Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 {Author's Note: I'm just not going to bother with a warning.  If you're
triggered by scenes of Rape, Humiliation, Strangulation, and possibly
Incest, don't read this.  If they turn you on, I'm sure you'll find at
least one in here to get you off, but I didn't write it for you.  (Well,
maybe one of you.)

   This is a work of fiction.  Any resemblance to real people, victims, or
cases is at best reflective of inspiration.  There is a place, but this is
not set there.  Any real place with the same name, but in a Dark City.  If
anything, it's even worse.}

   Joyce Hotel {MF Pros Drug Rape Phyx Snuf.}

   The sign looked fine, no need to call someone to repair it, or climb up
there with a pack of replacement bulbs.  The light drizzle fell on the
overhang, dripped from the turnbuckles in the cables that held it out, over
the doors.  I went in, shaking my collar, Gladys buzzed me through.

   The lobby could use a cleaning, but the years of grime, some of it was
here when I bought it, and I could never save enough for a restoration. 
Not classy enough for the historical society, so the dingy paint could be
left to peel away from the ancient concrete, above the line I could reach
with a brush.

   DiY, if you want it done right, and don't have the money to pay someone
else.  I checked the clock over the laundry room door, then snapped my
watch shut, and tucked it back in my pocket.  (11:43...) the secondhand
ticked around, the minute slowly made it's way toward the I...

   "Get a room," I smacked the hat off the bum snoring in the seats from
the train station.  The historical society did their work there, and left
them out by the dumpsters they hauled in.

   "I got one," he looked up, "Sorry mista Harrison," he got up, and
drunkenly climbed the stairs.

   I followed, beat on 114, "Rent, Malcom.  Open up, it's time." One of my
long-terms, not that long, but he always had a way to pay.  He let me in,
naked, pulled on some shorts, yawned, and threw the twisted corner of a
baggy on the table.  Only took a couple minutes, but I demanded the rest in
cash.  I could probably pay someone off in dope, in this neighborhood.

   The cops wouldn't get off my back, but it's not my fault nobody else has
money here, and I have to keep this place open.  I took it all the way up
to Neil's to convert it.  Didn't even knock, he furiously hid his notebook,
and pulled out the box.  With his works, and some cash, he took out the
former, and handed the latter to me.  With his inheritance he didn't have
to care about the Cost, just getting the fix into his arm.  I left him, and
took it back down to the safe...

   BATF

   "Mh?" Must have nodded off.  9:17.  AM, I guessed, since it was my
office.  "I'm sorry, I have an appointment I really need to get to." I
stood up, "So if you just leave me your card," I snapped it shut, and stood
up to put it away.

   "Another one?" he glanced down at my desk.  I picked it up.

   "This'll do." BATF, looked more like an accountant than a cop.  "If I
see, or suspect any duty frees, or forged stamps, I'll call you." I walked
him out.  "Hand me a pack, uh." Gladys' night off, I snapped at some new
kid.

   "Jordan, sir." His voice cracked a little, but he pulled down a red box.

   I packed them, while he buzzed us out, unwrapped, and pulled one out,
handed him the plastic.  He buzzed us to the vestibule.  "I didn't think to
ask my supplier about the stamps."

   "Deniability?" he subtly accused.

   Shrug "Would it be more suspicious if he'd thought to bring it up?"

   "Probably," he confirmed.

   "Look, I don't got an MBA, so I don't really worry about your taxes, and
your codes.  It's not my job, I just got to keep this place open." I held
the door.  "Can't smoke in here." He stepped out, but I held the cigarette.
He looked at it.

   "Got a lite?" I stopped some lady.

   "Got a cigarette?" I pulled out the pack for her, and didn't ask for the
$0.50.  I lit it, blew out the mouthful, and held it like one of Bogey's
later characters.  She wandered off, cupping her hands over it for the
warmth, and to keep it dry.

   "I'll send the information to your office," he looked back up, "Again,
and you tell me if they're legit or not so I know to look for another
supplier.  Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go."

   I flipped the butt off, And went back in to give the pack to Jordan. 
"Put these in the singles box.  Sell 'em, don't steal them.  There's 18 in
there." Don't bother carding, though.  Don't turn away paying customers. 
Some sirens sped past out front.

   My appointments done for the day, I went out, next door.  The bar was
closed, but I could get a drink, and it's in my building.  They know I'm
not gay, don't ask, but I set my hat down anyway, wipe the few hairs left
back over my pate, and pour from the fullest bottle.  I set down my watch,
open on the counter.  9: 39...  :40.  Look up at the picture, stroke her
face with my thumb.  Yeah, fuck the wagon.  I have to think, and about
something better than the insurance.  How much it would pay if the whole
thing just burned down.

   John {MF Pros Fond NS}

   7:53, PM.  She stepped out, into the alley.  "Want a date tonight?" She
wasn't perfect, she never is, too skinny, and filthy, but if I squint, in
this light, she's close enough.  Old looking, from her lifestyle.
"I have a client," I reached over to open the door, "Who would very much
like to meet you." Even if it were twilight, the overcast and buildings
would have covered up the sun.  Instead, they glowed that sickly orange,
like the light buzzing over the back exit to some warehouse.  Closed, some
day we might be the port that used to make this a boom town, built this
city, raised the steel, and concrete, covered them with Granite from the
nearby quarries.  Or maybe it would finally die, let all that fall away

from the bones, and leave it to ruin.

   She got in, rolled up the window, we talked money.  A lady need not
concern herself with that, just take care of the children, instead of
feeding whatever demon cast her out here.  To ply her trade, spread her
legs, pay off her pimp, or dealer, or shrink, or babysitter.  It doesn't
matter, the particular stories, when they pick over the ashes centuries
from now there will be thousands more they never think of.  I sighed, mine
wouldn't be tolled, dragged out into the light for people to gather round,
look over, and judge.  I'm already damned, I don't need them to tell me. 
Where was hell, what would they have to compete with this?  Would they need
a super, to fix the pipes, keep the gas running?

   She shivered, even in the drier warmth of the cab.  Rubbed her arm,
inside the elbow, so.  "You need something?" I held out a taste, "To feel
right?  He doesn't mind, I'll take it out of your pay of course, but you
don't have to go out and score, or wait..." She barely listened, but
snorted it, quickly, and tucked the rest into her ragged coat.  Plastic
fur, and filth, she stank, like piss behind a bakery.  But she sighed, sat
back, and relaxed, sniffed a little.  "I hope I can trust you not to
overdose," I chuckled.  "You're not getting paid dead." I rubbed her leg,
it was warm, but the netting of her hose was annoying.  I reached up,
kicked the clutch, and shifted down for the intersection.

   I turned, felt her chest until the light turned green.  Wiped a little
cloudy drop from her lip with a napkin in case we were pulled over, then
started through the gears.  I drove into traffic, 10th street, and started
the climb back to the hotel.  The boys were gathered around the bar,
smoking, but I went around to the alley, opened the fence to keep the
unpaying junkies out, drove over their needles, and parked by the
trashcans. I had to half carry her, under the stairs to the fire-escape, in
the back door, up to the lobby level, then up around to the top floor.  But
she was still breathing.  Neil looked up at the creak of the door, put away
his notebook, but just got out some bills.  He just got up, so I could drop
her on the bed...

   Harry

   "Huh?" I shook her ragged screams out of my head, and picked up the
phone to make it stop.  "Yeah?" I held my head.

   "Sorry, Harry, but you might want to get down here."

   "More cops?" I picked up my watch, 4: 26, looked at the light coming
under the drapes.

   "Homicide," Gladys whispered, "Detectives."

   "Let me put this pipe back on, and clean up, I'll be right up."

   "He's in the boiler room," she picked up the lie, "He'll be right up."
and hung up.  I found a shirt, some pants, washed my face, and put on my
hat.  Down to my office by 4:45, she handed me a thermos, and closed the
door behind us.

   "Have a seat," I found a cleaner cup.  "What's this about?" Step around
the desk to my chair.

   "I don't have to tell you about this place's reputation," one of them,
definitely not an undercover started.  I looked over at the other, looked
more like some kind of beaurocrat.  "We're not from Vice, but some women
have turned up, bodies, and we want to know if you recognize them."

   "Whores?" I guessed, and took the pictures, face down on my desk, "Or
addicts?  Look, anybody around here has the money, it probably came from
some kind of crime.  They still need a place to crash."

   "We're not here to judge you," the beaurocrat assured, "Just trying to
stop a killer."

   I looked, "Strangled." I let them fall, just bent up to catch their
faces.  "Idaknow, you know how many women come through here a week?"

   "You can keep them," They got up, "Show them around to your staff.  If
they came through here, it might be easier to track their wearabouts, find
out who saw them last, alive."

   "All right," I'd have to cut off the handprint, bruises to show them to
Gladys with her tender sensibilities.  She's a grandmother, probably has a
daughter around that age.  But she's probably seen everyone that was hard
enough on their luck to come through here.  In the past 30 some years, she
was here when I got the place, like Neil, and the delivery truck.  The
bottom layer of grime on the ceilings, and the radiators.  Practically the
jailer of the city, she'd even seen the ones the cops didn't catch.

   Rodger {MF Pros Rape Sade Phyx Snuf.}

   She was too weak to struggle, He had to slap her awake to make her
scream.  "Wait, no!" She put her hands up, "Stop, I'm not fighting." Tried
to relax, but you could see the fear on her face, tension in her arms. 
"I'll even make this a freebie, okhay?" She smiled, fakely, and a tear
rolled down to her hair.

   "Whore!" he swung his fist back, and her arm smacked over to the other.
"You!" he hit her, "Fucking.  Whores are all alike!"

   She cowered and whimpered.  "Don't hurt me!"

   "No," He laughed, "Scream, bitch!" He slapped her chest, "I want to hurt
you, now let me hear you scream!" He tore off her shirt, and snapped her
bra.  "Go on, Nobody can hear you."

   "Aaaah?" she tried, "AHN!" He hit her.

   "I said Scream!" she started screaming for real, and he ground against
her, between her legs, the tight skirt pushing down over her black panties.
No straps, or belt for the mesh of her hose, he ripped at it, and hit her
again when she stopped screaming.  As soon as he was hard, he snapped her
panty straps, and forced into her.  "There whore.  Now you can have it. 
You happy?  You happy you got what you came for?"

   "Nauh!" he hit her, "AAH!"

   "LIAR!" He laughed, "You sluts are all a like!  You say you don't want
it, then you come for our MRNEY!" She choked.  "Then when you get it, you
find another man, another victim, and you're GONE!" His hand tightened at
her throat.  "Let me hear you scream," he hit her, "Scream for me BITCH!"
But she couldn't, his fingers dug into her neck, so the tendon popped out
around them.

   "nngh!" was about all she could get out.  He stabbed into her, one last
time.

   "Neah!" he stopped, panted, and even relaxed a little.  Too late, she
didn't scream, or say anything.  Just looked up, stared away without a
sound from her open mouth.

   "Hhhhhchk..." He climbed off of her, got dressed, and left.

   I got up, put the paper away, and went to her.  Closing her eyes, she
could have been asleep, but the bruises were starting to show while I
washed her.  Her face swelled, like her lips, the bleeding in her eyes.  I
got out the makeup, covered them up, painted her blue-grey lips, and combed
out her hair.  Arms crossed, demurely over her chest, I pulled the covers
up, to her chin to tuck her in...

   Delivery

   "Mr.  Harrison?" I looked up from the lock.

   "Harry'll do," I looked back down, and dropped the chain against the
gate.  "Detectives."

   "You busy?" The motor was running, and deizel wasn't getting any
cheaper.

   "Just some stuff I need to pick up," I nodded, and walked to the open
door.

   "I'll ride along," the beaurocrat one opened her side, and climbed in.
"He can follow us in the car." I slammed the door.

   "What's this about?" she set her breifcase down between the seats.

   "We talked to your cashier, Gladys.  She recognized all the girls, but
remarked that they all look alike.  The Profile, they sent from Quantico
indicates that he has a type."

   "Why are you telling me this?" I turned up 7th, had to make the block to
head downtown.  "Can I drop you at the station?"

   "It's your hotel," she almost grunted, "Where all of them at least went
up to the front desk within 48 hours of being found strangled and dumped in
alleys around the city.  We have names for them now, most of them from the
signin.  Some other tenants in the Hostel rooms."

   "My Gladys has a memory for faces."

   "So, we suspect that our uh, suspect may be a regular there. 
Considering his, preferences, he's probably there for the victims.  I told
her what to look out for, but since it's your place, I thought we'd share
the profile with you as well, and see if any of it sounds familiar?" I
nodded.  She pulled out, and unfolded a printout to read from.

   "He's a Sadist, so he has a place to take them, where he can control the
scene long enough without being interrupted.  He may have an accomplice,
possibly even a woman who shows remorse at the dump-sites, and poses the
bodies.  Appears to have some skill with makeup, so she may have a
background as a mortuary assistant, or they may be a couple.  They were
made to look lifelike, as if sleeping, and their arms crossed on their
chests, like a funeral.  This contrasts with the choice of victims,
disorganization, and overkill of the actual rapes, and murder.  The killer
would be dominant, tempermental, impulsive, probably in his late thirties
to forties.  There is some evidence of post-mortem sexual activity."

   "All right," I cleared my throat, rolled down the window to spit. 
"That's enough of that, horrible stuff." Bad enough I had to look at the
pictures.  I'm a man, but I can't stand anything like that.  Raping, and
strangling, and fucking with their bodies.  I shivered.  "I'll think about
it." I down-shifted, and pulled up with it already at half gear.  "I don't
have any mortician tenants I know of, the regulars?  Ask Gladys, she deals
with them more then me anyway.  I just try to keep the place running."

   "Thank you Mst," she got out.  "Harry.  Thank you, and I'm sorry if
this, disturbed you." She looked at my face.  "I'm sorry, but whatever you
can do to help, can hopefully stop this before there's any more Victims."
She closed the door.

   "Ami," I leaned over, and rolled down the window, "Am I a suspect?"

   She looked at me, hurt, almost ready to cry.  "Not any more."

   I don't like violence, especially against women.  I'm a libertarian,
prostitutes?  It's their body, to do whatever they want with.  Just like
junkies, as long as they aren't hurting anyone else.  I have to pay the
rent too, so their money's as good as anyone's.

   I had to think of Neil, how old was he, anyway?  Curled up in his little
room, alone, with his needle, scribbling furiously in his notebooks.  Like
the ravings still all over the walls, before he ran out, and probably had
to start buying paper.  I never saw him leave, but he had a janitors
closet, with a window, to the fire-escape.  We had the fence to keep the
junkies out, but he lived there, how long?  It was considered impossible
for me to sneak out of my room when I was a boy, but I found a way,
eventually.

   I just never thought about him, like that.  Outside, doing anything,
really.  I think he likes the hookers, but I don't wait around to watch. 
If he abused that privacy...  But no, they wouldn't understand it.  A
killer would be all they'd need to finally close me down, after all these
years.  After all the harassment, the BATF, Building Inspectors, DEA raids,
and Vice.  The picketers down at the gay bar, and the church groups calling
it a din of inequity.  They have to go somewhere, would you rather I turn
them out to the streets, to sleep under your eaves, to get in out of the
rain?  Well, it was bright today, I actually had to get out the sun-glasses
for once, but you know what I mean.

   When I got back, he was gone, of course.  But I took out my hankerchief,
and pulled open the panel.  Just a board over some missing blocks, to the
wet wall if this floor had bathrooms, and showers for the tenants.  But it
was the top floor, just me, right across the hall.  All the other rooms
packed with Laundry, and other supplies to keep this place open, like
Lightbulbs, and tubes.

   How could I not know?  I must have ignored it, like a blackout.  I
really need to quit drinking.  He'd be back, though.  He left his things,
no money in the box, just the works, and his notebook.  I didn't touch
anything, just put it all back, and went to think.  Sober.

   She was in my bed.  Sheets pulled up to her chin, so it looked like she
was sleeping.  But I could see her arms crossed.  Her hair was too perfect,
her makeup.  I didn't want to touch her, or pay someone to come get rid of
the body.  Couldn't think clear enough to figure out who I'd even call for
that.  Other then the little monk, he'd know.  I didn't have a choice, so I
picked up the phone, and got out the detectives' card.

   "I don't know how the fuck he got in here.  Can't your CRIME LAB,"
across the backs of their shirts, and jackets instead of PPD, "Tell if a
lock was picked, from tool-marks or something?" One of them nodded, and
started unscrewing the knob from the door, with a rubberized bit.  I'm a
bit of a locksmith myself, among other things.  Saves money whenever one of
them doesn't turn in a key for the Deposit.  Don't make any money at it,
but at least I'm not losing any.  It just about covers the new locks, and
the drive out to the hardware store.

   "Does anyone else share this floor?" I shook my head.

   "The stairs come all the way up, though." I waved at them, there's no
lock on that door, or door to put a lock in.  "Where's your partner?"

   "Coordinating the canvas of the building." Great, no telling what other
wrongdoings they'd catch my tenants at, charges filed, court costs,
vacancies I'd have to fill.  This could ruin me, but I had to do the right
thing.  Just hope to cover my involvement, if I can.  I didn't know, but
the prostitutes, it was at least Pimping, not to mention aiding, and
abetting a Serial Killer.  I could be called an Accomplice, and probably
convicted.  Losing this place would be bad enough.

   "You married, Detective?" I glanced down at her ring finger, taken,
"Want to go out for a drink some time.  Maybe some coffee?"

   "Yes, I'm happily married." She frowned, "And I have a lot of work to
do, if you don't mind." Not her type, I guessed.  To old, too fat, too
broke.  I admit, it had been a couple-few years, but that's what I get,
being practically married to the Joyce.  She takes all my time, and money,
or at least she did.  She was dying now, I can see that.  Have to face
facts, she was sick when I came to her.  It was like watching her die,
slowly, of Cancer or whatever.  Trying to save her until I caught it, her
sickness.  And now, she might take me down with her.

   I moved the van, so they could come in from the alley, and use the back
stairs.  And the fire escape, they took up the whole parking lot.  So, I
kept driving.  The place was shut down, but at least the news wouldn't get
the shot of the body bag, being dragged out under the overhanging sign with
Joyce Hotel on it.  Probably still ruined, my dreams of fixing it up,
getting it on the Historical Registry, make it upscale to build my fortune.
I chuckled, and shook my head at that pimple faced kid, head full of
dreams, getting as rich as the Hiltons, and being hailed as a hero for
removing such a blot from the city.

   I didn't call it the Joyce, of course, her name was Joy, anyway, but I
guess I saw that as a sign, when it came on the market.  Maybe something
good could come from that tragidy, the horror of her death.  I cried, no
idea where I was going, but I put on the wipers because it started raining
harder.  Her cries, calling "Jonny!" to me, for me to save her.  That's
when I lost the Joy in my life.  But because it was an accident, we at
least got a settlement.  Like you can put a price on that.  Pay me back
from losing her, and my whole family.

   But I missed her the most, my Joy.

   I had to find him, Neil, first.  I took the .38 out of the glovebox. 
Snapped it open, checked, then swung the cylinder back around the
Wadcutters.  Cheap target loads, I got a good deal on them, hoping nobody
wanted to be shot bad enough to make me.  Being broke won't keep them from
trying to rob you.  He's a killer, maybe he'll attack me.  But I can't let
them tell them where he got his victims.  They wouldn't understand, I
didn't know, but it's still illegal, pimping technically.  If I can't save
the Joyce, I can at least save myself.  I don't know what I'm going to do,
but prison isn't on my schedule.

   I looked back at the sound of the siren.  Had some fantacy of running, a
high speed chase this far up the side of the valley, in a top-heavy box
van. What was I going to do?..

   Neil {M+ Solo NS}

   I went home.  The police were there, Harry talked to them, but drove
off. I watched from the rooftop until they were gone, then climbed around
to the Fire Escape, down to my window.  She was cute, petite, short even in
those tall wide heels.  Light hair, high fine voice, very well spoken. 
Pretty face, young looking, but very expressive.  Sincere, sensitive,
understanding.  I could see why he likes her, despite the lack of
resemblance.  Wonder how far that understanding would go.  How much could
she forgive?

   Back in my room, everything was where it should be.  Where I left it
without any powders, prints, the hair still stuck to the door, and frame,
so nobody'd been in there.  That way, but who else knew about the fire
escape?  Any other floor you'd have to break the glass, to get into the
Janitor's closet, through the windows, bolted through their frames, or at
least have the right wrench.

   I never met the Janitor, nor cared to ask Harry about them.  Poor Harry,
going down with the ship.  I dropped the money from my Trust in the box,
hid it, and pulled the notebook to write down what I can remember.  The
needs weren't too bad, yet, but I wonder how much longer he'd be willing to
satisfy them for us.  How much does he know?  What had he told the
Detectives?  Maybe Rodger's right, and it's time to get rid of him.

   Revelation {M+F NS Prof}

   "Harry?" She came in, but left the door open.  "Can you get us some
coffee, or something?" Her partner got up, and closed the door quietly
behind him.

   "What time is it?" I looked around, cinder-block walls, large
countersunk mirror in the wall, one-way.  Stainless steel table, like a
desk, planted in the concrete floor, as was the chairs.

   "Eleven, seventeen." She tapped on the screen in her hands, set it on
the table, and sat down.  "Do you know where you are?"

   I laughed, "Let me guess, you got me on Aiding, and Abetting, as an
accomplice?"

   "We're not sure how the charges will pan out," she nodded, "But you can
call me Doctor, if it makes you feel more comfortable." She braced herself,
searched my face for a reaction, but I relaxed, and so did she.  "We,
talked to Rodger.  It wasn't until then that I figured it out."

   The lying bitch.

   "Who?" I shook my head.

   "That's what Neil calls him." she tapped, and dragged around her screen.
Like a flat-screen, without the computer.  A little to high-tech for me to
ever afford.  "Let me show you something."

   "So you talked to him too?" I guessed, "Did you capture him?"

   "In a manner of speaking," she tapped the corner, and the screen went
dark.  Some letters came up, and she turned it around on the table.

   [Videographic Evidence: #402.6...] I didn't catch the rest of it.

   "You bitch!" cops, "I knew he never should've trusted you, you lying
fucking whore!" Lots of them, wrestling someone around the frame, and
wheels of a truck, on its side.  "Let me go, I'll kill you, I'll fucking
kill you you cunt bitch whore.  I."

   She tapped the screen, the video stopped to dark blue shoulders, and
clean haircuts.  Arms holding him, the blurry face.  Bald hair, mustache,
and stubble, jowels and wide open mouth.  No doubt yelling something else.
"I don't remember that." I guess he might look a little like me, but
sounded more like Pop.  I looked away, but she let the screen flop back
down on the thick heavy brushed stainless steel.  "That's not me, it can't
be." I choked up.  They have image, people working for them.  I bet one of
them could photochop it.

   "I was there," the sound came back on.  "Take him in." The order came in
over the tiny speakers.  Probably little more than buzzers, I didn't see
anything like a grate on the back.  "That was 'Rodger'."

   "I told you," I shook my head, "Never heard of him."

   "Neil didn't describe him.  Just his actions, what he did to, those
women."

   "Whores." I stopped myself, and swallowed.

   "In his writing," she nodded, "I haven't had a chance to talk to him,
yet.  However, we found his Cell.  The place where you kept him, his drug
paraphenalia, and notes.  Also, his prints, all over it, the window, fire
escape, and your penthouse."

   "Thought you had him in custody?" Lying bitch.  All that about Quantico,
the Profilers, sending it in.  Her partner, barely acted like he knew her.
"I don't know how to find him," I tried, remember?  Of course she didn't.

   "No," she sighed, "You probably don't.  If you suppressed Rodger so
completely you don't even recognize his name.  Back to your prints, there
was only one set.  They match the ones we got from you in booking."

   "Of course he was there, to dump the body."

   She sighed, "Your prints."

   "I live there!" it's my building, "And I'd been in his 'cell', as you
called it.  Of course my prints were there!"

   "On the needle?" Her eyes, didn't look angry, or scared.  She looked
sad, almost caring.  "The money?" What money, the box was empty last time.
"Her make-up?"

   "I don't know what you're talking about."

   "Do you have the blackouts often?" she asked gently, "Perhaps drunk,
high, or in a rage?"

   I looked away, "So I have a temper," shrugged.  At least so they tell
me. I tried to pat my watch pocket, but it wasn't there.

   "But you don't remember.  For instance slapping Gladys?  She told us she
never reported you, but I guess with who she's used to working with, she's
tougher than she looks."

   "I never," I shook my head, "I could never hurt a woman." Hard.

   "Of course not." She nodded, and I looked away from her eyes, "That's
what you needed Rodger for." She braced herself again, I'm not sure what
for.

   "Who the fuck is Rodger!?" I calmed down, let my hands relax, the chain
went slack in my lap again.  "Are these really necessary?"

   "We call them Alters, short for Alternate Identities.  You create them,
ultimately to handle things you can't.  Like the abuse."

   "What abuse?"

   She sighed again, "You probably repressed that too.  It's a coping
mechanism.  A child isn't capable of processing something like Marital
Rape." Mommy?  Why was I crying?  "So, sometimes they create someone, like
an imaginary friend.  Someone strong, to protect them when the target of
the abuse, or displace it onto.  Or, sometimes you displace your violent
feelings, and fantasies to dissociate yourself from them."

   "Leave me alone." I wanted to cover my ears, hold my head, make it stop.
"I'm not schizophrenic, or anything."

   "No," she shook her head, "That's another disorder.  We call yours
Dissociative Identity, formerly Multiple Personality Disorder."

   "I said," I heard my voice, but I was falling, "LEAVE HIM ALONE!" My
eyes surged up, and she jumped back, but I didn't move.  I was still
falling, and it got smaller, and smaller, the black closing in around his
eyes like the end of a cartoon, or the walls of a well growing higher, and
higher, until there was nothing.