Dissociative

She was sitting on her bed, talking into a camera. She stopped when I came in.

“Hey, Amber,” I said, “Didn’t mean to interrupt you. What are you up to?”

“Hi Michael,” her voice was deep, the hormones changed it a little bit, but when she forgot to modify it, it still came out a little masculine. She corrected it quickly, “I’m making a video about all my different personalities.”

“How is that coming along?” I asked.

“It’s going good. On the one hand, some of them are difficult to lure out, but on the other, I think I discovered I may have schizophrenia.”

“Bummer,” I said.

“Yeah, know how sometimes I suddenly change the topic mid-sentence? That is dissociative psychotic behavior.”

“Okay, I’m gonna leave you to it, just wanted to say I fixed the boiler and I’m gonna be on my way to pick up the kids.”

“Aw, you’re not gonna stay, sweetie?” she pouted, “But I understand, you need to go. Be a good father,” and then she switched to a dark tone, “Kids need good fathers.”

I tried to smile with understanding, nodded, and then said my goodbyes. When I stepped outside, I realized the smell of incense inside had been a little annoying but I only noticed when I got a breath of fresh air.

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