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Dissociative Identity Disorder.
Marc had hoped it would’ve been something easier to understand. PTSD. A severe case of insomnia. Or just a quirk of his depression and anxiety. A side effect of the medication he was on.
Not something that was linked to severe childhood trauma to the point where his kid self couldn’t process it properly so he’d split his own personality to cope.
“But how—” He licked his lips, sitting back in the chair of the doctor’s office. “These episodes, or whatever, I’ve, I’m not—” He didn’t know how to put it to words. He’s had memory issues for as long as he could remember. That didn’t mean he had an identity disorder.
Did it?
“It’s normal to feel in denial of it,” Dr. Miller said. “As much as we do know of DID, a lot of patients seek to avoid it or seek out a different explanations for how they feel. But from what you’ve told me and based on your history, the periods of blackouts that you experience are when your sense of self, as Marc, steps back and another alter of you steps forward.”
“Alter,” Marc repeated.
Dr. Miller nodded. “That’s correct. Think about how you would act in one situation versus another. How you would treat family versus a coworker. You would likely behave a little bit differently around them. With alters, a similar process occurs where if you weren’t able to handle something, another alter could step forward and act in a way fitting to the situation.”
Marc nodded along. His palms were sweating. His heart was fluttering in his chest. He didn’t want to think that what was wrong with him was so nebulous. “So, so where do we go from here?” he asked. “Is it like—I assume there’s treatment for it.”
“There is,” Dr. Miller said. “I’d like to refer you to a psycho-therapist.”
“A psycho—”
“Therapist. They specialize in disorders like yours.”
“And how, how long would that take?” He didn’t know how much time he had left here. Not when he and Layla were supposed to head for Egypt soon.
“It’s a long process. It can take years to help someone orient themselves and understand these parts of their personality. It’s a matter of learning about the alters, how many there are, triggers for them, and most of all, ensuring you are comfortable in your day to day life and that you feel in control of yourself.”
“So that’s it then?” he asked. “Just sit and wait until I get the referral?”
“For now,” Dr. Miller said. “I’d caution you to keep things simple if you can. Periods of intense stress can often trigger a switch, which would be when you experience a blackout. But I would suggest that you try to understand these other parts of yourself. They’re still you, Marc.”
He left with a referral, and when he returned home to Layla, seeing that she was already packing for their trip. She smiled at him softly. “How did it go?”
He tossed his keys into the bowl they had next to the door. “Uh, fine,” he said. “Just fine. Just that I should, uh, cut back on the caffeine. Probably messing with my meds.”
Layla nodded. “Okay, okay, that’s good. I’m glad it wasn’t something more serious.”
He managed a smile. “Yeah. Me, too.”
He didn’t make his referral.
By the time it came around, he was deep in Egypt and shit got worse. Shit got bad.
“You want to save her?” the god asked. “Then you know what I require.”
It was one of those moments where Marc had his back against the wall, when things were dire. And life was bizarre enough as it was and here he was talking to an Egyptian god of all things. A god that wanted his body.
It was a small price to pay, wasn’t it? To save them all?
“Your mind intrigues me, Marc,” Khonshu said.
“Don’t touch anything,” Marc said.
He still had to find Layla. They had to get back to the States.
He was feeling off. The fluttery feeling in his chest. The shaking in his hands. Like his vision was tunneling. Those were all markers of when he’d blackout normally, so what did that mean now? Was he going to—what was the word for it again?—switch? Was he switching?
He found his way to a public bathroom and splashed cold water on his face and looked at himself in the mirror. Then he saw Khonshu himself. The god was tall with a head shaped like a bird’s skull.
“So is this how it’s going to be then?” Marc asked. “You’re just—what? A part of me?”
“You’re my avatar, Marc. And if I’m going to find Ammit’s tomb, we need to find that scarab. So pull yourself together and get back on the street.”
Right. Okay. He could do this. He could hold himself together a little while longer. It wasn’t like this was anything new.
Between the fallout of what happened in Egypt, returning to the states with Layla, their relationship breaking apart at the seems because he couldn’t let her know that a god had taken residence in his body—all for her because Marc wanted to keep her safe—Marc left for England. Harrow was there. Marc could continue serving Khonshu’s cause and maybe, maybe, things would eventually settle down.
He recalled what the doctor had said to him—that periods of intense stress would likely increase his changes of switching and he couldn’t afford that right now. Not when he was on a plane, headed to the UK to start a new life there.
He thinks he’s always been a little bit aware of Steven, in hindsight.
This nerdy kid that always checked out books of Egyptian Mythology as a kid.
“You were talking in a British accent the other day,” a friend had told him once. “What was that all about? You getting into acting or something?”
And he had been so out of it that week that he played it off. Yeah, just a character he was working on. Nothing more than that.
After he gets his life set up in London, things begin to change.
More of Steven’s character begins to take shape. He’s settling in here, building a life.
The things Khonshu has Marc do make him more susceptible to switching afterwards. Usually, he’s out of it for a few days. It seems becoming an avatar for an Egyptian god is a significant stressor.
But it shifts again, and this time Marc is forced to face his new reality.
When he dissociates or switches or whatever, Marc usually loses a day or two. He isn’t aware of it, comes back to realizing he has more vegetables in his fridge than not. That he’s got a new book about the Egyptian pantheon sitting on his coffee table. But when this alter becomes Steven. When Steven builds a life and gets a job and gets a fish, it’s a cozy little life that Marc doesn’t want to disturb. So he does whatever it takes to keep that part of his life separate from what Khonshu has him do.
But then Khonshu oversteps. He doesn’t understand who or what Steven is and grows increasingly frustrated that Marc asserts he has certain days where he cannot do anything. So he takes things into his own hands.
The world shifts and changes and Marc finds himself standing in front of a mirror. The water in the sink is running. He hears the gentle scrape of a razor against skin. When he looks up, he sees himself, but it’s also not him. It’s—
“So,” Khonshu says. “This is Steven.”
When Marc looks up in the mirror, he sees himself shaving, but he himself is not shaving. He stumbles back from the mirror and looks around. The light from the mirror only illuminates a small patch of space before it bleeds into black. There’s nothing on beyond it. Nothing at all.
And then Khonshu steps out, coming into the light and standing behind Marc. “You’ve been hiding something from me.”
His heart flutters in his chest. A worrying staccato that Marc knows would bring on a switch, but what does that mean in a place like this? Where he doesn’t even feel real? “What—what did you do?”
“I wanted to see, Marc. Your mind is . . . intriguing. Blocks and barriers appear when I do not expect them, so I decided to see who else is in here with you.”
“What is this place?”
Khonshu hums. “A world between worlds. Though, for your case, it’s a bit different than that. I am merely trying to help you understand yourself. Now, look.”
Marc turns, though he doesn’t have much of a choice here. He turns and watches himself through the mirror.
“Now, why don’t you tell me about Steven, Marc?” Khonshu says. “He was rather a surprise when I stumbled upon him.”
He whips his head to the god. “What did you—”
“Nothing, of course. You think I’m that stupid? I only did a little poking around when you were otherwise indisposed. He’s an interesting person, if a little dull. Doesn’t have the skills that you do, so he’s otherwise useless to me.”
Marc winces. He doesn’t know why that comment hurts, but it does. Because Khonshu is still talking about him, isn’t it? A part of him maybe but—Steven isn’t useless.
“It makes me wonder, Marc,” Khonshu says. “How many are there of you?”
Marc watches Steven gently towel off his face and shut off the water. Then he’s hanging up the towel and turning off the light before he closes the bathroom door. And as the light fades from Marc’s little corner of existence, he can’t help but wonder the same thing.
How many are in here with him?
It all goes to hell when Steven learns of Marc’s life. For as long as Marc’s been aware of Steven, he’s become aware of his sensibilities. He’s vegan—so he really fucked up that first date with Dylan, besides missing it. He thinks he suffers from a severe form of insomnia and that leaves him feeling paranoid and anxious when he wakes up and there’s still a little bit of dried blood on his knuckles that Marc didn’t care enough to scrub off the night before. He’s still trying to figure out what purpose Steven serves exactly in their system. That’s what the doctor had said, right? That alters serve a purpose, well, maybe it has to do with Marc’s own inability to function with his guilt. That he needs to be someone who’s gentler. Not as forward. Too interested in things that don’t normally involve other people.
Maybe that’s it.
But then—
“So this is what it’s like? Being on the inside?”
Harrow has the scarab. Layla has tracked him down. And Khonshu has had his proverbial feathers ruffled. And here Marc stands, at a loss of what to do and Steven’s quiet voice from within the mirror.
He turns to look at it. “Yeah.” He recalls those feelings, many times over the months—Years? How long has it been since Khonshu took residence in his body?—watching Steven from within that other place that Khonshu had spun up so he could observe Steven, watch him throughout his day when Marc had little choice else than to watch with him if that’s what the god desired.
“It’s horrible,” Steven says.
“It’s all right,” Marc says. “You’re all right.”
But it’s not.
Nothing has been all right for a long time.
Marc catches his breath as he watches the body of the informant slump to the ground. Three men of varying ages with knives had crowded him in, though one of these men can scarcely be more than a boy.
He sighs. “I needed to talk to that guy,” he says, jumping down onto the roof lightly as the men face him. “Guess I’m gonna have to talk to you instead.”
He finds that when people fight with knives they have a certain ego about them that makes them sloppy in fights. Yes, knives can be scary in close quarters, but a knife does not make someone a proficient fighter.
When he holds the knife up to one of men’s necks, he hears a concerned, “Marc.”
He briefly looks to the reflective surface of the knife, catches sight of his own eyes—but they’re not his own eyes. They’re Steven’s—wide and terrified that he’s about to witness a murder.
“Don’t do it, Marc.”
He can feel the tips of his fingers tingling. He can hear his own blood pumping in his ears. Darkness creeps in at the edges of his vision. He’s switching. He’s switching now and he doesn’t know why this is scaring him but—
He doesn't remember the last time he was front and centre, but this situation is nothing new. There's a knife in his hand that he has pressed to a man's neck and two others looking wary behind them as they get to their feet.
He's been in this situation before, and he knows what he must do. Protect the body at all costs.
The other two perpetrators scatter as he lets the body fall to the ground. He tosses the bloodied knife aside. He catches sight of pyramids. Fuck. They're back here again.
“Well.”
He turns to see the god, crouched on the edge of the building.
“I haven't seen you before,” the god says, standing to his full height and walking over to him. “Where is Marc?”
He ignores the god and keeps on walking. He should get to the street level, try to get the body home and safe. This isn’t a good place to be. Too many people. Too many eyes. Too much unfinished business.
“Where do you think you’re going?” the god says, following him as he manoeuvres his way to the streets below. “We are not finished here.”
"And what will you do?" he asks. "Throw a tantrum?"
The god suddenly appears before him, blocking his path.
"I don't know who you are, but I will not tolerate your disobedience."
He walks around the god. The god can do little besides snarl and bite like this. He knows the rules of this engagement, and he’ll not tolerate this any longer.
“Oh, Marc,” he mutters. “What have you gotten us into now?”