Page 11 of Zero Happily Ever Afters

“He did that by taking from you,” the manifestation answered. “Your hubris…hmm, let’s just call him what he was: the Ego. The arrogant.”

“The Ego?” I shook my head. “The ego, the id—they’re a part of a person. He was never part of me, not really. More of a cancer, a shadow. A doppler.”

“Doppler?” My gothic manifestation quirked a pierced eyebrow, reminding me of the one I’d let close years ago. “Hmmm. Interesting, I suppose.”

“Just sounds right.” I couldn’t explain it. The word, the meaning. It jumped out like a stranglehold.

“Whatever, Doppler, Ego, Asshole, the point is the bastard believed his worth more than what it was, thus why he abandoned the subconscious.”

“And he’s alone in that thought? Desire?” I asked, not looking for an answer but listening for one. Listening to the whispered thoughts hidden in shadows, determining the degree of threats surrounding me.

“You act like there’s anything worth leaving the subconscious for.” The manifestation twirled, transforming his clothes into something new. A tiny white shirt with bloody x’ed out eyes and a smiley face, and a pair of equally tight skinny jeans with neon green suspenders dangling around his legs. “We have all we need here.”

“Illusions.” I scoffed. “Unimpressive ones at that.”

“And what does reality really have to offer anyone? If you’re any indication, it’s not that great.” He pursed his lips in a twisted, snarky expression, then let his face fall flat before continuing. “Anyway, Doppler Dorian siphoned off a smidge of your magic, your power, and fled. The audacity. The sheer level of arrogance and spite that required. You don’t have to worry about that from the rest of us.”

“That so?”

“We’re personas. Hollow, fragmented pieces of the whole,” he explained. “Everyone has personas in their head, sides of themselves they never reveal, never explore. You know this.”

Yes. I’d seen hidden shades of people, but rarely. I supposed that had to do with the fact those facets of others didn’t often linger in the conscious mind but rather within the subconscious.And the distinct difference between my personas and others was how sometimes those expressions of identity stepped out of the mind and into the world. Causing havoc. Changing futures.

“I embody pieces of yourself you’d rather keep buried.” The persona posed either for flair or to pull me from my thoughts. Possibly both. “The wardrobe, the makeup, the femineity.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s not like you’re suffering from toxic masculinity. Well, not too much. No one’s perfect.” He winked, playful and almost reminiscent of Milo, minus the charm because there was absolutely no way I could pull off charming. Not ever. “Oh, there it is,” he said, nodding to the thoughts I expressed floating in the dark between us. “You always doubt yourself, your ability, and as such, you box away every piece that doesn’t fit in the world you’re striving so desperately to appease.”

“You don’t know me.”

“You don’t know yourself, sweetheart.” He ran his fingers through his ruffled hair; streaks of purple, red, and blue shimmered against the shadows. “I’m living the life you closed the door on far too long ago.”

He meant how my attire in high school shifted. Sure, I kept the goth getup for far too long, but I tamed myself. I stopped painting my nails black because of the whispers on the surface of many minds. I toned down the eyeshadow and liner for a time. I picked my wardrobe very carefully—especially for someone who wanted the world to think I spent little to no time thinking about his outfit.

“It’s not really living here, though, is it?” I asked, searching the darkness for thoughts from other manifestations, these personas lying dormant in my subconscious.

“We’re not really alive, so what’s it matter?” The gothic persona put his hands on his hips and raised his shoulders with a shrug. “I don’t mean that in some introspective form of self-loathing depression. After all, I don’t embody your depression. Pretty sure no one is running to fill out an application for that persona’s role. You can keep your sad sack ways right there on the surface of your mind.”

He gestured upward like he was pointing to my inner core, like either of us could see anything in the abyss of the subconscious.

“What do you mean then?”

“We have a very limited range in identity, mainly because we’re cutouts of yours. Part of how you controlled your magic as a child and how you dealt with all the encroaching thoughts of others. Children are impressionable. I suppose it was your way of keeping other people’s personalities from becoming yours. So down here in the depths of your psyche, I, along with all the other personas, remain in the subconscious, attached to different emotional and psychological aspects of you.”

“Everyone here is some repressed piece of me?”

“Absolutely not, darling.” He pointed to the shadows where the heavy, angry breaths continued from the aggressive persona. “Some avenues you actively pursue. I mean, you’re a real dickhead.”

“Fuck off,” I thought. “I’m nowhere near that level of aggression.”

The aggro persona, the manifestation made of anger, was like a wall of rage—a tower, really. Fury grew higher than most buildings, and I was grateful he kept to the darkness.

“Okay, maybe he’s a slightly grumpier version of you.” The gothic copy laughed, carefree like he didn’t have a concern in the world. So completely contrasted to everything about me. It was strange to see a side of me dressed so dark, so angry, yet filled with a smile that would outshine Milo or Finn.

“As fascinating as all of this is, can you tell me how to get out?”

“Your mind is fracturing. You can feel that, correct?”

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