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Like Emily had said, the room was large and all of its walls were covered in chalkboards. But unlike my mouse’s memories, every damned word was comprehensible to me.
On one board there was a list of the alters, putting them in their correct order. There were tons of paragraphs and notes on what could have created each particular alter.
I widened my eyes. “I can read this.”
“Very, very interesting.” M went over to a large white board and pointed. “What about this? What do you see?”
The white board showed a building map that M had clearly drawn.
It was a visual manifesto of their fractured psyche.
Even more, the building’s sections were meticulously labeled.
At the top, almost touching the ceiling of the illustration, was Lunita’s roof. It was depicted not just as a flat surface, but as a flourishing garden. The detailing was exquisite, with tons of tiny flowers.
Below, towards the middle of the building, was the little girl’s apartment. It was drawn with a softer hand, the lines less rigid, more welcoming. The depiction included the scattered toys and the warmth of lived-in chaos.
To the side, there was his office–M’s space, marked by orderly lines and structured design.
I got closer to the board. “You drew a map.”
He even had little blocks for the stairs that went up from the basement to the little girl’s apartment.
The lower part of the diagram detailed my mouse’s basement.
And then, at the very bottom of the drawing Amber’s domain was labeled as ‘the sewer.’ The area was marked with darker, more jagged lines, indicating a space less welcoming.
M backed away from the board as if not wanting me to get too close to him. “You see it?”
“I do.”
“Did she see it?”
“If she did, she never told me.” I studied the building some more.
At the top of the whiteboard, in bold, unmistakable letters, was the question:
Where is she?
I kept my gaze on that one sentence, unable to move away from it.
“Perhaps, the brain knew that she wasn’t ready to see it.” M sighed. “Repression. Denial. These are the sort of things that are employed by the brain to manage internal conflicts and perceived threats from the external world.”
I put my view on him.
“By distorting reality, these mechanisms allow individuals to navigate through stressful situations, albeit temporarily and often at the cost of a clear understanding of reality.”
“So sometimes we remember things in the wrong way to protect us?”
“That is one way to think about this.”
I took in that trimmed beard and that tweed jacket.
M raised his eyebrows. “Is something wrong, Kazimir? Why are you looking at me that way?”
“It is just odd. . .seeing my mouse as a man.”
He edged back. “I must inform you that I am in no way interested in a sexual relationship with another man.”
