an alter plays hangman

(Warning: This story is about mental disorders, implied suicide attempts, and self-destruction.)

“You were not meant to do that,” a voice in his head tells him.

“It’s fine,” he says. “It’s a good story, something that’ll get me going.”

“It’s not yours,” another voice snaps.

“Yeah, but I read it, and it’s in a handwriting that looks like mine, so…”

“Jesus Christ.” The second voice continues.

He’s never lonely without them. The draft feels heavy, like it refuses to open no matter how many times Renato tried to reread it. He doesn’t really know what it’s about, but he’s tried to interpret it a dozen times in his notes since reading it.

Something about a hanging tree, hidden names, and a broken branch.

Renato remembers something similar: dangling feet, crying out for help, and a shifted weight. Something about a father running away, and tears stinging his eyes, but he doesn’t quite remember much else.

“I can’t believe you’re doing this—” the first voice, Amadeo, says. “It’s us, damn it.”

“Yeah.” Renato says cleanly. “This is us.”

“This is Salvatore.” The third voice, Marcello says. “But you don’t know what that means, do you?”

Renato stares at the pages. “Do I have to?”

“Ugh,” Amadeo says. Renato can see him rub his forehead. “What happens if they all wake up because of this?”

“Dude… shit, I dunno.” Marcello replies. “Renato doesn’t care.”

“I keep reading it,” Renato says, flipping through the pages, scanning as much as he can before changing it. “It’s just so good, why waste the talent?”

“You ever publish diaries, dumbass?” Amadeo hisses.

“Dude!” Marcello protests.

“Okay, so if this is us, which one of us did it?” Renato asks.

“Don’t make us say it.” Amadeo says.

“Us? Nah, you’re the one about to say it, I won’t say nothing!” Marcello replies.

“I hate you,” Amadeo mutters.

“I don’t care! Just don’t tell him!”

“Stop yelling, I can feel it in my skull!” Renato grits his teeth, shutting his eyes.

“Okay.” Amadeo says. “Fine. Do what you want. Publish that shit.”

Weeks later, the book’s a hit. Teen and YA fiction lovers love the diary-style entries of the dark tales of the protagonist’s hole-filled memories. A mystery worth putting pieces together for the author, as one should say.

There’s lots of things that Renato reads on the internet based on fan analysis and online interviews.

Who hung Salvatore?

How did he save himself?

How did he become Salvatore?

And, most interestingly,

Where did he go?

Renato didn’t know. He’d mostly tried to opt himself out of those answers in saying that it was a secret, that it was up to interpretation, but he didn’t. Instead he stared at the email address he was using. The author name was different, and in the bank account details was the same information as the email address. He got the same when he looked at his letters today, notifications from the IRS, the landlord, all that.

Salvatore was written in all of them.

Renato was not Salvatore.

He was Renato, right?

“You guys there?” Renato asks.

“What,” Marcello deadpans.

“Yeah.” Amadeo answers.

“Who the hell is Salvatore?” Renato asks, scratching his head as he stares at… everything. The screen and the papers.

“Uh,” Marcello says, but doesn’t continue.

“I don’t know if it matters.” Amadeo says.

“Yes, it does.” Renato says, “how am I supposed to get paid or pay bills with this wrong name?”

“See,” Marcello says, putting a hand on Renato’s shoulder, “about that…”

“You really are a dumb one,” Amadeo says, “actually amazing how you’re so new, like a newborn.”

Renato stares into nothing. Then he moves to the bathroom, stares at the mirror, seeing them.

“Tell me who he is!”

“Renato,” Amadeo sighs, “I said it before. The story is us. The story is Salvatore. There, happy now?”

“He’s a story.” Renato says.

“Well, so are you.” Marcello replies. “He’s… god, he’s really gone now, isn’t he?”

Amadeo and Marcello look at Renato through the mirror. Renato’s eyes are wide, hands shaking as he grips the sink. Amadeo looks miserable. Marcello shifts uncomfortably.

“Salvatore?!” Renato asks.

“Yeah.” Amadeo says tightly.

“This sucks.” Marcello adds. “The host… wasn’t supposed to discover it. That’s it. It should’ve taken you forever to find out, I literally don’t know how you know where it is.”

“Salvatore’s real.” Renato says.

“We never said he wasn’t.” Amadeo says. “He wanted us to know what happened to him before he…”

“Died.” Marcello finishes.

“What happened to him?” Renato asks.

Marcello blows wind out of his lips. Amadeo sighs.

“After the body got strung up, he couldn’t take being a protector anymore.” Amadeo says. “Nobody knew what happened until we saw him inside, dead.”

“I’ve never seen him inside,” Renato says.

“That’s because you were formed after he disappeared.” Marcello says. “You haven’t been here long, man, but you’re acting like this is your whole life. Like… Salvatore’s with you, but not.”

“Something happened.” Amadeo says, “you were someone before him. I just don’t know who.”

Renato stares at the mirror.

He traces his face, shuts his eyes and tries to remember what he looks like.

It’s so far from Salvatore’s face, staring at him, right back. He never thought the person he was looking in the mirror wasn’t him as well, though, that was the strange part. They were two people. They were in one body. That’s all Renato knew when he opened his eyes to the world that he thought he belonged to.

“Did… did we merge? Am I him?” Renato asks.

“I don’t know.” Marcello says. “There’s no trace of him, we’re just being optimistic.”

“Our pilot’s dead.” Amadeo says, tired.

“I never should have published that story.”

“Told ya,” Marcello says.

“You’re not helping,” Amadeo snaps.

“I’m sorry,” Renato only says, unable to stop staring at the mirror.

“No point in saying that.” Amadeo says. “But you’re right, it was a good story.”

“Any more tragedies to help pay the bills?” Marcello asks.

Renato stares at the mirror. Salvatore stares back.

“We have a lot.” Renato remarks.