Before I Break by Portia Moore Page A

lot.
    My first instinct was to call Jenna and tell her that this isn’t going to be some awkward love triangle, and that Lauren and I are more concerned with being parents to this little girl. But I know she’s still fuming, and I can’t blame her.
    I pass most of the day silently doing chores around the farm with my dad. He hasn’t said much, and I don’t have much to say to him either. My mom cooked dinner: homemade macaroni, fried chicken, and green beans. I grabbed a plate and headed to my room. It’s the first time I can remember since I’ve been home that we haven’t eaten dinner together.
    I’m not mad at them . Well, I’m trying not to be, but to sit down and act like everything is fine and nothing has changed would be a sham. The next time we have dinner together, I want to make sure I’m genuine. We’re all genuine and not putting up facades. I’ve had enough of that.  Today is a day I wish I was called in for work but there’re no classes to teach on a Sunday. After watching an old football game and showering, I ended up where I am now, lying in bed and staring at the ceiling. I never minded being alone before all this, just with my own thoughts.
    N ow I don’t feel like I’m alone. I don’t know how this DID works, but it’s almost like trying to hide what I’m thinking from myself. This Cal guy kept so much from me, and I wish I could hide everything that’s going on from him. I don’t know what he knows or sees or wherever he is, but I don’t feel alone. How can I?
    I thought about talking to him when I stood in front of the mirror brushing my teeth this morning, but I felt like an idiot. And I don’t want to do much talking. Punching him in the face would make me feel better, except that it’s my face. It’d also be hypocritical, considering I always tell the kids I work with that violence is never the answer. It never has been with me. My parents always stressed how important it is to use my words, especially my mom. But just in case that didn’t work, my dad started teaching me how to box when I was seven. I even did Golden Glove while I was in middle school, until football caught more of my interest. I was good enough to have a couple of schools offer me scholarships until my condition started to interfere with things my senior year.
    Well I don’t have to say condition now. DID. Now , I know it was Cal who started to appear and screw everything up. When I think back to each time I blacked out, really believing that I was unconscious or just forgetting what had happened to me during the lapses, I feel stupid.
    I spen d a couple hours reading through endless articles, none of which leads me to an answer that I want: how to get rid of this guy. The other irritating thing I found was that Dr. Lyce’s name continuously came up as one of the most respected in the field regarding the disorder. I can’t see her though, how can I? She lied to me, well she didn’t lie. Instead, she failed to tell me vital information. I didn’t see her much, only a few times. At least that I remember, but I know if she told me my diagnosis, that’s not something I’d easily forget.
    I hear a song starting to play , and I sit up and look around the room. My radio and TV are both off. I turn and see my phone lighting up. I grab it and see it’s an alarm with a song I didn’t put on it. I hit the button to turn it off and sit it back down. I flop back onto my mattress, and it starts again. I pick it up and see its set to go off every three minutes for the next hour. I start to go through, canceling the alerts, and the song starts to play louder and louder and everything around me gets hazy.
    When things come into focus , I’m outside.  There’re people all around, and the song is playing loud from my cell phone. But it’s not coming from there anymore; it’s coming from everywhere. The sky is dark but there’re bright lights shining from above me. I’m at some type of festival.
    T hen I see