HEY BITCHES
Name’s Carla. I’m flommist Brittknee’s alter ego. My job is to protect our poor, struggling dear.
Whether it’s diseases, or bullying, or work, I’m always a looming shadow in the corner. She and I have shifts you see.
Shit, I should explain something first:
Dissociative Identity Disorder
A disorder characterized by the presence of
two or more distinct personality states.
So basically, it’s the fancy new name for Multiple Personality Disorder. Understood?
So my host, Brittknee, has two. Me, Carla, and her, Brittknee. She’s asleep, because we work in shifts. She’s awake during the day, somewhere between 5–8 am to 8pm. Then it’s my turn.
UNLESS there’s a problem. If she’s particularly exhausted then I take over to give her a break. If she’s uncomfortable, defensive, in danger, emotional, in pain, or any other thing that humans have to deal with, then I take over.
Why? Well alterior personalities are built to protect. My job is to make sure she doesn’t get hurt. I’m stronger than her, I’m faster than her. I’m not affected by anything the way she is. I don’t get sad. I don’t get lonely. I don’t question people’s humanity. I am not kind. I am not sweet. I get angry. I will rip someone in half if that means I will protect my host. I am her pack leader. Her knight in battle worn armor. (Knights in shining armor have never been in a bloody fight, so they’re not worth looking at anyways).
What’s there to confess? I’m her angry side, right? I’m her sexual side. I’m her conscience. I’m the primary decision on what is and isn’t good for the host.
AND EVERY SINGLE TIME I tell someone that I exist, I always get the same response …
“So am I talking to Britt or am I talking to Carla?”
Ha! Are you being punched in the face?
Or are you having a good time, big boy?
Take a guess every now and again. She’s not always there, don’t put her on the spot anymore.
I do tend to get her in trouble though. Or, I get in trouble with her. I like having fun.
Why? Well I can’t seem to get people to back the fuck away from her anyways. Drunken bastards here and there, even last night. Trying to have her, to possess her like a carcass for the taking. She’s mine, I decide who’s allowed in. She the goddess of her temple and I’m the bouncer at the fucking door.
I don’t appreciate all these young useless bastards trying to jump into her pants: YOUNG, like 20s right? NOPE! Usually the problem is somewhere 28+
Why does this matter though? Because she’s been through it with bastards who have one motive. And she’s not doing it again. And I will fuck you up. I don’t care.
Hosts manifest people like me for protection.
It’s fucking sad. My whole existence is based in trauma and suffering. Do you fucking understand that? No, it’s not fun to have 2 distinct people in your head.
It’s not fun to deal with wanting your own body if only to hug your host when she is suffering. Without me she may not be around. I feel sorry for those who don’t find people like me.
Because the age of bullets is on us. And sometimes she resents me for keeping her afloat and smiley all these years, but she deserves that. Because things get better, no matter how long it takes.
—brittknee
Flommist Brittknee frequents coffee shops. Her second self, Carla, frequents the workstation. Bleary-eyed. Forehead scrunched. Fumbling through your reality. Marching through our own. Copyright © 2016 Brittknee.
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