A couple of updates before I get back into my worst relationship. Like you’ve seen, a few of the other alters were able to put their two cents in. I’ve noticed if I craft some sort of magic reason for the reason they’d be able to speak for me, they take that opportunity. Oscar (he/him) and Kajmir (Kahshz-meer) (he/it) identify as ‘past lives’ of mine, so logic dictates that I should be able to channel them.

Aberle (Ah-Burr-lee) (he/him) is not my past life. He has no part of me. But he’s open to the notion that he’s able to use my body.

Many times, my alters are like any other friends I have. I make time for us to talk or hang out online, usually on a video call. Then I forget where I am and suddenly I’m in an overlay of my own world, like a hidden Photoshop layer. Many times, details are missing and the time of day, or even year, seems different. Or I’m in their world, sitting on their couch, or in their den, or taking a walk in England. I’ve noticed the easiest way to do this is get a bit buzzed, listen to certain songs, and ‘wait for their call.’

I was able to have a talk with Phisoxa (Fee-Sohks-ah, she/he) last night. Phisoxa was actually here a bit before I was– probably preceding my arrival by about five years. (Or over one hundred, in in-world time.) She claims to be who had written me as a character and like… an ideal offspring. Then alchemy’d me to life using pieces of her soul and a pocketwatch. Also, I was in a mechanical crow for a while.

Inworlds are a trip.

We were in her den, with its stone walls, one round carpet, and two high-back chairs near the fireplace. We were both sipping red wine.

But anyway, I recounted to Phisoxa what had happened over this summer. The isolation, the brief respite from that, and how my expectations of life slowly changed from, “Could I have a fair say in my new household?” to “Can I have fair treatment from my own partner?” to “Can I maybe have a say in who we give the house key to?” “Can we maybe talk without you yelling at me or ignoring me for the rest of the week?” “Can I maybe have my privacy not invaded? Can someone maybe talk to me? Can I have a hug? Can you not twist my words?” To finally, “Can I maybe have a say of whether or not to be your pound of flesh in your hen-pecking sessions?”

He almost looked amused. “Blackmail does work remarkably well on you and I, I’m sorry to say. I think you’ll agree.”

Sheepishly, I nodded. With just the hope that Arkady would return back to himself, or that the mimicry of the people I love would even occasionally hang out with me, I was convinced into taking all of the blame and giving up my dignity. As I see more and more people start to turn away in disgust over the household’s bullying and ignorant Facebook posts, it’s hard to believe that I was so far under their thumb. But hell, like my author said, I’m easy to blackmail.

If you tell anyone what we’ve done to you, we’ll cut you off. If you keep talking, I’ll tell everyone legal information about the body. If you break up with me, your friends(alters) will die. Different people, same malicious play.

The others tried to frame it like I still had a chance until I went on Live. That this was the tipping point, the final straw. I remember March was even saying about how he’d buy me an Xbox One as a housewarming gift. It was just convenient timing that they just had to talk just before it was moving time. (But then, when had March ever fulfilled one of his promises? This was just on brand.) I remember how Arkady had spoken to me worse than one would a dog. It wouldn’t have been better, even if I hadn’t sought support that night.

“At this point, it’s watching kingdoms continuously forsaking a victory by invading Russia in the winter. This isn’t the first time people have had you backed entirely into a corner and gave up the last they had to hold over you.” She went on to say, referring to Arkady’s and my four-month break. “You held, without complaint, on for that four months because you saw a light at the end of the tunnel. And you discovered that there wasn’t one. But by then, your expectations were pitiful. You held on until the very day you realized you had nothing to lose. And you take after me. When we have nothing to lose, we’re dangerous.”

Phisoxa was once bullied to the point where he burnt down his entire orphanage, so probably not the best person to take life advice from, but I appreciated the sentiment.

At one point further in the conversation, she mused that I tried to trade my clockwork heart for one made of flesh and blood– and a favour was done to me by having it broken. Now I’m the same opulent bastard I always was.

I think that’s part of why I love this blog so much. It’s proof that I’m free. A bit of censoring, and I can no longer be stopped. They can’t take anything from me anymore. I’m now allowed to speak about it. Plus, I could die at any day in this sort of world. Granted, I don’t have the writing career in my 20’s that Wilde had in his late 30’s, but I’ve at least finished my novels– unlike anyone who’s pointed that out. And if this is what I leave behind, I’ll have left my mark on this world.

Because in the end, I’m suddenly not my body or my bones. I’m absolutely not the interpretations of manipulated individuals, nor am I my career. I am my story, and that will stand long after I’m dead and gone.

That part of me– the part that I could feel split, and go silent and numb– would’ve rather died than go through this betrayal, and said so often. She probably would’ve rather the whole body die than endure a split that painful. All she wanted was a family. All she was created for was a family. She was the type that would ache in intense joy for an adopted animal that had a family now. She showed up when I tried to adapt to ‘family life’, and now I’m as disconnected and devil-may-care as ever.

I did try to reach out to her, once. The flash of emotional agony was enough to deter me wanting to do it for a good while. I feel like she’s young, and I feel like she wrote her name on my skin. But, as a place-holder, I’ll call her ‘Story.’