It began with a dream. A very odd dream in which I found myself arguing with a voice. I argued for hours it seemed, about the absurdities of Freud. I mean ID, EGO, and SUPEREGO? Give me a break. The mind is the mind is the mind. We don’t need separate constructs to categorize the firing of neurotransmitters or some such nonsense. Or so I believed.
I was drunk when I fell asleep, so to be fair, my dream arguments made little sense, and I yelled like a hot-blooded idiot. Still, the more adamant I became, the more this other voice huffed, finally shouting that I was a bloody idiot who couldn’t tell the difference between a bird and a squirrel and that I’d be sorry for being so pigheadedly arrogant and blatantly disrespectful. I just laughed of course, I mean hell, I was arguing with a voice for Christ’s sake.
Imagine my shock when I woke the next morning. My cell’s alarm blared louder than my pounding headache. I groaned into my pillow, praying the damn thing would shut itself off when a voice spoke beside me.
“Do you plan on getting that?”
“What the!” The voice sounded like me. A very irate, smug, condescending me, but me none-the-less.
I turned, squinting against the harsh white light and stared into two brown eyes. My brown eyes. And black hair. Large nose. Wide mouth, smirking at me, as my brain tried to make sense of this.
“Oh God. I’m still asleep.” Just how much did I drink last night?
“Wrong again, sunshine. Seems to be a common occurrence with you.”
“Jesus Christ!” My headache suddenly gone, I snatched my phone and shut off the alarm. My exact double watched from his side of the bed, his smirk never leaving his or my or whatever’s face.
“Nope. Not Jesus. I’m ID.”
ID. Are you fucking kidding me?
I vaguely remembered some argument about ID being the construct of one troubled neurologist.
“What the fuck is this? I’m definitely still asleep.” I slapped my cheek for good measure, not expecting to feel the warmth and sudden sting.
“Nope. You’re perfectly awake.”
“This is bull shit.” But I leaned over, hands hovering before poking ID’s arm. My fingers touched warm, solid skin, and I shrieked, rolling over and promptly falling out of bed taking my sheets with me.
The bastard laughed and leaned over while I rubbed my ass and practically crab walked away from him.
“This is. You’re not –“
“Your subconscious? Why yes, I am.”
Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.
“How is this possible?” His smirk only grew wider and something about his arrogance frayed my patience.
“Oh, so it’s ass-hole now. Is that any way to treat your subconscious?”
“This isn’t real. It’s a nightmare, or day mare or something.”
“No, I’m perfectly real, I assure you.” His smile gleamed, almost predatory, and I suddenly had a very bad feeling.
“Why are you here?”
“To show you just how real I am.”