Laplace Karamazov's Questionnaire

I live in a duplex in Sandpoint, Idaho. A small but growing city, it rests near the state's center, along the line that separates Pacific from Mountain Time. It's largely owned and run by old and new money. Poverty is institutionalized, and almost no one in the lower class can afford to leave, or even afford the raise they'd need to start saving, since they would lose the subsidies they rely on to afford housing. I am similarly trapped, though my cage is much more comfortable.

Admittedly, the city has nice food, a decent beach, lots of trees, and a ski resort, even if those trappings are more for the benefit of tourists and the wealthy.

My home was left to me by my caretaker, and supposed mother, and I cannot afford to live anywhere else long-term. Not with my skills, or the lack thereof.

Down the driveway, through a gate in the wire fence, and up the porch, my door opens into a dim living room. The blinds are often closed, and all of the colors are dark tones. The centerpiece is a rug the color of red wine, with the material set at different heights, to resemble a rose. There's one bedroom with a Jack and Jill bathroom, connected to the study, and a door in the study connects to my garage. The kitchen is large, separated from the living room by a curtain of beads, and there's a door to the basement hidden behind a pull-out cabinet.

I have a cheap security system that sends a text to both of my phones and a notification to the laptop in my study whenever the door or windows open, but does nothing else.

My lifestyle is mostly paid for by trust fund. My mother, on paper at least, left behind a trust fund that pays for my basic needs. So long as I live in the duplex, my basic living costs are covered. Food, water, electricity, and the like are all basically covered, but there's rarely anything left over. When I have other expenses in a month, which is almost always, I find work remotely as a contractor, mainly doing tech and customer support. I have some money saved in case of a medical emergency, but I spend the rest on food, useful technology, and other people's booze. 

I don't know what I want. But I know what the parasite wants. It wants me to learn. It doesn't want me to ever be wrong, even on accident. It wants me to learn every secret. It wants a record, a source to cite, a reference for every hidden desire and twisted story. The more I learn, the more it wants me to learn. Sometimes I would do anything to achieve that goal. Except die myself. If I die, it will need a new host. I don't know how that works. I don't know if it actually wants me to know. It would rather die than have reality, or something I do or say, somehow be wrong. But I have enough of a hold on myself, on my reality to know that I don't want that. I need help if I'm going to survive this thing. If I find someone trustworthy, but I can use them to advance my goals, I know I'll want to. But I hope I'm strong enough not to. I hope.

The most defining event in my life was the day I became a host. My "mother" had always been... different. She had always taught me differently, valued different things. I didn't understand the differences at the time, but she taught me to pay attention, to notice things. She only took me out on tests. If I had a "playdate" with a neighbor, I also had a list of responsibilities. I always needed to learn something, convince someone to do something, outrun or outplay someone, or hide from certain people. On my 13th birthday, she told me we were going out. I knew something was wrong when she gave no instructions. She demanded only obedience.

She brought me to a duplex, to the building that would become our home after that day. My home. Its home. She took me through the trapdoor in the kitchen, behind the pull-out cabinet, and to the basement. There, as if it were drawn onto the world, like some kind of fractal oil painting, it hung. It unfurled as we entered. I don't remember many of the details. It was dark, and vast, larger than the basement. Unknowable. I remember thinking how odd it was that, around it, like an outline, there seemed to be an absence of space. Just, nothing. I also remember the agony, or parts of it, as it became a part of me, as it changed me. It wasn't so bad. At least top 2 though.

I have never been the same. 

Ellis Coruscare is my neighbor. He lives in the space adjacent to mine, in the other half of the duplex. He moved in when I turned 14, and I've known him ever since. His mother and father were rarely around, and they vanished the same day my mother did, on my 17th birthday.
Ellis is a year older than I am and works odd hours, he's always doing something physically demanding for work. Tall and well-built, he has vaguely Eurasian features and neatly styled facial hair. In the right lighting, he looks like a caricature of villainy. He is one of the kindest people I know. I would kill for him.

Mathilde Powers was my favorite teacher in school. When I was enrolled in the local underfunded public school, after years of homeschooling, Mrs. Powers looked out for me. She ran the computer lab, my favorite place in the building, and often let me stay late after school. She has a no-nonsense attitude, and always keeps her hair up in a bun, but she has a soft spot for strays. She adopts a new cat off the street every year.

Claire Devereaux runs a bed and breakfast, playing host to tourists and travels in her home, cooking meals and arranging events and reservations for their stay. She's retired, but her husband works as a Sommelier out of state. In high school I met a foreign exchange student who was staying with them, and for some reason they opened their home to me. Occasionally, I learn juicy secrets from her guests, who are always more willing to share with someone they'll never see again.

My childhood was... different. I knew that, at least on some level, even when I couldn't understand the differences. I was homeschooled until middle school. My life up to that point was training, but not as an athlete, or because I was some kind of prodigy. I learned to lie, to manipulate, to misdirect and to hide. I still struggle with traditional learning. I only graduated by cheating my heart out. I would have lied through my teeth, but by that point I couldn't lie, so I had to settle for half-truths and exaggeration.
We moved before I started school, so I didn't know anyone, but that was for the best. Though they weren't exactly common, with all the odd occasions I was caught performing some task for my mother over the years, or the times someone had a bad impression or experience with us, it would have been much harder to fit in. A blank slate gave me enough leeway to cultivate positive first impressions, but I never really made any friends. Ellis was enough for me.
I wouldn't describe my mother as distant. Perhaps cold is the right word, but even that doesn't seem quite right. If she was my mother. I never knew my father.

When I was younger, I thought one of my neighbors was kind of pretty, and nicer than some of the others, but I don't think that counts. I couldn't escape the hormones and emotional turbulence of puberty, but I don't know if I'd count that either. Maybe Emma Jackson, a girl I got to know in my freshman year, but I think I just liked that she saw me. I don't know why she paid attention, but she did, and she approached me, which didn't happen often. She realized I was cheating in my history class, and she also realized I never actually told any lies. I think she found that interesting, and comforting, in a way. She moved to a different school the year after though.