decided to join as many sports clubs as I could without bile rising in my throat. Miss Kirby. It's too much. I can still see her, see her head crumping in on itself like tin foil. See the blood staining the upholstery. What was she going to say to me? What was she going to tell me? Was she going to tell me why I'm like I am?

I've read about people with conditions like mine. DID, MPD. The brain, to protect itself, splits after the primary personality endures a trauma. So, what happened to me? What happened to Alice that I couldn't protect her from?

Gritting my teeth, I pad downstairs to the car. Dr. Light is doing the shopping today, or that's what he says, while Mum is heading to the gym. I hadn't known that she loved going, but she told me she loved the idea of the treadmills.

"All that running," she said when I asked her about it. "All that running and yet you never get anywhere. It's hilarious when you think about it". A lump in my throat, I had laughed along with her. Now, I shimmy into a jacket – denim, I think – that Alice has picked out. Step into lilac pumps with a grimace. Eventually, I meet Mum at the bottom of the staircase. She's just finished a phone call, wafting the keys in her hand. She grins at me. Together, we walk out of the house. The sky is mucid brown, almost bloody, while the clouds are non-existent. The world can't decide what it wants to do today. I bite my tongue, hard. Miss Kirby is dead. All I have to do is get through today. See what happens. See if they've found me out. But they won't. I am too much for them. Mr. Dark is too much for them. We are the sickness and the cure. And, as I've said before, I do not lose.

Outside, I shield my eyes against the world. Shuffled to the cover under the cover of my Mother's smile.

"Are you alright? You look a bit pale? Maybe you should stay home," she suggests. I shake my head.

"I'm fine. Don't worry about me. Besides, I have a History Assessment today. I can't miss that". Alice can't miss that. I can hear her, whispering to herself inside our head. Wondering if Miss Kirby had family, wondering if she felt pain.

'She died instantly,' I echo, hoping it's true. Alice says nothing. Our head remains a lake in winter, frozen over with ice which cracks beneath the glare of the sun.

Jolting me from my own headspace, Mum starts the car. We spend the journey in a comfortable silence, with the odd question from Mum about my History Project. I answer automatically, a wind-up toy on a string. Every second of being with my Mother, lying to her, pretending for her, splits my skin. It isn't her fault we're in this mess – it's mine. And what I've done... I can't allow my Mother to know. Because if she knows, she won't love me, or Alice, ever again.

The car slides to a stop in the parking lot, the walls of the Academy, like fans or angel wings, invading my eyes in a blur. The grass seems colourless and the moment Mum kisses me goodbye, I find myself thrown into a world of monochrome where I no longer fit. Memories of last week merge, forcing me to replay the moments of threatening Miss Kirby, the moment her head split from the force of the bullet. I almost curse myself. I should have lifted the bullet from the scene, but I suppose it was better to keep my DNA away from the body.

Mr. Dark resurfaces in my thoughts, his words to me. Our conversation. The way he called me beautiful. They way he thanked me for a wonderful evening, even though my hands shook as his voice caressed my ears. Alice was right. He is dangerous. And I'm not sure how long I can keep up the façade that I am too.

Slowly, I guide our feet, which are leaden, as if they belong to a statue, over the grass. It seems so dry today, yet it was lush last week. Last week. When a woman was killed because of me. Shaming my head, I plunge myself into the throngs of students. Searching for Emma and Noah proves an impossible task while my head is spinning.

The corridors may be clean and pale, almost translucent as the sun begins to emerge from the amber haze in the sky, but all I can see are bloodied handprints, scraping over the lockers, the plasterwork, the glass. I pinch myself, bringing my body back to the present.

Alice is terrified; she's shaking inside our mind. I take a few deep breaths. The last thing I need is her freaking out in the middle of a history assessment. That's the last thing both of us need. I need her to calm down.

Scrabbling against the crowd of students, who linger by the lockers, heads in their phones, I try desperately to locate the door to Homeroom. Emma and Noah might be there. They have to be there. I can't do this, we can't get through today if they're not here.

Sweat pulsing from my hands, I push open the door. Noah and Emma are sitting politely arguing over something – I can barely hear their words. The Homeroom teacher is languishing in her chair at the front of the room, waiting for me, and the slackers who pile in through the door behind me, to arrive.

Emma grins as soon as I appear. My throat constricts. Suddenly, it's impossible to breathe. I didn't pull the trigger – I never do – but Miss Kirby, a woman, a human being, is dead because of me. She's dead, she's dead and I'm always lying and it's too much. Too much for me.

I want my Mum. Please. Help. Alice. Help me.

As I tumble away, I wonder if I am the primary and maybe, just maybe, Alice was created to protect me.