Once I felt stable enough, I pushed myself up and walked over to the makeshift bed and grabbed a blanket from it, tossing it over the still body of Asmodeus, making sure that the face that looked so much like my own was covered.

At the pillar I inspect the exposed panel of buttons. When I push one of the buttons the three walls fade to a concrete gray again and when I push it again, the walls fade showing an infinite pool of stars and the burning Earth. Every other button I press doesn’t appear to provide a function. I listen closely for any sign, but there’s no whirs of clicks. Just silence.

The fourth wall remains gray. I assume that it leads to the rest of the ship. When I inspect it, I can find no panels and no semblance of a door. How this room led to the cockpit—cockpit? Is that the right term?—died with Asmodeus and I am apparently stuck here in this room with his corpse.

Walking to the transparent walls I gaze into the expanse. The stars are so far away that for the longest time I can’t decide if we’re moving. The Earth still appears to be the same size as it was when Asmodeus first pointed it out.

When I do finally sense movement the debate rages on in my head about whether I am seeing something or whether it’s an illusion. The ship—if I was indeed on a ship—isn’t providing any clues as it glides through space.

How many Eleanors were out there?

How many Eleanors were created in that one decision?

One? A thousand? Ten thousand? Two hundred and fifty?

Traveling through multiverses wasn’t something I had any sense of control over. It was random at best and happened in fits and spurts.

As I gazed at the stars, my mind drifted to comic books and the origin stories of countless superheroes that discovered their powers. There wasn’t ever a story of a superhero that came upon his powers in a privileged way. There was never that sense of, “Ahoy, you fair child. Because you have lived a peaceful life while accomplishing nothing and bothering no one, here are some superpowers.” It was always through tragedy that they truly fell into or discovered their powers.

A family member’s death. A mother. A father. An uncle.

Imminent danger. A school bus accident. Drowning at the community pool.

Natural and unnatural disasters. A storm to end all storms. An explosion at a biological testing facility. Nuclear fallout.

Sure my theory has its flaws, but if you followed the chain of events from their origin story till what led them down the path of the hero’s journey, there was always a moment or a period of discovery.

First you must be yourself, find yourself, know who you are. Asmodeus’ words echo in my head.

Who am I?

Veronica and Eleanor always defined my existence, but without them who was I?

Who was I before Eleanor? Before Veronica?

As my mind headed down that path, it was easy to recognize that there were so many times in my life when others defined who I was and clouded the idea of who I truly was or who I truly could be.

My parents and their decisions to raise me the way they did: sheltering me from the outside world as much as they could; the conservative, religious lifestyle; the control exhibited over my media consumption; and the judgment, fear, and shame they put on me when I strayed from their path.

My closest friends throughout grade school, middle school, high school, and college: making me their punching bag for jokes and ridicule; the times I’d fight back—whether with fists or words—and the times I’d get pushed back down.

The romantic relationships prior to Veronica or even during the early days of our relationship: trying to impress; struggling to impress; trying to walk that fine line between horniness and respect and the mutual respect that makes you horny; realizing that someone isn’t right and struggling with those thoughts because was it me or was it her and not wanting to hurt anyone’s feelings or be hurt; and trying to break things up while trying to balance that sense of truth, what’s better for me, what’s better for her, not knowing what’s better for either one of us and still feeling horny.

I recognized that through all those stories and memories, there was a sense of me bubbling beneath the surface; trying to identify the right way to surface without destroying so many carefully crafted towers of relationships. But I also recognized how often I built a wall around myself in an attempt to protect myself from getting hurt; causing very few true, meaningful relationships.

With Veronica, once I had gotten past that awkward phase of posturing and peacocking, I was more myself; my true self. But was that even true? Was the most authentic version of myself cold, closed off and detached? Not all the time, but often enough where there was an easily recognized pattern in that behavior. In my mind’s eye, I could see the moments where I felt truly free with Veronica: those times we cooked together in the kitchen, listening to music as we sat side-by-side, the conversations where I listened and wasn’t distracted by my phone.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Alongside those memories were the times when I wasn’t truly there. I knew that as Veronica got sicker, the walls around my heart grew thicker. I built them up, protecting myself from the inevitability of loss, and by doing that I wasn’t there for Veronica as she passed or for Eleanor when she needed me most.

Now that Veronica wasn’t here, I could tell that I was lost–listless, drifting without a rudder–and had been for all these months; trying to rebuild a sense of self without her.

Even as a parent, there were times where I felt truly myself: playing games or reading books with Eleanor, being in nature with her, or just sitting in silence enjoying her cuddles.

But just as with Veronica, I could see all the times when I wasn’t there for Eleanor. Especially now, when she needed me most, and I had pushed her away.

And now Eleanor was lost too, drifting listlessly on a sea of multiverses.

I couldn’t reach her. Try as I might, I couldn’t. Regardless of all the brow furrowing or how tight I made my fists. It didn’t matter that I had defeated my shadow self. I was stuck.

First you must be yourself, find yourself, know who you are.

Okay. Okay. I get it.

Going to a corner of the ship—as far away as possible from Asmodeus—I lay down, closing my eyes. Behind my eyelids, there’s glows of dust particles and behind those I can see lines and paths caused by the light of the ship being bright enough to allow me to see a web of blood vessels. Resting my hands on my lower rib cage, I focus on the lines of the blood vessels—trying to follow them—and begin to breathe. Slowly through my nose. Feeling my chest expand and deflate.

Who am I?

I am me. That is the easy answer.

But who am I?

I was a boy who loved running through the woods. Skating across the creek’s ice in snow boots. Playing ice hockey with sharp rocks and sharp sticks. Following the frozen creek for what felt like miles, tracing its path behind my childhood neighborhood. Feeling free. Feeling the ability to be quiet and not feel judged for being quiet. Able to yell and whoop and shout and not feel judged for being too loud. Listening to the wind whip through the trees. Climbing trusted trees and sitting on trusted branches, arms wrapped trustingly around the trunk, and feeling the tree move back and forth in the wind. Being risky by climbing older, broken trees, and sitting on old, crumbly branches that suddenly give way causing momentary flight before falling to the ground and having the breath knocked out of me.

The days spent at my grandparents’ farm. The hayrides with my grandpa, whipping his tractor around with wildless abandon. Jumping off the wagon and running alongside it, trying to jump back on as my friends and cousins yell at me, stretching out their hands for me to grab onto.

Sledding down my grandparents' farm’s enormous hill. Dodging cow pies and rocks and trying to see who could get the closest to the cliff that dropped down into their frozen creek. Running through their woods, regaled with stories of Jesse James and his nearby hidden cave and possible treasure troves that we never found.

Feeling hurt. Feeling loved. Feeling others’ hurt. And being hurt by love.

Is this me? Still that hurt boy? Or the boy who felt peace in the woods?

Getting angry. Feeling rebellious. Trying to find out who I was by making tiny mistakes and being too sheltered to make larger ones. Making tiny mistakes—tiny sins—and feeling shamed, judged, and fear from the possible punishment of hell.

The spankings; the near constant spankings. Tightening my tiny butt at the right moment and having my mom’s wooden spoon—the one she would use for mixing cookie dough or stirring simmering soups—splinter and break as she whacks it across my bottom. My dad used his belt, a switch, or the coal shovel from our wood burning stove.

Not understanding why I was punished.

Knowing why I was punished.

Doing things just to get punished. To be seen. To be heard. Shouting through my actions and saying “Look at me! Look at me! Do you see me? Understand me! I am my own person!”

Feeling like a bad person, like a bad kid for being curious, asking questions, making tiny little rebellions that were viewed as the maniacal machinations of a child influenced too much by the outside world and seeing the outside world taken from me as punishment for my actions.

Sitting with those feelings away from everyone else. My friends. My family. Trying to understand why I was different. Why I asked these bad questions or had bad thoughts. Was I a bad person? What could I do differently so that I could define myself and be defined by family and friends as a “good person.”

While I never saw an answer to those questions, I saw how those questions shaped me into the person I grew into and at the same time shaped my approach with Eleanor.

But there was still a sad little boy inside me; buried deep within. The same one that would huddle beside his parents’ deep freezer in the garage and read books to his cat. The same one that would sit alone in the darkness of his room, thinking about mistakes that were made and wondering why he was such a bad kid. The same one that just needed a hug; that needed to be told that it was alright, that I was alright, that there wasn’t anything broken or defective about the way I was or the way that I thought, because I was a good boy.

Opening my eyes, I can see the expanse of space, but there is something different. Before it looked like there were a myriad of stars surrounding me; stars that were just stars. Now I could tell that some were glowing differently than others; pulsating with a brighter light.

“Eleanor?” I ask.

And those stars twinkled in reply.

I’d found her. I had finally found her.

“Hold on, baby. I’m coming for you.”

Not sure how to proceed, I stand, and picking a blinking light at random, I point towards it, pushing my finger toward the translucent glass ceiling of the ship, but where I thought I’d meet resistance, the glass wasn’t there. I looked down just as the floor flickered and disappeared, leaving me floating without the presence of gravity in the expanse of space.

I looked back at the light and the abyss opened wide and swallowed me whole, pulling me toward the light.