"I couldn't stop running it over and over and over in my mind. The vague and distant suspicion that we never understood what happened that night; what our role was." - Patrick Kenzie, Gone Baby Gone 

I moved back in with my parents.

It had been a week since Grant had gotten dragged out of Griffin's apartment, and I finally decided that I couldn't stay in mine. I had woken up before the sun even rose, heart pounding in my chest at a reoccurring nightmare I'd been having - Grant breaking into my apartment, eyes wide, limbs flailing, only he wasn't the Grant I knew. He was the Grant that the police had to forcefully drag out. 

And so I rushed downstairs, practically barged into my apartment complex manager's office, and begged to be let out of my lease. I had another four months into my lease ended, but before I could promise to even pay those months off, my landlord nodded and told me to sit down. We filled out the necessary paperwork - I'd only have to pay my rent for that month and I'd get thirty days to move out. I'd also get thirty days in case I changed my mind and decided to stay.

"Hey, Emmy," he called when I stepped out the door, making me turn back to him, the same grateful smile on my face, "Do you know how Griffin is? I haven't seen him since the, uh... The incident."

The smile slipped from my face and I swallowed tightly, chewing on my bottom lip, "I don't know," I admitted, because I truly didn't. I didn't have the words to explain how Griffin must have been feeling, "I'll let him know you asked, though."

He just nodded and waved me off.

Griffin hadn't been too happy with my decision - even though he didn't say the words, it was obvious how he felt. His face fell when I told him I'd be moving back home, and he just nodded, asking when I'd be leaving. I told him I was going to call my parents - who I had spoken to a few nights ago about the idea - and start packing.

And, to my surprise, Griffin told me he would help me pack.

We spend that entire day packing up everything I owned. We stuffed things into garbage bags, cardboard boxes, and even into an old schoolbag Griffin had thrown in the back of his closet. We talked, and laughed, and avoided the reason why I was packing everything up. We talked about everything but the elephant in the room, and I was okay with that. Maybe sometimes it was better to pretend - to pretend that I wasn't leaving because Grant terrified me too much to live in this apartment complex.

And the next day, when I had somehow managed to pack most of the boxes in my car, Griffin followed me outside. He stood next to me at my car, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his basketball shorts, an uncomfortable expression on his face. We hadn't heard anything from the police, aside from the fact that they had his dad in custody. We didn't know anything else, though.

"It's gonna be weird not having you living next-door," Griffin said, a small, tight smile taking place on his face, "I'm gonna miss you, Emmy."

I smiled back at him, "I'm moving twenty minutes away, not twenty states," I said, but God I would miss Griffin too. I hated leaving Griffin, I hated not being able to be there for him, but I had to do what would be best for myself, "I'll miss you, too."

Griffin moved forward, wrapping his arms around me before I could even process what was happening. I leaned into his chest and wrapped my arms around his waist, burying my face against his chest. I didn't know what Griffin and I were - I didn't even know how I really felt about him - but I knew that I was going to miss him. I knew that however I felt about him was strong.

"I know you need a break," he said, dropping his arms and stepping back. Griffin ran his fingers through his messy hair and looked at me through wide eyes, "but don't forget to call or something, okay?"

"We're in this together, Griff."

As I got in the car and began driving back to my childhood home, I knew I was doing the right thing. Time away from Griffin and this case would be good for me. And I needed to make sure I was okay before I could even begin to help Griffin.

It was pouring outside, the rain slamming down against the roof and windows of the house. My parents had gone to bed hours ago, and I couldn't understand how they were managing to sleep through the storm outside. I was sitting on the couch, the TV playing in front of me, and even I couldn't manage to drown out the storm.

That had kind of become my situation recently, though. Most nights I stayed down in the living room, the light on, the TV humming quietly in front of me, my comforter draped across me. I felt claustrophobic in my room, and I hated how secluded it felt, sectioned in the back of the house. So I stayed in the living room, where I could keep my eyes on the front door and be in open space. 

I didn't hear my phone ring the first time. I had been progressively turning up the volume on an episode of Family Guy, trying to make sure I kept it low enough that my parents wouldn't wake up, but loud enough that it drowned out the rain a bit. The TV flashed back, the rain knocking off the reception for a minute, and I heard my phone ring next to me. I sighed and turned, grabbing my phone, eyes widening a bit when I saw that it was two in the morning.

I figured it was Cara calling me, something she tended to do during the late hours of the night. I wasn't sure how she knew, but Cara always knew to call me at night. Maybe it was because I only answered my phone at the late hours, but I never questioned the sweet calls.

"Emmy?" Griffin's voice flooded through the other side of the phone and I let out a quiet confirmation. I stood up and turned down the volume on the TV, padding my way into the kitchen, flicking on the light as I went, "Why are you up?"

I pulled the fridge open and bent down, grabbing a Snickers bar out of it, "Why are you calling me?" I asked, catching the subtle urgent tone in his voice.

I shut the fridge and leaned against the counter, ripping open my candy bar with one hand and biting on the edge of it. Griffin didn't say anything, so I just stood quietly and waited. We had talked a few times since I moved, but the most recent conversation had been about Grant going for a psychiatric evaluation before his court date. I hadn't thought about that much, but now that I remembered, I figured it was why Griffin was calling me.

"Grant had his psych evaluation and I got the results and it's just fucking crazy. I'm used to having you next door but you're not," Griffin paused, letting out a few deep, ragged breaths before he continued, "Can I come over?"

I answered immediately, "I'll text you the address."

I hung up, quickly going to our messages and texting the address to him. I sighed again and leaned my head back against the counter, closing my eyes and pinching the bridge of my nose. It didn't matter if I stayed in my apartment or moved - the situation with Grant would follow me. Whether it was through nightmares, paranoia, or Griffin informing me on the actual situation, I knew I would never be able to escape.

Tears pricked behind my eyes and I swallowed past the lump in my throat, trying to force them to not fall. The whole situation was so frustrating - I never asked for this, but now there was no way I could ever get away from it. I would never forget hearing Grant confess to murdering his mom, or forget the way he thrashed against the officers, a rapid look on his face. 

I wanted to be a psychologist, and yet I couldn't even figure out how to get over this goddamn situation. It made me so angry, but I refused to cry. I had done enough of that recently, so I pressed my hands against my eyes and took deep breaths until I felt my heart start to calm down. I took another deep breath and walked out of the kitchen, sitting back down on the couch and wrapping my comforter tightly around myself.

Griffin showed up forty minutes later, knocking so quietly on the door that I barely heard him. I opened it to find him soaking went, his clothes and hair plastered to him, and I cursed, wanting to invite him in but also not wanting to soak my mom's new carpet. Telling him to wait right there, I quietly jogged up the steps, grabbed a towel from the closet, and threw it to him from the bottom step.

To my surprise, Griffin pulled off his sweatshirt, revealing a relatively dry gray t-shirt underneath. He wrapped the towel around his neck, put the sweatshirt on the floor with the shoes, and then bent down, tugging at the waistband of his sweatpants. He rubbed at the basketball shorts he had under them and folded up his sweats, putting them on top of his shirt.

I led Griffin into the living room, smiling a bit when he rubbed the towel against his hair, the pieces just curling against his temple. Griffin just sighed and draped the towel around his neck, standing when I dropped down onto the couch. I patted the spot next to me, but he just shook his head.

"Dissociative identity disorder," Griffin said, blue eyes searching the room before landing back on me. He leaned against the entertainment center and dropped his head, looking up at me through his eyelashes, "is what they're saying Grant has. I looked it up online but nothing I read makes any sense. I just - I don't know. I don't get it."

Dissociative identity disorder was a rare and, in my opinion, terrifying and sad disorder. The patient dissociated from themselves - they created completely new identities that they shifted to. It couldn't be cured - as far as I knew from research and class, there genuinely wasn't much they could do for people with the disorder. It was terrifying to know that people literally lost themselves to their own minds. 

Griffin was staring at me, waiting for me to say what I had just thought to him, but I couldn't. How could I tell him that his brother was suffering from an incurable disease where he wasn't even Grant all the time? How the hell did you tell someone that their brother wasn't their brother at times? I couldn't imagine telling Griffin that.

But I had to, I knew. I cared about him and I couldn't lie or omit something from him. Griffin deserved to know the truth about Grant.

"It's a really serious and rare mental condition where someone - um, where they dissociate from themselves, basically," I said, practically reciting the definition from my Psych 101 textbook, "They have different alters, which are identities with personalities, names, backstories. It's usually brought on by a trauma, which for Grant could be... you know."

He knew.

Griffin ran his hand down his fingers, a tired sigh escaping his lips. Almost reluctantly, Griffin pushed himself off the entertainment center and sat down next to me, holding out one hand, eyes meeting mine. I laced our fingers together, the heat from my hand quickly fading away from the cold from his hand. Griffin just squeezed my hand and leaned back, eyes closing.

"They want me to get a psych evaluation," Griffin said quietly, jaw tensing up when the words left his mouth. He gripped my fingers a little tighter and I gently rubbed the back of his hand, "They said it would be good for my peace and mind, but I know why. If my brother and dad suffer from some sort of psychological illness, then the odds that I suffer from one too is pretty high."

Griffin may have had some issues with paranoia and anger, but he didn't have any mental illnesses. I felt sick as I thought that considering only weeks ago I had accused him of being schizophrenic, but I knew he didn't. And the fact that the police had suggested such a thing during a time like this for Griffin was insane. He was dealing with enough; he didn't have to add questioning his mental stability to the list.

"You're going to be fine," I assured him, making sure my voice came out even. Strong. A promise to him, "I'll go with you, if you want."

Griffin quirked one eye open and looked down at me, lips drawing up into a wry smile, "Coming from the girl who accused me of being a schizophrenic?" I opened my mouth to say something, but Griffin continued, the smile dropping, "Emmy, I just found out my brother has dissociative fucking identity disorder and that both he and my father murdered my mom and hid the murder weapon. I think it would be worse if I was okay after that."

I didn't say anything to that, and Griffin just squeezed my hand, letting his eyes close again.

Grant Cutkosky had dissociative identity disorder. I took a deep breath and let that sink in, the truth mingling in with a bit of horror. Sweet, caring Grant who had swung by my apartment solely to check on me was suffering from a disease where he lost his own identity at times. I knew I shouldn't have, but my gut twisted painfully, and I couldn't help the bit of sympathy I felt towards him. 

"They want me to testify at the court," Griffin said quietly, lips barely moving, "You know, talk about Grant's confession. They said it would be a good idea if I talk about how Grant and my dad were when I was younger, but t - that's so much harder than it sounds. My dad was an asshole and my brother was always weird, but I thought that was just us mourning differently?"

No one deserved to have to go through this. No one deserved to have to testify against the only family they had in a court room. No one deserved to have to look into the eyes of their family members and see monsters instead. To look in the eyes of the last family members you have and see people you truly didn't know.

"I thought I would want to testify, you know? To get them both behind bars - fuck, you know, to get them both the death penalty, I don't know. But I know the second I walk into that courtroom and see my brother and my dad that I won't be able to do it. They're monsters, but they're my family and I can't do that. I can't be the only one left in my family, Emmy."

Tears were pooling in my eyes again, and I wondered how Griffin even managed to get out of bed every morning. I wondered how he managed to live with this and didn't break down at every second of the day. I wondered how he could be so strong every day when everything else in this world was pulling down at him.

"I just want to sleep."

I gripped Griffin's hand tightly and leaned forward, quietly saying, "And I'll be here for you."

I just prayed that I could keep that promise.

heeey guys! so a couple of you guys guessed that grant had DID, but I promise there have been small signs pointing towards it: him getting in the accident and forgetting his name, sudden but small flares of anger, the explosion at dunkin' donuts :-)

ALSO: DID is not necessarily a violent disorder! yes grant has it and committed a terrible crime, but it should be noted that this disorder does not make someone violent/commit crimes. it is a serious mental illness that requires help and therapy, but please do not associate it with violence! :)