Pieces of Me, page 20
They were right.
But there were also people there who only wanted a piece of her. You could see it. She was exhausted by the time the signing was over, and even though it was the staff who said she had to go, there were people who still blamed her for leaving.
“Do you want to see if Connor wants to meet us later?” Mom asks as the train jostles along the track.
I do, but I don’t. “Nah. I want to hang out with you,” I tell her with a smile. The look on her face is worth it. She’s still smiling when the conductor shows up for our tickets.
We’re in the middle of discussing possible nail colors and if I’m going to refresh my pink or try a new hair color when a shadow falls over us.
Nisha.
And suddenly, Kaz is right there in the passenger seat of my mind. My head swims with her sudden intrusion. Oh, shit, she says.
Nisha braces a hand on the seat back in front of me as the train moves. “Hi.”
“Hi,” I repeat, Kaz’s voice echoing in my head. “What’s up?” I’m aware of Mom watching us while trying not to seem like she’s watching us. She looks at her phone instead.
“I … um…” Her heavily lined eyes narrow as her dark lips purse. “I saw you at the station and I wanted to tell you that I’m sorry for how things went down at the hospital.”
“Yeah,” Kaz and I agree. “Me too.” And I’m sorry that I’m going to have to explain to my mother that this is the girl I don’t remember sleeping with.
“How are you feeling?”
I nod. “Pretty good. Glad to be out.”
She nods too. “Yeah, I bet.” This is so awkward. She glances down the aisle, as if looking for someone, or something. Maybe an escape route.
“Where are you headed?” I ask. Dragging this out is painful, but Kaz isn’t quite ready to let go.
Her attention comes back to me. “Class. You?”
“Mom and I are headed into the city.”
At this, Mom looks up with a smile. “Hi.”
Nisha looks at her with an expression I’ve seen a million times before. It’s the face of someone who thinks Mom looks familiar but can’t quite remember where from. “Nice to meet you.”
“Do you want to sit?” Mom asks, nodding at the seat across from us.
“No. Thanks. I should get back. My friend’s watching my stuff.” Then, to me, “I just didn’t want to leave things the way they were. If you still have my number, maybe text me sometime?”
I expect Kaz to freak out with happiness, but she doesn’t. I’m not sure how she feels. I want to tell this girl to forget it. She’s not going to get a chance to hurt Kaz again. I don’t care how fucking sorry she is.
But that’s not what Kaz wants either. At least, I don’t think so. She appreciates my wanting to protect her, though. She’s surprised by it.
“Sure,” I say with a nod. “Maybe I will.”
Nisha smiles in a way that makes me feel almost guilty for thinking badly of her. “Okay, well, see ya.”
“Bye.”
I watch her walk away. In my head, Kaz sighs. I rub my paintbrush—the broken one—between my fingers, trying to keep myself up front and grounded. If I let go, Kaz would go after her—or tell Mom even more things I don’t want her to know.
Mom, still focused on her phone, says, “That was not the kind of exchange you have with someone who is only a friend, my love.”
My sigh echoes Kaz’s. “It’s complicated,” I explain.
She looks up and gives me a sympathetic smile. “It always is, sweetie. It always is.”
* * *
Mom and I don’t get home until early evening. After tea at the Ritz, we wandered around and did a little shopping. Our last stop was Barnes & Noble, where I picked up a couple of books about DID and dealing with trauma that were on a reading list suggested in the Facebook group I’ve joined. I also snagged a couple of art books and two novels I’ve been wanting to read. Not having classes anymore has given me a lot of free time. I’m pretty sure I’m eventually going to miss school, but I can’t imagine trying to drag myself to class on top of figuring out how to deal with what life’s tossed at me.
In all honesty, I don’t have any business dating Connor, either. He deserves someone who can be there for him. I don’t even know who I’m going to be, let alone if I’m going to be present for him. I should concentrate on my health, but I’m selfish and he makes me feel almost normal.
Mark is home when we get there, so the three of us cook dinner together, something we haven’t done in forever. It’s nice, like old times.
“Have you decided on a costume yet?” he asks me later, when we’re sitting around the table, eating.
“I’ve narrowed it down,” I reply. “You?” Having Halloween for our birthday has always been fun, but it means finding the perfect costume every year. You can’t go half-assed when it’s your birthday.
“I’m thinking Thor.” He grins. “I’m trying to convince Izzy to be Valkyrie.”
They’d look amazing, but Izzy isn’t one for calling attention to herself. “You could split the difference and go as agents H and M.”
His expression makes me chuckle. “That’s brilliant,” he says, pulling out his phone. “I’m going to ask her.”
“Oh, lord,” Mom moans. “Can we have dinner without cell phones, please? You can text her after we’ve finished eating.”
My brother sets the phone on the table beside his plate. “Sorry.”
It’s perfect, this moment. I know it won’t last—it can’t. Eventually Mark will get mad at me for something, or I’ll think he’s an ass and Mom will be caught in the middle. Or, she’ll get a gig and it will just be me and him here, fighting. It’s what we do. Then we’ll make up and we’ll have a moment like this that I’ll want to hold on to.
Or, maybe we won’t. Maybe this is what it’s going to be now. Or maybe he and I will try harder because we’re not kids anymore.
After dinner Mark loads the dishwasher while I put away leftovers. Then he disappears into his room and Mom curls up on the couch in the living room with a cup of tea and a script her agent sent. I take my shopping bags upstairs to my room and set them on the floor. What I want to do is soak in the tub and start reading one of the books I bought, but I’m still leery of taking a bath. It sucks, because I love my tub.
So, instead, I put my hair up and take a quick shower. Then, in my pajamas, I climb under the blankets and text Connor. He has a class tonight and is going out with friends after, so I don’t expect to hear from him, at least not right away, but I want to say hi.
I open one of my new books to the first page. It’s a fantasy, something fast-paced and easy to lose myself in. When I read, sometimes I hear the words out loud in my head. I’m not sure if everyone’s like that, or if somewhere along the line I decided to read “aloud” to my alters. Regardless, I feel some of them coming closer as my eyes travel the page. It’s story time with Dylan.
Fun fact—DID means that you’re never completely alone. Even if my alters are quiet, they’re still there. It’s not quite like being with friends, though. I’m starting to think of it as living in a one-room house with a bunch of extended family. Or, in an apartment with a lot of nosy neighbors.
An hour into the book, I get a text from Connor. He’s at the coffee shop where he and I—well, Lannie—first met. He sends me a selfie of him sitting at a table with a huge cup of coffee.
I smile at the sight of him. He’s so adorable and hot at the same time. How is that possible?
Connor: No sleep tonight.
Me: Have fun. Early night for me. <3
Connor: *kissy face emoji* I’ll call you tomorrow.
I fall asleep reading, I guess, because the next thing I’m “aware” of is standing outside the house in my inner world. For whatever reason, it’s easier for me to come here in my dreams than it is for me to access it when I’m awake. But is it really a dream?
Dali is on the porch where she always is—the gatekeeper. She’s the sentry that guards the house and looks over everyone else. I’m starting to figure out the roles everyone plays.
“Hey, stranger,” she says as I walk up the steps. “What brings you by?”
“I’m not sure,” I tell her, except … “Is Scratch around?”
She looks surprised but doesn’t ask questions. “Last time I saw her, she was going to the basement. Shall I get her for you?”
“No, I’ll find her.”
Dali arches a brow. “You probably shouldn’t venture into the cellar.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s dark down there. That’s where the unwanted are.”
Oh, yay. More of us. “I should probably know who they are, don’t you think?”
She shrugs. “We’re all here so you don’t have to know things. I’m not a good one to ask, but if you want my opinion, you already have it.”
Right. Stay out of the basement. “I appreciate it, thanks. Can I get to the basement from inside?”
“Probably. If there’s a door, you’ll find it.”
It is my house, after all. I guess if I want there to be a door to the basement inside, there will be one. I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to this combination of conscious and subconscious thought.
I open the door and step over the threshold. Inside, the house is dim and quiet. Peaceful, almost. Somewhere above me I hear the sound of children playing, but that’s the only thing I hear. There’s no one around and my footsteps echo as I walk down a long corridor, lined with paintings. Most of them I recognize as my own. Others are by my favorite artists.
At the end of the corridor is a giant, carved door with a large dead bolt on it. The entrance to the basement, I’m sure of it. I slide the bolt out of its hold—it’s heavy but moves smoothly. I turn the knob and pull.
Sconces line one side of the descending wall, torches flickering and illuminating the dark stone staircase that leads down into the cellar. I hold on to the banister as I cautiously place my foot on one step and another, drifting down into the darkness.
At the bottom of the stairs, the area opens up. The basement has rough stone walls that hold more torches. Against the back wall is a stack of boxes and crates, but ahead of me is a wide hall with rooms on either side. No, not rooms. Cells.
It’s a dungeon.
This is why Dali told me not to come down here. If Scratch is allowed to walk free among the others and she tried to kill me, WTF is locked up down here?
I hear them—their cries and moans. Somewhere beyond me, someone sobs, deep and anguished. I take a step toward the sound and freeze. I am unable to move. It’s like someone bolted my feet to the ground.
“Not a good idea,” comes a voice. Scratch steps out of the darkness between the cells. She’s dressed entirely in black, her hair pulled back in a tight bun. She looks at me like I’m something she scraped off her shoe. It’s amazing how much malice buttons can contain.
“Because they’ll scare me?” I ask.
Her dark red lips curve into a sneer. “Because you’ll scare them. It’s your fault they’re down here.”
“I didn’t even know this place existed. How is it my fault?”
She tilts her head. “Everything that’s happened to us has been your fault.” All that’s missing is the “duh” at the end.
“You’re tripping,” I tell her. “I didn’t ask for any of this. And I sure as fuck didn’t ask for what caused it.”
Confusion flickers across her features. My contradiction has thrown her. According to both Dr. Zhao and my research, Scratch is what’s known as an introject—an alter that’s based on a real person. She’s also a persecutor/protector. She protects me and the others by preying on all the negative things I’ve been told and believe. Since I’ve always listened to her in the past, she doesn’t know what to do when I don’t behave appropriately, so she does something like try to kill me, or freeze up completely, which is what she’s doing now.
“I didn’t ask you to meet me so we could fight,” I tell her.
“Then why are you here? To tell me to go away?” There’s a hint of a tremor in her voice, along with a heavy dose of derision. She hates me so much, but in a weird way, I think she equates hate with love, or at least caring.
Maybe Dr. Zhao is right. Kindness is the only way to approach Scratch. It’s worth a shot, because telling her to leave or trying to do violence against her isn’t an option. Not just because it could be harmful, but because at this moment, I don’t think I could do it.
I take a step toward her, my feet able to move again. “I wanted to talk with you about all you’ve done for us, how you protect us.”
She snorts. It’s bizarre, because she looks so much like Mom, but she’s nothing like her. It’s like Mom got cast as the villain rather than a victim in a horror movie. “Did Alyss put you up to this?” she asks. “That bitch is always yanking my chain.”
“No, I came here on my own.”
Scratch frowns. “I don’t believe you. You’ve always been a fucking liar.”
She sounds like a hurt child—a defensive kid trying to act tough.
I take another step forward. “Can I hug you?”
She looks suspicious but gives a small nod.
“Thank you for being prepared to take your own life to protect the rest of us.” I put my arms around her. She’s stiff as a board, and I’m not much better, waiting for her to bury a knife in my back. She can’t hurt me in a dream, can she?
Then I feel it—tentative arms around my waist. She lets go of a shuddering breath and hugs me, before pushing me away.
“What do you want?” she asks, stepping back. She wraps her arms around herself. I don’t know if it’s because she misses mine, or if she’s traumatized.
“I want to get to know you better,” I offer. “I want to understand why you are the way you are.”
“I’m this way because you’re a broken little … girl.” She frowns, and I know she couldn’t bring herself to say what she truly wanted.
“Why do you look like my mother?”
“Isn’t it obvious? Because she should have seen what was happening. She’s supposed to protect us, and she didn’t.”
So she hates Mom almost as much as, or more than, she hates me. “Protect us from who?”
Scratch shakes her head. “I can’t tell. I can’t ever tell.” She looks away.
I touch her shoulder, but she jerks back. “Don’t fucking touch me!”
I hold up my hands. “Okay, okay. I’m sorry, I should have asked.”
Sucking in great bursts of air through her nose, Scratch nods. She takes another step back—well out of my reach. “It’s fine. But don’t grab me like that again.”
He used to touch us like that. I don’t remember it, but I know it. He would put his hand on our shoulder, and we’d know what it meant—that he had control over us.
“I’m sorry,” I repeat. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
She scowls at me. “You didn’t scare me, bitch. You fucking pissed me off.”
Smiling gently, I shake my head. “I don’t believe that, but if you’d rather be angry than afraid, I get it. That’s something we have in common.”
Silence stretches between us and I let it. I don’t want to antagonize her any more than I have. I don’t know how she’ll react, and I’m still tender from the last time she got upset.
Turning so that she’s in profile, Scratch shakes her head. “I wasn’t always like this, you know.” Her voice is tired and raw. “I started out as a guardian. I protected everyone and Dali played house mother. Then, the more anger you formed toward your mother, the more I changed. I suppose I changed so you didn’t have to. I took the anger, so you didn’t have to feel it. Life wouldn’t work right if you resented the only protector you had left in your world. Honestly, I’ve always thought it’s your brother you should resent.”
“Why?”
“He was there. He should have realized the danger we were in, but I guess we were already good at hiding it by then. And we didn’t want anything to happen to him. Didn’t want him to hate us, and we knew he would, if he found out the truth.” She looks me in the eye. “And he will, you know. He’ll hate you so bad.”
I ignore the warning and the hard thump my heart gives in response. “What truth?”
“I can’t tell you.” She shrugs. “You could torture me, and I wouldn’t be able to say it, even if I wanted to. I’m a secret keeper.”
If only some of my friends had been more like this. “I wish I could remember.”
“No, you don’t,” she says, looking at me in disgust. “You wouldn’t have us if it hadn’t been more than you could tolerate. I hold a lot of those memories, and trust me, little girl, you don’t want them. I remember everything he did.”
Tears burn my eyes. “I’m sorry.”
Scratch stares at me. I watch as her expression softens. Not only her expression, but everything about her. She literally changes before my eyes. Her hairstyle becomes a little looser, her features less sharp. Even the lines in her face fill in, making her look more like Mom—the Mom I love. I stare back. I can’t believe it.
She presses a hand to her heart as though to quiet the pounding there and frowns. “You need to go,” she says softly.
“But—”
She cuts me off. “Please go.”
Before I can argue, she pivots on her heel and disappears back into the darkness between the cells. Once again, I’m aware of the noises made by the alters in this prison, and I realize that Scratch is far more comfortable with their pain than she is with my attempts at kindness. I still don’t like her, but I understand her better. I feel for her and she knows it.
I think maybe she likes it.
SEVENTEEN
Deer Dillin I am soury for drowing on yor wall. Pleese forgive me.
* * *
KAZ
There’s a note in the journal asking which of us would like to talk with Connor, the boyfriend. He wants to meet some more of us, if we’re up for it. I was like, “Bitch, don’t have to ask me twice.” If there’s a chance of getting some, I’m sure as hell going to take it.
But there were also people there who only wanted a piece of her. You could see it. She was exhausted by the time the signing was over, and even though it was the staff who said she had to go, there were people who still blamed her for leaving.
“Do you want to see if Connor wants to meet us later?” Mom asks as the train jostles along the track.
I do, but I don’t. “Nah. I want to hang out with you,” I tell her with a smile. The look on her face is worth it. She’s still smiling when the conductor shows up for our tickets.
We’re in the middle of discussing possible nail colors and if I’m going to refresh my pink or try a new hair color when a shadow falls over us.
Nisha.
And suddenly, Kaz is right there in the passenger seat of my mind. My head swims with her sudden intrusion. Oh, shit, she says.
Nisha braces a hand on the seat back in front of me as the train moves. “Hi.”
“Hi,” I repeat, Kaz’s voice echoing in my head. “What’s up?” I’m aware of Mom watching us while trying not to seem like she’s watching us. She looks at her phone instead.
“I … um…” Her heavily lined eyes narrow as her dark lips purse. “I saw you at the station and I wanted to tell you that I’m sorry for how things went down at the hospital.”
“Yeah,” Kaz and I agree. “Me too.” And I’m sorry that I’m going to have to explain to my mother that this is the girl I don’t remember sleeping with.
“How are you feeling?”
I nod. “Pretty good. Glad to be out.”
She nods too. “Yeah, I bet.” This is so awkward. She glances down the aisle, as if looking for someone, or something. Maybe an escape route.
“Where are you headed?” I ask. Dragging this out is painful, but Kaz isn’t quite ready to let go.
Her attention comes back to me. “Class. You?”
“Mom and I are headed into the city.”
At this, Mom looks up with a smile. “Hi.”
Nisha looks at her with an expression I’ve seen a million times before. It’s the face of someone who thinks Mom looks familiar but can’t quite remember where from. “Nice to meet you.”
“Do you want to sit?” Mom asks, nodding at the seat across from us.
“No. Thanks. I should get back. My friend’s watching my stuff.” Then, to me, “I just didn’t want to leave things the way they were. If you still have my number, maybe text me sometime?”
I expect Kaz to freak out with happiness, but she doesn’t. I’m not sure how she feels. I want to tell this girl to forget it. She’s not going to get a chance to hurt Kaz again. I don’t care how fucking sorry she is.
But that’s not what Kaz wants either. At least, I don’t think so. She appreciates my wanting to protect her, though. She’s surprised by it.
“Sure,” I say with a nod. “Maybe I will.”
Nisha smiles in a way that makes me feel almost guilty for thinking badly of her. “Okay, well, see ya.”
“Bye.”
I watch her walk away. In my head, Kaz sighs. I rub my paintbrush—the broken one—between my fingers, trying to keep myself up front and grounded. If I let go, Kaz would go after her—or tell Mom even more things I don’t want her to know.
Mom, still focused on her phone, says, “That was not the kind of exchange you have with someone who is only a friend, my love.”
My sigh echoes Kaz’s. “It’s complicated,” I explain.
She looks up and gives me a sympathetic smile. “It always is, sweetie. It always is.”
* * *
Mom and I don’t get home until early evening. After tea at the Ritz, we wandered around and did a little shopping. Our last stop was Barnes & Noble, where I picked up a couple of books about DID and dealing with trauma that were on a reading list suggested in the Facebook group I’ve joined. I also snagged a couple of art books and two novels I’ve been wanting to read. Not having classes anymore has given me a lot of free time. I’m pretty sure I’m eventually going to miss school, but I can’t imagine trying to drag myself to class on top of figuring out how to deal with what life’s tossed at me.
In all honesty, I don’t have any business dating Connor, either. He deserves someone who can be there for him. I don’t even know who I’m going to be, let alone if I’m going to be present for him. I should concentrate on my health, but I’m selfish and he makes me feel almost normal.
Mark is home when we get there, so the three of us cook dinner together, something we haven’t done in forever. It’s nice, like old times.
“Have you decided on a costume yet?” he asks me later, when we’re sitting around the table, eating.
“I’ve narrowed it down,” I reply. “You?” Having Halloween for our birthday has always been fun, but it means finding the perfect costume every year. You can’t go half-assed when it’s your birthday.
“I’m thinking Thor.” He grins. “I’m trying to convince Izzy to be Valkyrie.”
They’d look amazing, but Izzy isn’t one for calling attention to herself. “You could split the difference and go as agents H and M.”
His expression makes me chuckle. “That’s brilliant,” he says, pulling out his phone. “I’m going to ask her.”
“Oh, lord,” Mom moans. “Can we have dinner without cell phones, please? You can text her after we’ve finished eating.”
My brother sets the phone on the table beside his plate. “Sorry.”
It’s perfect, this moment. I know it won’t last—it can’t. Eventually Mark will get mad at me for something, or I’ll think he’s an ass and Mom will be caught in the middle. Or, she’ll get a gig and it will just be me and him here, fighting. It’s what we do. Then we’ll make up and we’ll have a moment like this that I’ll want to hold on to.
Or, maybe we won’t. Maybe this is what it’s going to be now. Or maybe he and I will try harder because we’re not kids anymore.
After dinner Mark loads the dishwasher while I put away leftovers. Then he disappears into his room and Mom curls up on the couch in the living room with a cup of tea and a script her agent sent. I take my shopping bags upstairs to my room and set them on the floor. What I want to do is soak in the tub and start reading one of the books I bought, but I’m still leery of taking a bath. It sucks, because I love my tub.
So, instead, I put my hair up and take a quick shower. Then, in my pajamas, I climb under the blankets and text Connor. He has a class tonight and is going out with friends after, so I don’t expect to hear from him, at least not right away, but I want to say hi.
I open one of my new books to the first page. It’s a fantasy, something fast-paced and easy to lose myself in. When I read, sometimes I hear the words out loud in my head. I’m not sure if everyone’s like that, or if somewhere along the line I decided to read “aloud” to my alters. Regardless, I feel some of them coming closer as my eyes travel the page. It’s story time with Dylan.
Fun fact—DID means that you’re never completely alone. Even if my alters are quiet, they’re still there. It’s not quite like being with friends, though. I’m starting to think of it as living in a one-room house with a bunch of extended family. Or, in an apartment with a lot of nosy neighbors.
An hour into the book, I get a text from Connor. He’s at the coffee shop where he and I—well, Lannie—first met. He sends me a selfie of him sitting at a table with a huge cup of coffee.
I smile at the sight of him. He’s so adorable and hot at the same time. How is that possible?
Connor: No sleep tonight.
Me: Have fun. Early night for me. <3
Connor: *kissy face emoji* I’ll call you tomorrow.
I fall asleep reading, I guess, because the next thing I’m “aware” of is standing outside the house in my inner world. For whatever reason, it’s easier for me to come here in my dreams than it is for me to access it when I’m awake. But is it really a dream?
Dali is on the porch where she always is—the gatekeeper. She’s the sentry that guards the house and looks over everyone else. I’m starting to figure out the roles everyone plays.
“Hey, stranger,” she says as I walk up the steps. “What brings you by?”
“I’m not sure,” I tell her, except … “Is Scratch around?”
She looks surprised but doesn’t ask questions. “Last time I saw her, she was going to the basement. Shall I get her for you?”
“No, I’ll find her.”
Dali arches a brow. “You probably shouldn’t venture into the cellar.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s dark down there. That’s where the unwanted are.”
Oh, yay. More of us. “I should probably know who they are, don’t you think?”
She shrugs. “We’re all here so you don’t have to know things. I’m not a good one to ask, but if you want my opinion, you already have it.”
Right. Stay out of the basement. “I appreciate it, thanks. Can I get to the basement from inside?”
“Probably. If there’s a door, you’ll find it.”
It is my house, after all. I guess if I want there to be a door to the basement inside, there will be one. I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to this combination of conscious and subconscious thought.
I open the door and step over the threshold. Inside, the house is dim and quiet. Peaceful, almost. Somewhere above me I hear the sound of children playing, but that’s the only thing I hear. There’s no one around and my footsteps echo as I walk down a long corridor, lined with paintings. Most of them I recognize as my own. Others are by my favorite artists.
At the end of the corridor is a giant, carved door with a large dead bolt on it. The entrance to the basement, I’m sure of it. I slide the bolt out of its hold—it’s heavy but moves smoothly. I turn the knob and pull.
Sconces line one side of the descending wall, torches flickering and illuminating the dark stone staircase that leads down into the cellar. I hold on to the banister as I cautiously place my foot on one step and another, drifting down into the darkness.
At the bottom of the stairs, the area opens up. The basement has rough stone walls that hold more torches. Against the back wall is a stack of boxes and crates, but ahead of me is a wide hall with rooms on either side. No, not rooms. Cells.
It’s a dungeon.
This is why Dali told me not to come down here. If Scratch is allowed to walk free among the others and she tried to kill me, WTF is locked up down here?
I hear them—their cries and moans. Somewhere beyond me, someone sobs, deep and anguished. I take a step toward the sound and freeze. I am unable to move. It’s like someone bolted my feet to the ground.
“Not a good idea,” comes a voice. Scratch steps out of the darkness between the cells. She’s dressed entirely in black, her hair pulled back in a tight bun. She looks at me like I’m something she scraped off her shoe. It’s amazing how much malice buttons can contain.
“Because they’ll scare me?” I ask.
Her dark red lips curve into a sneer. “Because you’ll scare them. It’s your fault they’re down here.”
“I didn’t even know this place existed. How is it my fault?”
She tilts her head. “Everything that’s happened to us has been your fault.” All that’s missing is the “duh” at the end.
“You’re tripping,” I tell her. “I didn’t ask for any of this. And I sure as fuck didn’t ask for what caused it.”
Confusion flickers across her features. My contradiction has thrown her. According to both Dr. Zhao and my research, Scratch is what’s known as an introject—an alter that’s based on a real person. She’s also a persecutor/protector. She protects me and the others by preying on all the negative things I’ve been told and believe. Since I’ve always listened to her in the past, she doesn’t know what to do when I don’t behave appropriately, so she does something like try to kill me, or freeze up completely, which is what she’s doing now.
“I didn’t ask you to meet me so we could fight,” I tell her.
“Then why are you here? To tell me to go away?” There’s a hint of a tremor in her voice, along with a heavy dose of derision. She hates me so much, but in a weird way, I think she equates hate with love, or at least caring.
Maybe Dr. Zhao is right. Kindness is the only way to approach Scratch. It’s worth a shot, because telling her to leave or trying to do violence against her isn’t an option. Not just because it could be harmful, but because at this moment, I don’t think I could do it.
I take a step toward her, my feet able to move again. “I wanted to talk with you about all you’ve done for us, how you protect us.”
She snorts. It’s bizarre, because she looks so much like Mom, but she’s nothing like her. It’s like Mom got cast as the villain rather than a victim in a horror movie. “Did Alyss put you up to this?” she asks. “That bitch is always yanking my chain.”
“No, I came here on my own.”
Scratch frowns. “I don’t believe you. You’ve always been a fucking liar.”
She sounds like a hurt child—a defensive kid trying to act tough.
I take another step forward. “Can I hug you?”
She looks suspicious but gives a small nod.
“Thank you for being prepared to take your own life to protect the rest of us.” I put my arms around her. She’s stiff as a board, and I’m not much better, waiting for her to bury a knife in my back. She can’t hurt me in a dream, can she?
Then I feel it—tentative arms around my waist. She lets go of a shuddering breath and hugs me, before pushing me away.
“What do you want?” she asks, stepping back. She wraps her arms around herself. I don’t know if it’s because she misses mine, or if she’s traumatized.
“I want to get to know you better,” I offer. “I want to understand why you are the way you are.”
“I’m this way because you’re a broken little … girl.” She frowns, and I know she couldn’t bring herself to say what she truly wanted.
“Why do you look like my mother?”
“Isn’t it obvious? Because she should have seen what was happening. She’s supposed to protect us, and she didn’t.”
So she hates Mom almost as much as, or more than, she hates me. “Protect us from who?”
Scratch shakes her head. “I can’t tell. I can’t ever tell.” She looks away.
I touch her shoulder, but she jerks back. “Don’t fucking touch me!”
I hold up my hands. “Okay, okay. I’m sorry, I should have asked.”
Sucking in great bursts of air through her nose, Scratch nods. She takes another step back—well out of my reach. “It’s fine. But don’t grab me like that again.”
He used to touch us like that. I don’t remember it, but I know it. He would put his hand on our shoulder, and we’d know what it meant—that he had control over us.
“I’m sorry,” I repeat. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
She scowls at me. “You didn’t scare me, bitch. You fucking pissed me off.”
Smiling gently, I shake my head. “I don’t believe that, but if you’d rather be angry than afraid, I get it. That’s something we have in common.”
Silence stretches between us and I let it. I don’t want to antagonize her any more than I have. I don’t know how she’ll react, and I’m still tender from the last time she got upset.
Turning so that she’s in profile, Scratch shakes her head. “I wasn’t always like this, you know.” Her voice is tired and raw. “I started out as a guardian. I protected everyone and Dali played house mother. Then, the more anger you formed toward your mother, the more I changed. I suppose I changed so you didn’t have to. I took the anger, so you didn’t have to feel it. Life wouldn’t work right if you resented the only protector you had left in your world. Honestly, I’ve always thought it’s your brother you should resent.”
“Why?”
“He was there. He should have realized the danger we were in, but I guess we were already good at hiding it by then. And we didn’t want anything to happen to him. Didn’t want him to hate us, and we knew he would, if he found out the truth.” She looks me in the eye. “And he will, you know. He’ll hate you so bad.”
I ignore the warning and the hard thump my heart gives in response. “What truth?”
“I can’t tell you.” She shrugs. “You could torture me, and I wouldn’t be able to say it, even if I wanted to. I’m a secret keeper.”
If only some of my friends had been more like this. “I wish I could remember.”
“No, you don’t,” she says, looking at me in disgust. “You wouldn’t have us if it hadn’t been more than you could tolerate. I hold a lot of those memories, and trust me, little girl, you don’t want them. I remember everything he did.”
Tears burn my eyes. “I’m sorry.”
Scratch stares at me. I watch as her expression softens. Not only her expression, but everything about her. She literally changes before my eyes. Her hairstyle becomes a little looser, her features less sharp. Even the lines in her face fill in, making her look more like Mom—the Mom I love. I stare back. I can’t believe it.
She presses a hand to her heart as though to quiet the pounding there and frowns. “You need to go,” she says softly.
“But—”
She cuts me off. “Please go.”
Before I can argue, she pivots on her heel and disappears back into the darkness between the cells. Once again, I’m aware of the noises made by the alters in this prison, and I realize that Scratch is far more comfortable with their pain than she is with my attempts at kindness. I still don’t like her, but I understand her better. I feel for her and she knows it.
I think maybe she likes it.
SEVENTEEN
Deer Dillin I am soury for drowing on yor wall. Pleese forgive me.
* * *
KAZ
There’s a note in the journal asking which of us would like to talk with Connor, the boyfriend. He wants to meet some more of us, if we’re up for it. I was like, “Bitch, don’t have to ask me twice.” If there’s a chance of getting some, I’m sure as hell going to take it.
