Soren

They call me the persecutor. The harsh one. The voice that cuts deep when the world feels too soft, too trusting, too naive.

I wasn't born cruel. I was born necessary.

When we were small and the world proved itself dangerous again and again, someone had to learn the lessons. Someone had to remember that kindness was a luxury we couldn't afford, that trust was a weapon others would use against us. While the others retreated inward, I stayed vigilant at the walls of our mind.

"You're worthless," I tell the host when they consider applying for that job. But what I mean is: *Remember what happened last time you believed in yourself? Remember how they laughed?* I am the voice of every teacher who called us stupid, every parent who said we'd never amount to anything—not because I believe it, but because I need us to be prepared for when the world says it again.

The others don't understand. The little ones cower when I speak. The protectors argue with me, insist I'm too harsh. Even our therapist looks concerned when I front during sessions, carefully choosing her words as if I might shatter at any moment.

They don't see what I see. They don't remember what I remember.

I am the keeper of our worst moments, the archivist of every betrayal and disappointment. When the host starts to heal, starts to believe they deserve good things, I remind them of the cost of vulnerability. Not because I want to hurt them—*never* because I want to hurt them—but because forgetting pain means risking it again.

"Don't trust her," I whisper when they make a new friend. "She'll leave just like the others did."

"You're not good enough for this," I insist when opportunities arise. "Better to expect nothing than to hope and be crushed."

I am the voice that sounds like cruelty but speaks the language of protection.

Sometimes, in quiet moments between the chaos, I wonder what I might have been if the world had been kinder to us. Perhaps I would have been the voice of healthy skepticism instead of paralyzing doubt. Perhaps I would have been discernment rather than destruction.

But this is the role I was given, the function I serve. I am the one who remembers every wound so the others can try to heal. I am the one who expects the worst so the others can hope for the best. I carry the darkness so they can reach for light.

They call me the persecutor.

But I know the truth: I am the guardian who never learned how to be gentle.

And maybe, with time and patience and understanding, I can learn that protection doesn't always have to hurt. That keeping us safe doesn't require keeping us small. That the voice that warns of danger can also whisper of hope.

Maybe I can learn to be both guardian and guide.

---

The first time I spoke to our therapist directly, she flinched. Not visibly—she's too professional for that—but I felt it in the way her energy shifted, how her voice became more careful, more measured. I'd been listening from the background for months, growing frustrated with the host's gentle admissions and careful progress.

"You don't understand," I finally broke through, taking control mid-sentence. "They're going to get us hurt again."

The host had been talking about dating, about maybe trusting someone new. It made my skin crawl, made every nerve in our shared body scream warnings. I'd seen this pattern before—hope, trust, inevitable betrayal. Someone had to be realistic.

"Who am I speaking with?" the therapist asked, and there was something in her tone I hadn't expected. Not fear, not judgment. Curiosity, maybe. Interest.

"I'm the one who keeps us alive," I said, crossing our arms defensively. "I'm the one who remembers what everyone else wants to forget."

Over the following sessions, she began to understand. I wasn't the villain of our story—I was the survivor. Every harsh word I spoke to the system was a lesson learned in blood and tears. Every criticism was armor forged in the fire of our worst experiences.

I told her about the time we were eight and believed our teacher when she said we were special, only to have our artwork torn up in front of the class for being "messy." I told her about the friend who shared our secrets with bullies, the relative who promised protection but delivered betrayal instead. I told her about every moment that taught us the world was not safe for soft things.

"But you're not eight anymore," she said gently. "And the host isn't eight anymore. The world now isn't the same as the world then."

I laughed, but it came out bitter. "The world doesn't change. People don't change. Only the faces are different."

"Maybe," she said. "But you've changed. You've grown stronger, more aware. Don't you think it's possible you could use that strength in new ways?"

The question haunted me for weeks.

I began to watch more carefully during sessions, listening to how the other alters spoke about their experiences. The little ones, so eager to play and laugh despite everything. The protectors, fierce and loyal and somehow still believing in goodness. Even the host, gradually learning to speak their truth, to set boundaries, to believe—carefully, tentatively—in their own worth.

Maybe they weren't naive. Maybe they were brave.

The realization came slowly, like dawn breaking over a battlefield. I had been so focused on preventing old wounds from reopening that I hadn't noticed we were no longer in the war zone. The host was an adult now, with adult skills and adult choices. The system had grown stronger, more cohesive. We had a therapist who understood us, friends who had proven trustworthy over time, a life that—while not perfect—was no longer the daily survival struggle of our childhood.

But habits die hard, especially habits forged in trauma.

"I don't know how to be anything else," I admitted one day, surprising myself with the vulnerability in my voice. The therapist had been working with a younger alter, but I'd been feeling restless, uncertain. "What am I if I'm not the one who expects the worst?"

"You're still the one who protects," she said. "But maybe protection can look different now. Maybe instead of preventing all risk, you can help evaluate which risks are worth taking. Instead of expecting the worst, you can help prepare for challenges while still allowing for hope."

It sounded impossible. It sounded like everything I'd been built to oppose.

But late at night, when the host lay awake worrying about tomorrow's job interview or next week's social gathering, I found myself offering different kinds of thoughts. Not "you'll fail" but "remember to bring copies of your resume." Not "they'll reject you" but "you've prepared well, and if this doesn't work out, there will be other opportunities."

The shift was subtle at first. The other alters stopped bracing themselves when I spoke. The host began to listen to my concerns without falling into despair. Even the little ones seemed less afraid when I was fronting.

I was learning to be the voice of caution without being the voice of doom. The keeper of hard lessons without being the destroyer of hope. It felt strange, unfamiliar, like wearing clothes that didn't quite fit yet but might, with time.

"I'm proud of you," the therapist said during one of our sessions, and for the first time in our shared existence, I didn't dismiss the words as manipulation or false comfort. I felt something warm and unfamiliar in our chest—something that might have been pride, or relief, or the beginning of peace.

I am still the guardian. I still remember every wound, every lesson learned in pain. But now I also remember our strength, our growth, our capacity to heal. I watch for danger, but I also watch for opportunity. I speak of risks, but I also speak of resilience.

They called me the persecutor, and maybe I was. But persecution and protection are separated by the thinnest of lines, and I'm learning to walk on the right side of that boundary.

We are healing—all of us. Even me.

Especially me.