The Host

*This is a personality piece, but not about an alter. She is the original, but she’s gone.*

She doesn’t give a fuck about any of you. The original, our host, the creator. She listens to nothing that any of you have to say. Honestly? She doesn’t give a flying rat’s ass about anything.

Her name. Goddammit that cursed name. This is Thor, by the way. I have to write this on her behalf because she’s gone. Truly, she hasn’t said a word in years. She never speaks, and I don’t have access to feelings or thoughts, but I can interpret quite a bit on her behalf because we share a brain. But her name is Lauren. We call it our slave name, and nobody has permission to call us by that name. Not a single one of you. Some of you still do despite our protests, and even go so far as to think it’s funny or you are somehow entitled to do it. You aren’t, and it isn’t. So fuck you.

Remember that each one of us has our own space when we are not in control. Think of it as your safe space that you retreat to when you are afraid. A little hidey-hole that you lock yourself away in that the outside world can’t see. That’s where Lauren is now, but I can see it when forced to. She found her way to this space years ago when she left, and she hasn’t left the space since. Look at the world now. Can you blame her?

Tamarack Beach in Carlsbad, California. It’s overcast, just getting ready to storm. The water is frothing, expressing it’s anger by crashing on shore but for some reason she is not threatened. She is completely at peace, sitting safely on the shore staring at the waves. Fully dressed from head to toe, in a crowded beach she would stand out. But alas, she’s alone. Now this part will be hard to convey, and that is what she looks like. And also the fact that she doesn’t understand what she looks like. She looks to be around 14 or 15 years old. Fresh-faced, black outfit, shoulder length blonde hair highlighted from the sun. Cheeks are a little pink from rosacea, inherited from the British side of the family. Essentially she’s just a kid, a teenager really. Perhaps that’s when she mentally stopped aging, and physically manifests in that way to match her present reality. Perhaps that’s the final age she could handle before things became too painful. I can only speculate. If I were to tell her that she was actually 26 and looked the way she does now? I shudder at the thought.

Day after day, week after week, Lauren sits alone on this beach, and has for years. She never speaks, rarely moves, and never makes a sound. I cannot hear her thoughts, I cannot speak directly to her. I can merely guess and interpret what she might want. When confronted, or when she becomes aware that someone is watching her, she will sometimes stand. Sometimes you can catch her walking along the shoreline with her hands in her pockets. Sometimes she stares at the sky in amazement and wonder. I can tell you those times are rare.

She left a few years ago, right around the time he did. When Mimsy left, maybe he took her with him. Or maybe we just existed in fragmented pieces of personality propped up by a host that was held together by him, and once he ceased to exist, so did she. But once he was gone, she fled. We were allowed to completely take over, and she has zero desire to ever show her face again. She doesn’t want to speak to you. She doesn’t want to hang out with you. She doesn’t want to work through her issues. She just is. She’s just a kid. Perhaps it’s not that she doesn’t give a fuck. It’s more like she doesn’t have the capability to give a fuck.

Most of the time I do not bother her unless one of you forces me into her world, because her world is violent. Most of the time she turns to face whoever is watching and screams. No noise comes out, but her face contorts in a twisted agony. The screaming doesn’t stop until you leave. Often times the sleeves of her jacket are rolled up to expose slashed wrists, freshly cut as if to punish you for invading her world. She will sometimes laugh maniacally, or look confused as if to ask why you aren’t impressed with her work like she is. Whatever she does is laced with pain. Every movement expresses a tortured past. Every facial expression tells you that she has been hurt, and the hurt has not subsided.

Let me spell out what happens when you call us by that Godforsaken name. I can be content, living my life and going about my day. Hell, let’s take it a step further and say I was even happy. And then my world comes to a screeching halt when you say that name: Lauren. The hair on my body stands up, and goosebumps form. My skin starts to crawl, and I immediately tense. I get smaller, folding into myself as if bracing for an impact that never comes. Body temperature goes to extreme hot or cold, my face flushing red either way. Memories race back, pain rushes in. I feel the violating sensations. Vivid memories start stabbing into my head, slashing at my body. It forces me into reality, but not a present one. Those things happened, and she isn’t going to let you forget. But we survive by forgetting and detaching, and you, the asshole, has brought it back.

Every time you say that name, she is jolted into a world that is no longer her own. I was created and designed to replace her, to live in this world for her. Imagine how painful that would be if someone did that to you. Forced you into a world that was not your own, further damaging you beyond repair.

She’s dead, she’s gone, and she’s not coming back. You have done enough. Leave her to her beach, leave her to the comfort of siren’s call. Leave the poor girl alone, I can only do so much to protect her.

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