The One With Whisky Eyes

Prologue

Taking a moment to compose herself-unbuttoning her coat for some relief from the heat-and checking the time on her phone, she then reached forward to knock on the expense looking wood, beneath the gold name plate fastened to the door.

"Come in!"

Hesitating only a moment as she glanced at her gloved hand, which held the mark, she opened the door and timidly slipped in through a barely-there gap.

"Miss. Mayfair?" the elderly woman asked as she rose from her seat, offering a friendly smile, and motioned the young woman further inside. "Please, come and sit. May I get you anything to drink?"

"No. No, that's alright, thank you," she answered, barely flicking her eyes up to her before they returned to the floor. "I hope I am not interrupting your schedule."

"Nonsense, child, plenty of time." Iris moved forward to take the seat that she motioned toward, sinking into the overstuffed cushions. "You mentioned that you wished to speak of my work with soulmarks," she began gently, sinking into it slowly. "Would you care to elaborate?"

"I...I have many soulmarks," she began, folding her unmarked hand over her marked on, even though she had yet to remove her gloves. "I read in one of your articles that you believe several marks could mean a soulmate with Dissociative Identity Disorder; a mark for each personality."

"Yes; I have not proven the theory yet, however. I have yet to interview a patient who has met their soulmate...well, there was one but she only had one mark from the original personality, she never met the personalities."

Iris's shoulders slumped at the news, sighing softly.

"If you don't mind me asking, have you met your soulmate?" Dr. Fletcher asked carefully, leaning forward in her seat as she carefully looked over the young woman before her. She was in her late twenties, that much she knew, maybe early thirties if she was to push it, with dark blonde hair and pale, pale skin-like she never set foot in sunlight-and her eyes, from the brief glance she had, were a light whiskey colour. She was short, barely more than five feet, and remarkably skinny if the thinness of her neck proved anything. Her clothing hid the rest.

"No, I have not," she admitted, one more looking up at the other woman's face only briefly before she looked away again.

"And...how many marks do you have?"

Immediately, Iris flinched and clenched up. Should she say?

"A lot," she dodged, glanced at the back of her palm as though she would be able to see through the black glove that she was wearing.

"More than three?" Dr. Fletcher pressed, her tone remaining soft and gentle.

"Many," Iris choked out, hoping that she wasn't making a mistake.

Her eyes widened at the simple word, leaning in closer as she lifted a ring-decorated hand and tapping her fingertips along her lips. "Would you tell me how many?"

"I...would rather not."

Iris fidgeted in her seat, repressing the urge to turn and run. After all, she had been the one to contact the therapist in the hopes of getting some answers. "May I at least see some? However many you are comfortable with."

Swallowing against the lump in her throat as she raised light whiskey eyes up to meet the doctor's interested stare. Finally, she pulled off the black glove of her left hand to revealed the neat, tight writing, then rolled up her sleeve to the elbow to show three more along her forearm-Oh, the eyes, look at them eyes encircled her wrist, Hello my dear running along the inside of her forearm near her elbow, and He's told us about you, little one, he really like you beginning at her elbow and running along the outside of her forearm toward her wrist.