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DID is typically caused by emotional trauma of some sort. Abuse, or a significant event, one the brain tries to hide, initially creates the first sub-personality as sort of a protective defense against the knowledge it doesn’t want the brain to have. The rare DID exceptions are brain damage, physical impairments that cause a shorting out of the cranial lobe from which idiosyncrasies result.
I haven’t had any physical damage, no hard blows to the head, no horrific accidents that would have caused multiple Brants to emerge. I also, with the exception of December 12th, haven’t had any traumatic events. And December 12th happened after – and was a result of – my development of DID.
The obvious answer is that I must have had a traumatic experience and have psychologically hidden it. I called my parents and believe them when they claim ignorance of any triggering events. My curiosity isn’t worth contacting Jillian. Right now, she can rot in hell.
Dr. Terra has tried, in a roundabout way, to unearth this possibility. He forgets the man he is dealing with. I'm intelligent enough to attack a problem head on. I don’t need subtle pecks at the corners of my brain. I need to split my psyche open and dig at the root of my problem.
I can feel the incident. It nags at a part of me, like that errand you walked into a room to do and then forgot. It lies, just out of reach but at the corner of my mind, occasionally tapping at my brain matter when it wants to drive me bat-shit crazy. I need to unearth it. Need to open my past and find the key.
Now, for the 32nd evening in a row, I try. The chair beneath me creaks as I sit on the back veranda, my feet propped against the railing, the skies dark as a storm approaches. I can feel the air thicken, thunder clapping as lightening streaks the sky. I contemplate going inside to avoid the rain, but the overhang should keep me fairly dry. As the rain begins to tap a staccato beat on the roof above me, I close my eyes and try to remember the past. I try to remember a summer twenty-seven years ago.
And then, listening to the familiar sound of rain against a roof, it comes to me.
Chapter 81 - Brant
Sheila Anderson had been beautiful. Half Cuban, she had tan skin, dark hair and eyes that gleamed when she laughed. I had never spoken to her. I sat three seats behind and one seat over, and just stared.
I was nervous; I was awkward.
She was untouchable.
When she left school each day, I followed her. I had a valid excuse. She lived a street over and both of our paths home followed a logical route. So I followed, and I watched her hair bounce, and I stared some more. She was always with friends, she giggled, she whispered, she hummed, and I listened.
I listened to her giggle until the day that she cried, and my world broke in two.
It was a Wednesday and it rained. A big sloppy downpour, where one foot outside meant a plaster of all of your clothing to your skin, no ‘quick dash’ possible to keep yourself dry. I saw her standing in the front porch of the school, her steps tentative as she contemplated the initial step into the torrent. I stood beside her, offered a small smile to her friendly beam. We waited together, until the moment that she ducked her head and ran, squealing, her hands covering her head.
I followed, and it was just the two of us running across the parking lot. Through the church. Down the road with the fence. Past the house with the dog. We ran, and it just kept coming down. The rain was ice cold and unrelenting, nails against your skin.
She slowed, and I slowed and it came time for me to turn down my street. I stopped in the middle of the street and she continued past me with a smile and a wave that I could barely see through the rain.
I watched her until I could barely see her pink shirt. Then I glanced left, the sight of my mailbox barely visible through the rain, and ducked my head against the wet needles. I turned on one shoe and ran after her.
The man’s arm is one I have seen in a hundred nightmares and never understood its place. Thick and dark, not from the color of his birth, but from the tattoos. A sleeve of evil, skulls and snakes, the muscles of his arm jumping with the action of his ink. I was a few steps behind her when his arm shot out, grabbing the back of her as easily as one would pluck up a cat. The rain obscuring my view as I saw a blur of arms and legs, the heavy patter of rain muffling the cries. I slowed, unsure of what was happening as he pulled her against his chest and stepped away from the sidewalk, into the heavy shade of trees, ducking into the yard he had come from.
I wiped at my face and moved closer, my chest heaving from exertion and something else – the tight feeling that something was wrong. The yard showed no sign of them, but I heard her screams, the sound muffled by something other than rain. I looked right and left, hoping to see someone. An adult. I needed an adult.
I moved closer to the house. Picked my way over its stepping stones, one slick enough to put me in the grass, my hands skittering over the ground and coming up dirty as I pushed myself to my feet. I couldn’t hear her anymore and that scared me more than the screams. I hitched my backpack higher and wiped my hands on the front of my jeans.
The house in the yard had three steps, then a short porch. I climbed the steps and stepped onto the porch, leaving the rain behind. My clothes dripped everywhere, creating a puddle on the grimy brick floor.
I looked over my shoulder to the yard, then back to the house. There was the faint sound of something inside. I eased closer to the door and put my ear against the wood. It was a television playing, and a burst of canned laughter came through.
There was a loud noise from inside, and I bolted to the corner of the porch. Ducked into a ball, I hid behind a swing. I accidentally bumped it with my shoulder and it creaked into motion, giving away my position. I moved away from it, against the house, and soldier-crawled over to the window, which had a skinny opening between two blue curtains. I held my breath and then peered in.
There was the television, playing a black-and-white western. There was a rug. A few beer cans sitting on an end table. My gaze lifted to the room beyond the can, and I saw Sheila Anderson.
I won’t share the horrors of what I saw, on my knees, on that porch. I know I closed my eyes too late. I know my hands fisted on either side of my head as I tried to drown out the soft sounds of her screams. I now know why I hate the sound of rain. I now know why, that afternoon in August, my mind broke into smaller pieces and locked that afternoon into a place where I was never to find it.
Now, I struggle to stand, the image of Sheila in pain imprinted on my mind. I stumble to the door, frantic to escape the sound of rain. Opening the slider, I see Layana rise from her place on the couch, her eyes on me. “Did you remember?” she asks.
I nod, unable to say more, and open my arms as she steps forward and wraps me in a hug.
Chapter 82
Today is my second attempt to break up with Lee. We’ve spent three weeks preparing for it, and this time the doctor has agreed to stay quiet and behind the one-way glass in the adjoining room. Brant hates that decision and is still convinced that I’m in danger. He had the Brant-equivalent of a meltdown, which involved him slamming a fist onto the table and striding out of the room. It took him a half hour to cool off and then he reluctantly agreed with the plan, and now I'm back in the room with him, reciting the lines I’ve been coached through, the hypnosis protocol that will trigger Lee’s presence.
My initial breakup attempt had been done without clueing Lee into his condition. With the massive failure of that experiment, we regrouped and decided to share the condition in hopes for better results.
