1

Lord, help me be the sort of person my psychiatrist medicates me to be.

— T-SHIRT

I lay on a psychiatrist’s couch, a couch I’d named Alexander Skarsgård the moment my gaze landed on its buttery curves and wide back, and wondered if I should tell Dr. Mayfield about the dead kid scurrying across her ceiling. Probably not.

She crossed her legs – the psychiatrist, not the kid, who was male – and gave me her most practiced smile. “And that’s why you’re here?”

I bolted upright, appalled. “Heavens, no. I’m totally over the whole evil stepmother thing. I just thought, you know, full disclosure and all. FYI, I had an evil stepmother.”

“Had?”

“She died.”

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

“No worries. She had an ugly demon inside of her at the time.”

 

“I see.”

 

“Wait, no, that was her outfit. The demon wasn’t that ugly.”

 

“Ah.”

 

“No, seriously, her outfit was hideous.”

 

“Perhaps we should get back to the fact that you’re the grim reaper?” She pushed plastic-framed glasses up a slender nose. Thankfully, it was hers.

 

“Oh, right.” I relaxed again, falling back into Alexander’s arms. “I pretty much have the reaper thing down. It’s the godly part of me I’m struggling with.”

 

“The godly part.” She bent her head to write something in her notebook. She was quite lovely. Dark hair. Huge brown eyes. Wide mouth. And young. Too young to be analyzing me. How much life experience could she possibly have?

 

“Yes. Ever since I found out I was a god, I’ve felt a little off balance. I think I’m having one of those identity crisises.”

 

“So, you’re a god?”

 

“Wait. What’s the plural of crisis?” When she didn’t answer, I glanced back at her.

 

She’d stopped writing and was looking at me again, her expression mildly expectant. And ever so slightly taxed. She was trying to decide if I was playing her. I wasn’t, but I could hardly blame her for thinking that. Dealing with delusions of grandeur was probably an everyday aspect of her life. Trying to sort out the legit from the cons.

 

When she continued to stare, I said, “I’m sorry, what was the question?”

 

“You’re a god?”

 

“Oh, that. Yes, but to quote a very popular movie, I’m a god, not the God.” I snorted. Bill Murray was so awesome. “Did I forget to mention that?”

 

“Then you’re not the grim reaper?”

 

“Oh, no, I’m that, too. I volunteered. Kind of. Long story. Anyway, I thought you could hypnotize me. You know, give me a full-access pass to my pre-birth memories so I won’t be blindsided again.”

 

“Blindsided?”

 

“Yes. That’s why I’m here. Because my sister refuses to do regressive therapy with me, and —”

 

“Your sister?”

 

“Dr. Gemma Davidson?” The shrink-wrap community couldn’t have been very big. Surely she knew my sister.

 

“Dr. Davidson is your sister?”

 

“Is that a problem?”

 

“Not for me.”

 

“Fantabulous.” I rubbed my hands together. “Okay, so, you know how you’re going through life, remembering everything that ever happened to you since the moment you were born —”

 

“You remember the moment you were born?”

 

“— and suddenly someone says, ‘Hey, remember that time we singed our eyebrows lighting that bowling alley on fire?’ only at first you don’t remember singeing your eyebrows while lighting a bowling alley on fire, but then you think about it and it suddenly comes to you? You totally remember singeing your eyebrows while lighting a bowling alley on fire?”

 

She blinked several times, then wrenched out a “Sure.”

 

“It’s like that. I remember being a god, but not totally. Like parts of my celestial life have been erased from my memory.”

 

“Your celestial life.”

 

“Right. Before I became human? I think I have a glitch.”

 

“It’s… possible, I suppose.”

 

“I mean, who knows? I might already have a way to defeat a malevolent god that’s loose on this plane and not even realize it.”