Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 140940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 705(@200wpm)___ 564(@250wpm)___ 470(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 140940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 705(@200wpm)___ 564(@250wpm)___ 470(@300wpm)
He turned to her. “Out of my seat. You know better.”
Lunita sucked her teeth and rose.
“And don’t you dare touch any of my books.” He pointed at Lunita. “I would know.”
“Stupid ole scarecrow.” Lunita headed back to the door. “Your office is boring anyway.”
I studied M and shook my head again. “No way. Someone would have known that I have a male personality. Max. Darryl. X—”
“I actually had many evening conversations with Xavier.” M pushed his glasses up his nose with one finger. “I miss those intellectual talks over cigars and a nice glass of rum.”
“Cigars and rum? With X?”
He nodded.
“And. . .what about Max or Daryl?”
“For some reason, X asked me to not come out for them. That made me mad. I would have loved to shoot hoops with Max. It took me some time to understand why X didn’t want me to talk to them, but eventually I did.” M placed his hands in his pocket. “Never mind the past.”
I just stared at him.
“Welcome.” His voice went calm and measured. “I assume you have many questions.”
I nodded, still trying to process the sight before me.
“Let’s begin with the most obvious.”
“There is a most obvious in this shit show?”
“Yes. I am M.” He gave me a sad smile. “And before you ask, I am a part of you, just as much as you are a part of me.”
Lunita leaned against the door, her arms crossed. “She thinks that you are inside of her.”
M shrugged. “We all think that in the beginning.”
“I told her, but she won’t let it go.” Lunita frowned. “She is not. . .okay.”
“She’s fine. She’s just currently having an existential crisis.” He stopped leaning against his desk and stood. “Allow me to help you get through this. Xavier helped me. I must now pay it forward.”
“So. . .” I swallowed. “You truly know what’s going on?”
“Oh yes. After Xavier, I went off to further educate myself.” With a confident smile, he strolled over to one of the walls. “As you can see, I’ve dedicated my life to psychology. I’m an. . .academic. Harvard. Oxford. I even began my doctorate at Cambridge, but then my love for Felicity lured me back to the States.”
I gazed at the walls. While there were degrees hanging in that area, I wasn’t quite sure where they were really from. Each frame should have displayed a name, a title, or a field of study, instead it was undecipherable characters, swirling and intertwining like a cryptic script from an unknown language.
The more I focused, the more the characters seemed to dance and shift, as if they were alive.
I turned back to him. “Who is Feli—”
Lunita loudly coughed.
M raised his eyebrows. “What’s that?”
Lunita glared at me. “Don’t do it.”
The little girl turned away from the bookshelf and put her finger over her mouth, shushing me.
“Nothing.” I sighed. “Go ahead. . .M. Tell me more about. . .us.”
“Come. I will need visual aids.” M left the wall of degrees and headed to a door further in the back of the room that I had not noticed before. “Shall we have a lecture on the complexities of our mind?”
“Uh. . .a lecture?” I dragged myself forward, still trying to understand all of this.
Chapter seventeen
The Complexities of a Shattered Mind
Emily
We entered another room. I was immediately struck by the stark contrast to the cozy office we had just left.
This new space was like stepping into the heart of a police investigation. The room was large and somewhat stark, its walls almost entirely covered with chalkboards and there was a massive whiteboard that dominated one end.
The chalkboards were filled with writings, diagrams, and symbols, some clear and others more cryptic, all interconnected with lines and notes. There were pictures of me as well as others that looked like me.
The room, with its labyrinth of information, suddenly felt like a fucked-up metaphor for the inner workings of my mind—complex, confusing, yet inherently ordered.
At the top of the whiteboard, in bold, unmistakable letters, was the question: Where is she?
It seemed to echo in the room, a silent yet screaming demand for an answer.
“This,” M held his hands out and slowly turned around in the room, gesturing to each wall, “This. . .is where we unravel the threads of our shared consciousness. It’s symbolic, a physical representation of our journey inward, our quest for healing and understanding.”
“What?”
Lunita wandered towards one of the boards, studying the scribbles and lines with a frown. “So boring. No fun at all.”
The little girl stood close to me.
I looked at all the walls. “This is all about us?”
M nodded. “Each part of this room represents a part of Emily—of us. Our memories, our fears, our hopes. It’s all here, waiting to be understood.”
I stepped closer to the whiteboard, drawn to the central question. “Where is she?”
“Yes.” M sighed.