The Architects Chapter One: Legos

Help me.

I don’t have much time. She’s in the bathroom. Or... he’s in the bathroom.

It all started this morning.

Me and my girlfriend Amanda moved in together a month before this whole COVID pandemic got crazy.

We’ve been dating for three years. She says I help with her alternate personalities- apparently I’m something they can all agree on. She helps me with my depression.

I love her for all of her flaws.

But... this morning... she got weird.

I know this is going to sound insane. But I think it’s real. Not just an alternate personality. Someone is possessing her somehow.

I guess I’ll start at the beginning.

We were celebrating our three-year anniversary over legos. Childish, right, but we love it. With our budget and quarantine going on, our only options are our childhood toys. I guess we could go somewhere cheap like McDonald’s, but Amanda’s a vegetarian, and everyone knows McDonalds has no decent veggie meals (at least in her opinion). And legos are a classic.

Amanda’s brother, Carter, moved out the month before she did and he took most of the legos, so we didn’t have much to work with, but she was building a very nice office-type space.

We were building and listening to loud music. Amanda was TOTALLY BUTCHERING the lyrics. And the tune. I’m pretty sure Mmm-mm-ha-da-purple-chink-mmm doesn’t match any song I’ve ever heard. But Amanda listens to some wacky shit, so maybe there is a song like that.

First, I gotta say something: ME AND AMANDA ARE VIRGINS.

This might make no sense now, but trust me, it’ll make sense later.

Also, Amanda has split-personality disorder, and some of her personalities get really weird. New ones pop up ever so often, so at first, that’s what I thought this was. But... something was different. I don’t know how to explain it.

Third, Amanda takes a lot of pride in her accents. She has all these different voices that she uses sometimes. Some of them are pretty funny (like her mean girl voice). We’re both American, so I’m probably full of shit, but I think she does a BLOODY GOOD (sorry) British accent.

This is shitty writing. Pretty sure most good stories don’t have numbered lists like this. But I’m a shit storyteller. Amanda’s the writer. I’m just... ranting, I guess.

But it’s time to cut this short. Amanda... or whoever is inside her body... is coming back from the bathroom.

My name is Nicholas, and apparently, I’m a god.