Going For A Therapist

Alex pushed open the door to his apartment, stepping into the dimly lit space and letting it click shut behind him. The familiar scent of old wood and faint detergent greeted him, but tonight, it did little to ground him. He stood still for a moment, his hand lingering on the doorknob as he stared at the dark expanse of his living room.

His breath came slow and heavy, his mind replaying everything Lila had said. "You're a latent." The words felt foreign, alien, as if they belonged to someone else's life.

With a shaky exhale, Alex flicked on the lights. The pale glow washed over the room, revealing his cluttered coffee table and the worn couch he usually found comfort in. Tonight, though, the space felt too small, too suffocating. He shrugged off his jacket, tossing it onto the couch, and began pacing, his steps uneven and restless.

Why me? The thought gnawed at him, tightening the knot of unease in his chest. His fingers ran through his hair, tugging slightly at the roots as if trying to pull the confusion straight out of his head.

He stopped by the small mirror hanging near the door, catching his reflection. For a moment, he didn't recognize the man staring back. His dark brown eyes were bloodshot, shadowed by exhaustion and something deeper—fear. His face, usually composed, bore faint lines of worry etched around his mouth and furrowed brow. He leaned closer, his reflection warping slightly in the tarnished glass.

"What the hell is happening to me?" he whispered. His breath fogged the surface, obscuring his reflection for a moment before it faded.

He turned away abruptly, the motion sharp, almost frustrated. His bare feet padded softly against the hardwood as he moved to the couch and sat down, his head dropping into his hands. He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing himself to breathe through the spiral of thoughts.

Lila's words echoed again. "Your fractured mind is pulling those abilities to the surface." What did that even mean? Alex clenched his fists, his nails pressing into his palms until the sting snapped him back to the present. He opened his eyes, staring blankly at the coffee table.

The thought of fire flickered in his mind—unbidden and vivid. He could still feel the heat from earlier, the way it had licked at his skin without burning, the way it obeyed his silent command. His fingers twitched instinctively, and he curled them into fists again, a sliver of panic rushing through him.

"Maybe I need help," he muttered aloud, the sound of his voice breaking the heavy silence.

The idea had hovered in the back of his mind for weeks now. A therapist. Someone trained to deal with DID, someone who could make sense of this mess. But would they even believe him? He wasn't sure he believed himself.

He leaned back against the couch, his head tilting to rest against the cushions as he stared up at the ceiling. His jaw tightened as his mind wandered. Would a therapist even be able to help with this… this? What if it wasn't just DID? What if Lila was right—what if there was something else inside him, something that no amount of therapy could fix?

His chest rose and fell in slow, measured breaths as he tried to wrestle the thoughts into submission. Stay calm, he told himself. You can figure this out. One step at a time.

But doubt crept in, stubborn and insistent. He thought back to Lila's sharp blue eyes, the way they seemed to see right through him. Her confidence, her strange mix of teasing and seriousness—it unnerved him. And yet, part of him felt drawn to her, to the way she spoke as if she knew.

You're not alone.

The words should have been comforting, but instead, they left a hollow ache in his chest. If he wasn't alone, if others had experienced what he was going through… why did he still feel so isolated?

A faint tremor ran through his hands, and he stared at them, almost expecting to see flames again. When nothing happened, he exhaled a soft, relieved sigh, though the tension in his shoulders didn't ease.

"I'll try," he said quietly to himself. "I'll find someone. A therapist. Anyone who can…" He trailed off, his voice faltering. He wasn't even sure what he was asking for—help, answers, maybe just a glimmer of hope.

Alex leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and running his hands through his hair again. His movements were slow, heavy with exhaustion. His eyes, clouded with uncertainty, stared at the floor as the silence of the apartment wrapped around him.

For now, all he could do was sit with the weight of everything Lila had said and hope that somehow, there was a way forward.

Back At The Abandoned Building

Lila strode through the abandoned building, her boots clicking softly against the dusty floorboards. The faint beam of her flashlight illuminated the narrow hallway ahead, casting long shadows on the cracked walls. Her movements were smooth, deliberate, but her sharp blue eyes betrayed the weight of her thoughts.

As she reached a rusted metal door hidden at the end of the corridor, she paused. Her lips pressed into a thin line, and her fingers brushed the jagged scar on her wrist—a habit she rarely noticed but always indulged when she was lost in thought. She took a deep breath, exhaling through her nose as she pulled out a key.

The door creaked open with a reluctant groan, revealing a dimly lit chamber beyond. The faint hum of electricity buzzed in the air, barely audible over the echo of her boots. The space was sparse, lined with old brick walls and a single table cluttered with maps, notes, and odd trinkets.

A faint rustling in the shadows drew her gaze, and she stopped just inside the doorway. Her posture was casual, but her eyes sharpened as she scanned the room.

"I know you're there," she said, her tone light but edged with challenge.

From the darkness, a figure emerged—a man, tall and broad-shouldered, his presence commanding. His face was shadowed at first, but as he stepped into the dim light, his features became clear. He had the same dark brown eyes as Alex, though his carried a calm, piercing intensity. Faint lines etched his face, adding to his air of maturity, and his jaw was set in a way that spoke of quiet confidence.

He moved with deliberate grace, his hands tucked into the pockets of a well-worn coat. His voice was deep and measured as he asked, "How did it go?"

Lila crossed her arms, leaning casually against the doorframe. A smirk played on her lips, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. "Your brother's case," she began, tilting her head slightly, "is something else."

The man's gaze didn't waver, though a flicker of something—concern?—crossed his features. "Define 'something else,'" he said, his tone calm but firm.

Lila pushed off the doorframe and walked further into the room, her boots scuffing against the floor. She stopped a few feet from the man, her smirk fading as her expression grew more serious. "The accident he suffered as a kid… I think it's more than just trauma. It might've cracked something wide open in his mind. Caused him to create… compartments, defenses." She gestured vaguely, her hand slicing the air. "Multiple personalities."

The man's jaw tightened slightly, and he looked away for a moment, his gaze drifting toward the table. His movements were subtle, controlled, but the faint tension in his shoulders betrayed the unease creeping beneath his composed exterior.

"How many?" he asked after a long pause, his voice quieter now.

Lila raised an eyebrow, a hint of intrigue flickering in her sharp eyes. "Two," she replied, holding up two fingers. "That I know of, anyway. But I'd bet my last cigarette there are more hiding under the surface."

He exhaled deeply, his hands coming out of his pockets to grip the edge of the table. The movement was slow, deliberate, as if grounding himself. His fingers curled around the wood, knuckles whitening slightly.

"And the abilities?" he asked, his voice steady despite the storm brewing in his eyes.

Lila crossed her arms again, her gaze unwavering as she met his. "They're tied to the personalities," she said simply. "Each one seems to bring out something different, something… latent. Like I told him, this isn't just about DID. Whatever's inside him, it's been there for a long time. Maybe the accident didn't just break him—it woke something up."

The man's lips pressed into a thin line, and his gaze dropped to the table. For a moment, the room was silent, save for the faint hum of the overhead light. When he looked up again, his eyes were sharp, resolute.

"Can he handle it?" he asked, his tone clipped but laced with an undercurrent of worry.

Lila tilted her head, studying him with a mix of curiosity and something softer—sympathy, perhaps. "That depends," she said finally. "He's stubborn, I'll give him that. And he's smart. But…" She trailed off, her eyes narrowing slightly as she thought. "He's scared. And if he doesn't learn to face what's inside him, it's gonna eat him alive."

The man straightened, his movements slow and deliberate. He turned to face her fully, his shoulders squared, his presence filling the room. "Then we help him," he said, his voice steady and unwavering.

Lila arched an eyebrow, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. "That's the plan," she said, a hint of amusement in her tone. But her expression sobered quickly, and she stepped closer, her eyes locking onto his. "But you know this isn't just about him, right? If we're right about what's happening to Alex, it could mean something bigger. For all of us."

The man's gaze hardened, and he nodded slowly. "I know," he said simply.

For a moment, they stood in silence, the weight of unspoken truths settling between them. Then Lila stepped back, her movements fluid and confident, though her sharp eyes never left his.

"Let's just hope he's ready," she said, her voice quieter now, almost to herself.

The man didn't respond, but the faint clench of his jaw and the flicker of determination in his eyes spoke volumes. Together, they stood in the dim light, their minds already racing ahead to the challenges yet to come.