Archive of Our Own ^beta

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It was so fucking loud.

Jon was surely going insane, it couldn’t possibly be normal to hear voices; not as clearly as he could anyway. He could hear them so clearly, but he couldn’t at the same time. They were there, they were always there, never quiet no matter how hard he tried to shut them out, but he could only make out words if he concentrated. They all sounded the same, they all sounded like his, but he could so clearly distinguish between them if he concentrated. They all sounded like his, but wrong. If he ignored them, they would all sort of blend together to make one confusing, aching pile of noise, and it was so very loud, and he was so very afraid, and there was nothing he could do to make it stop.

They weren’t his, not really, but they sounded like him. Well, no, they must be his – it was his head they were in, so they must all be his voice, split into smaller fragments of voice that all overlapped.

Sometimes he would act like them, or sometimes he would act like himself – but what did ‘himself’ even mean at this point? He was so awfully, horribly inconsistent and that was something he loved. Sometimes he would be professional, or pompous, or sarcastic, depending on where he was and who he was with. He was so unpredictable that not even he understood. They weren’t even that different, but they felt different.

One thing he’d noticed changing was his voice. When he was polite (which was not often), his voice went slightly higher; it wasn’t his and yet it felt so natural. He didn’t mean to change his voice, he just did, without thinking. When he was with Elias, his voice was slightly deeper and scratchier. When he was with his friends was the only time it was his real voice. If he even had a real voice, that is.

Another thing he’d noticed changing was his memory. He would forget entire days or weeks at a time. He’d forget some of the most important things. He didn’t know Tim’s birthday, barely even remembered his own, he didn’t remember his first day at the institute, he didn’t remember the first time he used a tape recorder for a statement, he didn’t remember anything. But he did at the same time. Sometimes he’d remember things and then forget them a minute later – but that was normal, right? Everyone forgets things sometimes. Just... not to the extent he did. Sometimes muscle memory would guide him through things he’d never done, or he’d know the answers to questions he’d never heard. He could’ve sworn he’d never picked up his grandmother’s old crochet hook, didn’t even know what stitch he was doing, but he knew how to do it anyway. It was so fucking frustrating, like the memories were right there, he just couldn’t see them, couldn’t hear them, but he knew them.

It was so frustrating.

What was even more frustrating was when other people noticed the changes. Tim commented once or twice that when he was being all snarky, Jon’s accent was more clear. Martin had said that when he was reading a statement his body language would change dramatically. Sasha thought his fashion was flickering between a few different styles multiple times a day and he was rarely happy with the outfits he’d chosen himself.

Multiple times he’d realised he’d been talking to himself out loud and responding in his head. Sometimes he’d argue, or tell jokes, or explain something to himself. He had memories he wasn’t sure had happened in the first place but would convince himself they had. He would sit there, alone, telling himself stories, and finding himself surprised at the endings.

There was only one consistent thing in Jon’s life.

It was so fucking loud.

Perhaps it would be quieter once he got off the tube.

~*~

When did Jon get here?

He could’ve sworn he was on the tube just a second ago, but instead he was sat at his desk, bag on the floor, in the middle of writing a sentence. When did that happen?

Well, at least it was nothing new. Jon just zoned out sometimes, and had an inconsistent memory. And that was okay. The issue was that he had no idea what he’d been planning on writing, or why he needed to write it in the first place. Annoyed, he put the paper to the side of his desk. Perhaps he’d remember later.

~*~

Jon was acting... off.

Tim was taking the tube with him after work, since he needed to meet a friend near where Jon lived, but he’d been expecting at least some form of conversation. Instead, Jon was staring. Straight ahead. His eyes weren’t even moving. Was he alright?

To be fair, this was nothing Tim hadn’t seen before, Jon did this all the time, but it was still a little unnerving when he did.

“Jon, you okay?” Instantly, he seemed to snap out of it and looked at Tim.

“Huh?” Oh lord, something really was wrong. Jon had just spoken informally! Tim never knew this day would come, he should really be taking a picture. Sasha would never believe this. “Oh, yeah, sorry. I just zone out sometimes, it’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”

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“Sasha,” Jon said hesitantly, “do you think I act... different, sometimes?” It had to be her to go to, in the end. Tim would laugh it off, Martin would say whatever he thought Jon wanted to hear, and Georgie probably already thought little enough of his sanity as is. She seemed confused at the question and thought for a second before answering.

“I... suppose so? What do you mean?”

So he’d noticed it too then. Jon had always been inconsistent, but it was just that – inconsistent. But what if it wasn’t? The thing is, he didn’t just act differently, he thought differently. He rarely seemed like himself at this point, and depending who you asked, you could be told about so many different people when someone described Jonathan Sims. He knew he ought to talk to someone about it, but he was worried he’d just come off as insane. He wasn’t insane.

Right?

“Nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

“Jon, are you okay? You’ve been... distant, the past few days.” He paused at the question. Why did he do that? He was okay, he was doing great, he was really happy with his life right now (even if his life didn’t feel like his own), so why pause? And what did she mean ‘distant’? He was just like that, he had been as long as he could remember.

Now that he thought about it, he didn’t actually remember much at all. ‘That’s fine,’ they thought, ‘you’ve always been like that.’ They had more important things to be doing, anyway.

“Yes. I’m quite alright, Sasha.” They answered. “I really ought to get back to work now, let me know if you need anything.” With that, they were back inside their office, about to record a statement. They clicked on the tape recorder, and then he spoke.

“Statement of Lee Rentoul, on the murder of his associate Paul Noriega.”

~*~

“Tim,” Sasha said, breaking the piercing silence. “do you think Jon’s okay? He’s been acting a bit weird lately. Earlier we were talking, and I could’ve sworn his voice got a bit lower halfway through our conversation.”

“Oh, yeah, I’ve known him for years. He kinda just does that sometimes, I don’t think he really notices. You get used to it after a while, it’s just the way he is.”

“Are you sure?” Martin asked. “I mean, it’s probably none of my business, but sometimes he just stares off into the distance for a while. It’s kind of unnerving, you know?”

“Yeah, I’ll give you that one. We were on the tube yesterday and he just started straight ahead almost the entire time. It’s freaky, but it’s just one of his weird quirks, we all have them.”

Humming in agreement, Sasha went back to work. For about five seconds.

“He doesn’t seem to think so.” She said flatly. “Earlier he asked me if I think he ‘acts different sometimes’. When I asked if he was alright he went back to his whole professional bossman persona. Like, really quickly. It was weird.”

“Sash, honestly, Jon’s okay. He just acts a little weird sometimes, and that’s fine. It’s nothing to worry about.”

~*~

Christ, Jon must’ve been feeling nostalgic. Just a minute ago, he’d been at work, and now he was stood in his kitchen with a meal that looked to be compiled by a child. No bread in sight, just a plate of various snacks, most of which were sweet. This was the kind of thing he would make for himself when he was home alone as a child, not something any fully grown adult man would eat. Too tired to make anything proper, Jon just ate what he’d gotten out before, trying to ignore his inner child’s contentment.

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Jon didn’t know how to explain it, but nothing around him felt real. He sat alone, at his desk, staring at a spot on the wall. He knew it was real, but nothing felt real. Not even he felt real. He could feel the pen in his hand, and he could feel each blink, and he could feel the glasses that were resting on the bridge of his nose, and yet he stayed still. When he did move, every slight moment felt manual, and his eyes stayed staring at a small speck on the wall. He was perfectly conscious, obviously. He just didn’t know how long he’d spent sat there staring. His thoughts were... Well, they weren’t there. His mind was normally going at a million miles an hour, thinking so fast he was certain he was thinking multiple things at the same time. Now, however, it was quiet. Empty. Everything was.

Now was the second time today he’d entered this state. He didn’t know why, or when, but he did. Everything around him just felt so disconnected, like he was looking at everything through a lens and not his own eyes. Then again, were the eyes really his? For a couple years now, seeing his own face in the mirror was quite a surprise. It was certainly him, he’d had this body his whole life, but when he looked at himself, it didn’t feel like it was his own face staring back at him. He recognised himself, but it wasn’t his face. It just looked... wrong, somehow. It wasn’t his body. No, it was someone else’s, perhaps he was someone else altogether that just happened to be drifting in and out of another man’s body. He knew it was his face, but it didn’t look right. It didn’t feel right. Nothing did.

It felt as if his mind had wandered off somewhere else and left behind his body to simply stay behind as a shell of a true being. His grandmother had called it ‘zoning out’, but that probably wasn’t right. He was still perfectly conscious, just... somewhere else. He didn’t know how long it had been, but he would snap out of it eventually. He always did.

~*~

“Jon? You alright, mate?” Tim asked. Jon had been staring at the same spot on the wall for fifteen minutes now, not moving other than the occasional blink. For the first couple minutes, Tim thought he was just thinking about something, but you don’t ‘just think about something’ for fifteen minutes without moving.

“Yeah.” Jon said. There it was again, speaking informally! His voice was flatter than usual, and if he hadn’t said something, Tim would’ve thought he hadn’t heard the question. He simply continued to stare at the wall, unmoving.

This was far from the first time he’d seen Jon do this. He didn’t do it often, but over the years, it had happened a fair few times. Sometimes it would last a few minutes, sometimes an hour or two.

After another couple minutes, Jon blinked sharply, before furrowing his eyebrows and looked at the unfinished work on his desk. After spending so long like that, seemingly unaware of everything around him, he simply got his head down and continued writing, as if nothing had happened. Tim couldn’t understand how Jon could spend so long essentially unconscious and then continue like everything was normal.

Well, might as well ask what he’d originally planned to.

“So, bossman, we still on for tonight, or will the statements get too jealous if you leave the archives?”

“What?” Jon said, visibly confused.

“Do you still want to go for drinks with the rest of us tonight? You did when we planned this yesterday, just making sure you haven’t changed your mind.”

“Sorry, I don’t remember planning anything?”

“You know, we were gonna head to the pub near the Asda?” Jon looked confused for another few seconds before remembering.

“Oh!” Jon said, remembering to keep up the pompous-asshole-but-actually-kind-of-nice-boss voice again. “Yes, sorry, it slipped my mind for a minute there. I’m still coming, yes, unless there’s been a change of plans?”

“Nah, still the same plans as yesterday.”

“Well, I’ll see you all at six, in that case.”

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Emotion was very confusing for Jon. Sometimes he would have dramatic mood swings, annoyed one minute and afraid the next, and sometimes he just felt empty, with no explanation. He could quite literally be choking out shaking sobs one minute, and the next he was wiping the tears from his eyes and continuing with his day as if nothing had happened. If he thought too hardly about something negative, suddenly his emotion would take over and he would be talking to himself, either to comfort himself or rant to himself about what had angered him so intensely.

Jon wasn’t a violent person, he didn’t like being cruel, he didn’t know why he got so angry sometimes. Any minor inconvenience would have him talking to himself under his breath about random trauma that was completely unrelated to what had happened. The other day, he’d dropped a pen and spent twenty minutes whispering to himself about how no one had believed him about mister spider, before suddenly realising how ridiculous he was being and going back to his work as if nothing had happened. Was there something wrong with him? Normal people didn’t do that.

Christ, his head hurt.

~*~

“Oi, boss, what do the numbers mean again?” Tim asked as he walked into Jon’s office. In fairness, Jon hadn’t really been doing much anyway. Well, unless you count staring at a page he’d written about something he couldn’t even pretend to understand, anyway. Jon furrowed his eyebrows, he couldn’t remember any recent mentions of numbers.

“What numbers?” He asked, genuinely clueless as to what Tim could be asking after.

“You know, on the statements.” He clarified, looking just as confused as Jon. “You explained it to me yesterday?”

“Ah!” They said, “I remember now, my apologies. You know how forgetful I can be, probably going a little off the deep end down here. The first three numbers are the last three digits of the year the statement was given, the next two the date, and the final two digits are the month. So, for example, a statement with the number 9972302 would have been given on the 23rd of February, 1997. Do you understand it now, or would you like me to explain further?”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it. Cheers.” Tim said, walking back to the door of their office and turning the handle. “You know, bossman, you don’t have to do the weird voice thing whenever you explain something. Don’t worry, we won’t forget about the giant stick up your arse if you forget to put on the accent!” Tim said with a grin.

“What do you mean?” They asked. They weren’t putting on an accent, this was just how they naturally spoke.

“You know, when you speak extra clearly and formally like Elias is gonna have you sacked if you speak like a normal person. It’s a fucking miracle to see you talk like the rest of us.”

“First of all, please refrain from swearing in the workplace. Second of all, I don’t know what you’re talking about. This is my natural voice.”

“What, are you saying when you don’t speak like a pompus twat, that’s when you’re putting on an accent?”

“I never put on an accent? I always talk like this, what do you mean?” Now it was Tim’s turn to look confused. He stared at them for a few seconds before speaking.

“Wait, have you actually not noticed?”

“Noticed what?”

“How your accent changes sometimes. I mean, it’s nothing too dramatic, but it’s definitely there.”

Jon stared down at their desk for a second. Did their accent really change sometimes? They weren’t doing it on purpose, it just felt so unnatural to speak any other way. Yes, actually, now that they thought of it, their accent could be rather flexible at times. When did that start happening?

“Either way, Tim, I would say it’s in both of our best interests to get back to work. Please close the door on your way out.” With that, Tim was gone, and they were alone again.

He looked down at the words in front of him, the page written in his own script (although slightly neater than usual). God, it must have been a late night when he wrote that, it looked like it had been written by a madman.

Although, ‘madman’ was quite a fair way to describe Jon, these days.

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Jon was sad. They didn’t know why, or really how to describe it, but they were very, very sad. They had been fine a minute ago, but then he was suddenly filled with this undeniable despair, crushing him beneath his own emotion, while the only thing that had changed was inside his head.

It took all their best efforts not to burst into tears as they stared at the paper in front of them. They just... didn’t know what to do, they supposed. Except somewhere they did, but they couldn’t remember right now. They couldn’t remember anything, but they remembered every second of their life at the same time. They really did try very hard not to cry, but it was just so inexplicably difficult not to.

A couple minutes later, luckily, he realised how foolish he was being, and wiped the tears from his face, perfectly alright. Best to just get to work, he supposed, instead of focusing on his spontaneous mood swings. Christ, his head hurt. How was he supposed to work with ghosts of the selves he used to be – and sometimes still was, he supposed – drifting in and out of his head and toying with his mind. They weren’t his, they felt so wrong, so different, so foreign, but they had to be his, because they were in his head, after all. He wasn’t insane, was he? Perhaps he’d just finally gone off the deep end. Perhaps he was... wrong. In the head. Was he schizophrenic? Surely not, that was stupid, he would know if he were schizophrenic. Surely.

Well, it had to be something. Or maybe, for once, it wasn’t. Maybe everyone had this, and he was just overthinking. Yes, this was normal. It was fine. He was fine. He was doing great, actually, he was very happy with his life right now. Obviously. And since it was normal, his coworkers would understand if he said anything about it – not that he was going to, he didn’t want them to think he was insane even though he wasn’t, just that they would understand if he did.

Anyway, better record the statement in front of him. He’d gotten off track again, but that was fine, as long as he got the work done. So, he flicked on the tape recorder and began to read.

Or, rather, he listened to himself read, unable to do anything but feel as his body moved separately from his mind. It felt horrible, like words were being forced out of him as his eyes skimmed over the paper. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t so much as choke on his own words, simply a bystander to the movement of his own mouth, suddenly much more fearful than he’d been a minute ago. He tried to stop, just to establish that he still had bodily autonomy and wasn’t just making it up, but his lips kept moving. His eyes kept moving across the page, despite his efforts to look somewhere, anywhere else. It felt, yet again, as if his body were not his own, and he couldn’t make himself choke on the tears that refused to flow from his eyes. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t look away. Couldn’t do anything but watch and think, and think he did.

Was this even real? Was he even real? At this point, Jon’s whole personality was a lack of identity, simply a vessel for fragments of the man he used to be drifting in and out of his body. Sometimes doing work, sometimes talking to people, sometimes just... watching. The parts he kept inside himself weren’t clear, they made no statement, but did so quite loudly. It was difficult to ignore the constant feeling of being watched, even when alone, and even harder to convince himself it was just his mind playing tricks again. He had seen tricks before, he knew them, but it was harder to tell when it was himself doing the tricking. When it was someone else, they knew their way around gaslighting and half-assed apologies and lies and blame and guil-

Anyway.

Their guilt was pointless, because it wasn’t their fucking fault. No, the real people to blame here were that asshole of a friend and every single person who stood there and did nothing as he was abused for seven years of his life. The fault laid with his friends and teachers and grandmother who had watched everything happen and still sympathise with the wrong person. Apparently, Jon was just a horrible person for daring to ask for help from the first person he could. Because here’s the thing, everyone sympathises with the victim, until the abuser is a child. Everyone they had told since had gone on and on about how she was just a child, and she didn’t understand what she was doing, and they should forgive her because it wasn’t that big of a deal anyway.

She had faced absolutely no consequences in the decade-or-so after they finally stopped being friends with her. Absolutely fucking nothing bad had happened to her after everything she did, but everyone always rushed to defend her from the consequences of the actions that she would never be held accountable for. But Jon? No, this would destroy Jon’s whole life. They would have post traumatic stress disorder until the day they died, without so much as a pat on the back. No one cared about what they would have to live with for the rest of their life, because the wellbeing of the very bitch who caused it was more important.

It wasn’t fair, why did they all care so much about saving her from the punishment she would never face?

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“Statement of Laura Vanderboom, regarding repeated possession. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, head archivist at the Magnus Institute, London. Statement begins.”

“Okay, I’m not really sure when this started, or if it’s going to stop, but, well, I thought it was better to get it on paper in case whatever demon it is takes over me completely. I’ve already seen a priest about it, but I’m struggling to believe it was any help.

Before I start, I want you to know that I’m not a sinner. I don’t know what I’ve done to let the devil in, but on God’s name I’ve been virtuous through and through. I’ve been a Catholic all my life, so I believe that perhaps God is just testing my faith. Otherwise, I can only hope seeing another pastor and praying for my sins to be forgiven will save me.

The possessions have been happening for as long as I can remember. Sometimes they last a few minutes, sometimes days on end. I don’t understand what’s wrong with me. Often times I find myself watching as the demon uses my body to talk to people, to write, to eat, praying that it will leave once it’s done. So far, my prayers aren’t proving successful. I think perhaps the lord has deemed me too sinful to help. I can only hope that I am wrong about that.

Most of the time, I cannot recall what happens when possessed. I find whole chunks of my life missing, especially my childhood. It has taken my memories from me, but it will not take my life. I refuse to let it take over me completely.

At first, I thought there was someone else living in my flat. I would come home to dishes on the counter that I hadn’t used, my bed made when I had done no such thing, books laid out on the table that I had not read. I believed this to be some unruly teenager’s idea of a joke, but it’s difficult to convince myself of that when occasionally I gain consciousness while making my bed. I don’t make my bed. I don’t do that, I never have, so why has the demon taken an interest in it? What kind of ghost goes around possessing people just to clean their flats?

I think it’s tormenting me. Trying to take my sanity from me. It makes me do things that I would never do, and gives my body back midway through. It wants me to think I’m insane, or an amnesiac, or something. I don’t know. I can’t tell what its intentions are.

There is something wrong. I know there is something wrong, but everyone I tell thinks me a fool. You deal with the paranormal, you must have seen this before. I’m not spiritual, or anything, I’ve never believed in ghosts, but I’m starting to question that. I can only hope I’ll figure out what’s been happening before I end up in a straitjacket.”

“Statement ends. Well, quite frankly I don’t believe this is along the lines of demons and ghosts, but it’s certainly intriguing. What’s interesting is the change in handwriting in the last few paragraphs.

After some digging, Sasha has found that in Ms. Vanderboom’s medical records, she is said to have been diagnosed with dissociative identity disorder nine months after giving her statement. I’ve done a little research on the disorder myself, but I intend to look into it further later. I don’t believe any further follow up is necessary, as this isn’t a demon, just a mentally ill extremely Christian woman who looked to a priest before a therapist, like any other irrational person. Recording ends.”