Bree sat on the padded bench attached to the bay window, staring out as she wondered how long she would be at the wheel. It had already been two days. She hadn’t been at the wheel this long since Oliva was diagnosed and started going to therapy. Her therapist was going to love this.
Bree had already called the therapist to let her know what was going on. That Oliva’s mother must have gotten a new phone or used someone’s so Oliva wouldn’t recognize the number. Either way, no amount of mindfulness and distress tolerance could fend off what happened next. One minute Bree was just influencing Oliva, trying to get her through it, next she was threatening to take out a restraining order on Oliva’s mother and hanging up the phone.
Because that was what Bree was for. To know what to do when those things happened. How to hide in the woods from a sadistic teenager and his equally sadistic friends. Knew what to do if those teenagers found them. Knew what to say to calm a grown woman’s temper tantrums. Knew what to tell social workers and pageant show judges alike.
Clutching the cup of tea in her hands, Bree inhaled the sweet, spicy scent. Oliva wasn’t much of a tea drinker, but the scent of this one reminded Bree of Christmas. She thought it was sweet the kid kept it around for her. Especially after the distress Bree caused by buying it herself before the diagnosis.
There had been a time when Oliva had convinced herself it was all normal. Everyone had blanks in their memory, those moments where they couldn’t remember why they went into a room, she just had a few more. Everybody ran into people in the streets they couldn’t remember where they knew them from. Maybe everyone had huge lapses in memory, too. Surely everyone heard small children screaming in their head with no idea why. Bought things they didn’t remember buying and wasn’t something they wouldn’t normally buy.
At least they were all on the same page when they bought this place. Otherwise, that could have been a disaster.
The house was set on the edge of town, surrounded by a small thicket of trees. Bree had honestly worried it might be a trigger, but Oliva had wanted privacy. So far most of the triggers came from the world outside.
The thicket was spaced out enough that Bree was able to see it from several feet back. A black blur walking through the trees. She barely registered it at first, but when she did, she instinctively tensed up. What the heck?
The blur became clear bit by bit until it became obvious that the figure was male – a large one at that. Bree slowly stood up, preparing for some confrontation – at least until he got closer. He was large, yes, but he was hunched, limping, holding his arm. Clearly this man was hurt.
It could be a lie. An American-accented voice in her head said. Oliva’s accent. Wouldn’t be the first time.
“He’s coming towards the house.” Bree countered in her British accent. She didn’t know why she always talked aloud; it wasn’t like she needed to. It was just how it had always been between them. “We’ll have to deal with it some way.” A planned formed in Bree’s mind as the man collapsed. “I’m going to get the first aid kit, but I’m also going to get the gun. Sound good?”
#
By the time Bree grabbed the rugger and the first aid kit, the man was halfway through the thicket, collapsing against a tree.
“Bollocks.” Bree hissed under her breath, falling to her knees next to the man. “Sir? Sir, can you hear me? Can you understand what I’m saying?”
The man reared back making a series of frightened grunts, jaundiced eyes terrified.
“It’s alright, alright, I’m not going to hurt you, petal.” Bree soothed, reaching out and running a hand through the man’s dark hair. As gentle touch registered, it seemed to calm him down.
In that moment, Bree finally got a good look at the man. It wasn’t only the whites of his eyes that had a jaundiced tint. Patches of his skin were yellowed as well. Patches because different parts of his body were different colors. His hands and face were probably white, but again had a yellow shade to it. His arms were a shade of clay, his legs were a deep amber, his feet just a few shades darker. There was a rip in the shirt—no, wait it was a hospital gown he was wearing– there was a rough circle of olive skin sewn against more jaundiced white. Yes, sewn because all these parts were clearly marked with surgical thread, where someone had sewn them together.
“What the-?!” Bree balked, then pulled herself together as the patchwork creature reared back in fear of her reaction, “No, no, love, I’m not upset with you, I’m—I’m—” Shocked? Confused? Honestly a bit scared? But if she was scared, this creature looked just as scared of her. She couldn’t help the compassion she felt for him. Especially since they were the same.
“Can I let you in on a little secret, Patch?” Bree asked, “I’m going to call you Patch, okay?”
Patch looked befuddled, as if he could understand what she was saying, but didn’t understand how he did so.
“I’m made up of parts, too.” Bree whispered, as if they were part of some grand conspiracy, “I’m Bree, one of the protectors, good job you met me. I mean, Olivia would have taken care of you, too. She’s a good girl, really. Olivia is the one with the soul. Well, there’s other terms for it, ‘system host’ but I prefer my term. There were a few other parts, but they fused, but there’s a little girl who comes around every now and again. See, something happened when we were a kid. Something bad. So we split apart, trying to protect ourselves. “ After a beat she added, “That’s a bit of a truncated explanation, but I say it works for now, don’t you?”
The pair just stared at each other, then Bree began to stand up, holding out her hand. “Come on, what do you say the patchwork people stick together, eh?”
Patch paused a minute, as if thinking it over, then held as his meaty hand, taking her arm, and helping the smaller woman to pull him to his feet.
“Come on, Patch.” Bree smiled, stroking his arm, “Let’s get you warmed up.”