by Sean Platt
I’m playing these other parts so often. Being other people leaves me no room for myself. But among the trees, there’s no need to pretend that I’m anyone other than the soul resting deep inside the body. It’s the only time I can walk the world as myself.
I keep walking, listening to buzzing insects and chirping birds, branches bowing gently in the wind, letting it all envelop me. I wish I could stop time and live in this moment forever.
It’s not luxurious, decadent, or any of the things people enjoy so much. And yet it’s greater than all of those things — these quiet moments of being my real self in the world.
Eventually, my mind returns to last night’s terror. While some of Lara’s memories are fuzzy, they’re sticking better than any previous host’s. I’m not sure why I’m able to recall so much of yesterday — if it has something to do with the traumatic way in which Lara died, or if there’s some part of her that carried over with me into Yvonne’s body.
I’m not sure if I believe in a soul in the religious sense, as this separate part of us that goes on to Heaven or Hell when we die, but I know there is some part of us that exists beyond our flesh and blood. My existence and my current state of body jumping are proof. And since I have no better word for it, I’m calling it soul. And despite not having a physical body, and brain, the soul remembers. It’s how I’m able to remember bits of other hosts’ lives, even if I can’t recall a splinter of my own. It’s how, I think, I can still access Lara’s memories — because part of her soul is still with me.
I’ve often wondered what happens to the host’s soul when I’m occupying their body. Is it there, watching but unable to do anything to stop the uninvited puppeteer? Or does it go somewhere else? Maybe they enter my body, wherever it is, like some sort of body swap.
I guess that their soul returns when I leave. While I’ve never run into someone after I’ve been in their body, I have looked a few people up online to ensure that they’re still alive and kicking, not locked away in some mental home. I’ve read journals and blog posts from people I’ve been in, searching for some clue as to whether they were aware of what had happened. I’ve yet to find any entries that said, “Oh, man, someone else took over my body yesterday” or “I woke up in someone else’s body” or anything like that. My guess is that somehow their brains are accommodating whatever happened to them, threading my memories into theirs for a seamless transition. I have no proof and have yet to work up the courage to contact someone I’ve been in and ask them what happened.
I’m not sure why, but the thought of doing so overwhelms me with an urgent sense of dread. Like something or someone telling me, don’t do it, or you’ll screw things up.
And if there’s one thing I’ve learned over the past year it’s to trust my gut on all things. Our instincts are aware of so much more than our surface selves, and I’m sure there’s something inside me that understands what’s happening to me even if my brain hasn’t yet figured it out.
Again, I find myself wondering if Lara’s soul is still with me, now in Yvonne’s body.
I try to access random memories from Lara’s past, ones I hadn’t accessed yesterday — ones I’d be seeing for the first time. This could prove that I’m somehow tapped into some part of Lara that still lives on. But everything I see in her memories is a jumbled, fuzzy mess, and I can’t tell if a snippet from her childhood is something I came across yesterday, or am accessing now for the first time.
But given how much of Lara I feel inside me, I feel both her compulsion to save Allie and an obligation to avenge her murder and bring justice to Gavin.
I’m chilled, remembering the way Gavin looked not at Lara, but through her, as if he could see me inside of her. I don’t know if this is in my head or not, but coupled with my recognition of his voice, and that he’s killed one of my hosts before, I know there’s something at play here.
A horrible thought washes over me.
What if it wasn’t a host he’d killed before? What if it was me — the disembodied lost soul — floating from person to person? What if my body is dead and there’s no way I can ever return? What if this vagabond life is my hellish eternity?
While this isn’t the first time I’ve contemplated that I might be some a ghost, the theory has never felt right. I’ve always believed that there had to be some other explanation and that this is a temporary state — someday I’ll have a normal life, back in my own body. I don’t know why I cling to that hope. Maybe because the alternative is too depressing.
If this is my life, then what’s the point of living?
I’m not living my life; I’m trapped in a borrowed existence. Waking up in homes that aren’t mine, making memories that will never belong to me, falling in love with people who don’t know who I am, and will be gone when I open my eyes the next morning. This isn’t a life; this is an unending series of Could Have Beens, and in the end, if there ever is one, what do I, as a person, have to show for it?
Nothing but fuzzy memories of lives lived by proxy.
My mood darkens. Misery threatens to throw me over the edge.
I remind myself of the positives. There are many lives I’ve been in for a day or two that were thoroughly miserable. At least I’m not stuck living out their full existence. I bet these unfortunate souls would trade everything to swap lives every day or so. I get to see humanity from different sexes, races, and lifestyles, to experience every flavor of reality in a way that no other person ever has before.
Despite the opportunity, I still feel like shit.
As much as I try to polish this turd enough to see the bright side, it doesn’t change my eternal loneliness. Every connection I make, every friendship I forge, is for naught. I’m doing all the work while others reap the rewards.
And now I’m not even helping others. I’ve cost Lara her life. Allie may be next if she’s not already dead.
I need to do something. But what?
I can’t go to the Chronicle. Not now. Too many people will need me to do too many things. And, frankly, I don’t know what to do. Not yet.
I decide to head home since I know Tony will be at work.
Once there, I hit the Internet hard, searching for anything I can find in the news, stories about unsolved murders of women and kidnappings in the area, as well as along the West Coast — something I can maybe use to find a clue that might lead me to Gavin and Allie.
I find a few stories, but nothing that helps me, unless my goal is to know how vicious the world can be, and how many atrocities go unsolved each day.
To make matters worse, as I’m trying to read, bits of Lara’s memories gathered yesterday keep running through my head. They’re not even useful memories, just random events. Once she had a dog named Snuffles who ran away when she was seven. She likes when ice cream is partially melted, so it’s almost like a milkshake. She and Allie once spent an entire Saturday watching Mystery Science Theater 3000 while devouring three bags of Doritos and drinking soda, and that was maybe one of the most fun days she’d had as an adult. Those and tons of other little memories that only serve to distract me and make me feel horrible.
I shouldn’t have agreed to meet Gavin. Had I just stayed home, like I wanted, Lara might be alive. Allie might be safe at home, or at least sheltered on Lara’s couch.
But no, I allowed my needs to come before my host’s — my need to find out why Gavin’s voice was so familiar.
And what did my selfishness get me? No answers, a dead woman cut down in the prime of her life, and a missing child who may never escape her misery into happier days.
A wave of guilt has gone out to sea only to gather enough strength to return as a tsunami.
I violated my number one rule — not to mess with people’s lives.
I am useless.
I am worse than useless.
I hurt these people. My actions will ripple, and be felt forever by those who knew them.
I head to the kitchen and am not disappointed to find Yvonne’s wine rack fille
d with many worthy bottles of alcohol.
I drink at first to forget the pain.
Then I drink to fall asleep before I can do more damage to these people.
Chapter Three
Monday
I wake up feeling like I’ve taken all the neighborhood’s drugs and drunk all the alcohol a human can possibly consume and still live to talk about it.
My host spent the night like Keith Richards, but I’m paying the price this morning. Assuming it’s morning.
I open my eyes to look for a clock. Instead, I see what has to be one of the world’s most beautiful women lying in bed beside me. She’s Russian, with long brown hair and large green eyes. She’s wide awake and staring as if waiting for me to get up.
She smiles. Her hand reaches beneath the sheets to find my cock. “You’re up,” she says with a porn star’s purr.
Suddenly, another hand, behind me, reaches down, and a second woman coos, “Yes, he is.”
I turn to see a Latin girl with long black hair and beautiful brown eyes — my girlfriend, Rosa, who apparently doesn’t mind if we bring other women to bed.
“I thought you were gonna sleep forever,” Rosa says, looking like she’s been awake just a bit longer than I have.
It takes me a moment, but finally, details spill forth.
My name is Vincent (Vinnie) Fortunato. I’m thirty-one, and apparently, this is an everyday thing. Officially, I work at The Emerald Club, an exclusive gentleman’s club in Bay Cove, frequented by athletes, stars, and mobsters. Unofficially, I’m a soldier for Sal Bruno, a local mobster.
The Russian is one of Vinnie’s favorite dancers, Katerina, though she’s hardly the only one who has shared our bed.
I look around Vinnie’s spacious bedroom; massive bed, a flowing water sculpture, an 85-inch LCD TV, and abstract paintings hanging on the wall. But no clock, not anywhere.
Then I see my cell on the nightstand to Rosa’s right. “Can you get me my phone?”
She hands it to me. I press the power button and see the time. Four eighteen in the afternoon.
Shit, it’s so late.
I immediately think of Allie and wonder if the deputies have made any headway on her case. I’m still in Clay County, though in the more populated southern part. The fact that I’m still in Bay Cove is an unprecedented third time in the same locale. I can’t help but feel like this is intentional, that the force controlling me is choosing to keep me here. If that is the case, I have to ask, why? Is this force giving me some ability to find Allie?
First, I woke up as Yvonne, the one person who could describe Gavin to the sheriff’s deputies without drawing suspicion, which had to be a huge help in finding Allie. Nobody else could have pushed the case forward like that. Right?
So now I’m Vinnie Fortunato, a mobster.
How the hell can you help me find Allie?
How am I supposed to pull off being a mobster?
I’ve woken in the bodies of criminals before but have never been part of an organized crime family. Suddenly, I’m overwhelmed with thoughts of what this job might entail — extortion, assault, murder?
“You all right?” Rosa asks.
“Still recovering. My head is pounding, and my throat is tore up. Can you get me something?”
I’m careful not to specify a particular drug, as that’s one of those details that could give me away, or at least trigger confusion.
Aspirin? You never take aspirin! In fact, you’re allergic to aspirin. Who are you?
Rosa gets up and heads to the bathroom.
Katerina, meanwhile, reaches back down, trying to coax me into continuing last night’s fun.
“No. Not now.”
I’m short with her. Not rude, but not overly kind. I can feel that Vinnie keeps most people at a distance. I’m not sure if this is how he’s hardwired, not to trust anyone too much, or a method to keep women interested. Probably both.
Katerina looks wounded, gets up, searches for her dress on the ground, and slinks out of the room.
Both girls are stunning, and any guy would be lucky to wake up between them, but I can’t bring myself to capitalize on the offer. That’s not to say I’ve never had sex with anyone while in a host. There have been a few times, but they’ve never been with someone the host was already in a relationship with. To me, it’s a violation on many levels, to have sex with someone the host knows. I’d be taking advantage of an existing union, and tricking the person. Strangers, or someone the host is just meeting, are fair game. In those cases, I don’t feel like I’m lying.
It’s one of my codes, even if it’s harder than most to live by. Sometimes, particularly when I’m in a body for a few days, it’s hard to find excuses to turn someone down that won’t cause problems in the relationship. I also come to feel for some of these people. It’s only natural. And the more I like them, the harder it is not to crave physical connection.
Rosa returns, hands me three white pills, then pulls a bottle of cold water from a mini fridge in the nightstand.
“Here ya go.”
She sits beside me on the bed while I look at the pills. They don’t have a recognizable logo or name, and I’m guessing they’re painkillers, probably the kind Vinnie would normally use for recreation.
I want to numb this headache, without feeling the euphoria that might dull my thoughts. I need to look for connections, to find some way that Vinnie, or someone he knows, might help me find Allie.
I take one pill and put the other two on the nightstand, hoping that doesn’t draw too much attention.
Why are you only taking one? You usually take three just to get up at the crack of four. You’re not Vinnie!
I swallow the pill then take a swig of the cold water, which feels like heaven to my dry, cracked throat. I’m surprised how thirsty I am and gulp down the bottle.
Rosa doesn’t say anything about me taking one pill.
We sit there for a moment, uncomfortably silent. It makes me wonder what kind of relationship Vinnie and Rosa have. Is it a good sign that they can both sit there quietly, just enjoying one another’s company? Or is he a controlling asshole who doesn’t let his woman speak? I can’t plug into his feelings for her.
She’s staring down at the sheets at first, but then she looks up at me and smiles. Not an awkward smile, but one that suggests a solid relationship. That’s good. Because one of my other codes is to act like my host, so as not to draw attention. If the host is an asshole, I can’t go around being nice and giving people lavish gifts and shit to make up for the host’s usual cruelty. It would be unkind in its own way, giving people a place to hang their hope, a reason to stay in a relationship they might otherwise leave.
Oh, look, he’s not so bad. I can make this work.
If anything, I’d rather be meaner, maybe push someone out of a bad relationship, if I don’t think it’ll do more harm than good once the host returns. But I have no line on how a mobster handles a woman leaving him. Would he be compelled to put a hit on her or something? It’s best to keep the status quo.
“What?” Rosa asks, knowing my wheels are turning.
“Nothin’. Just looking at you.”
She leans forward and kisses me.
Kissing a lover or spouse is one of the trickiest parts of this gig. Kisses are personal. I feel guilty for violating the host’s relationship. But I can’t pull away without harm. And I never quite know how the host kisses. Involve the tongue, and it’s like a dance where you have to follow your partner’s lead. Go too soft or too aggressive, and suddenly the kiss becomes a disaster, and the other person is looking at you like the stranger you are.
That’s not how you normally kiss! What’s going on?
Fortunately, Rosa’s kiss is a soft, yet tender, peck on the lips. Amazing how much I can tell from a kiss. In Rosa’s, I can feel her genuine affection for Vinnie. I’m not yet sure what kind of guy Vinnie is, but whatever is going on between him and Rosa, it’s good.
She looks at me. “I’ll let y
ou get ready for your meeting. I’ll take Katerina home, okay?”
Thanks to my splitting headache, I can play up my forgetfulness. “What meeting?”
“With Gray. At six. You forget?”
A name pops into my head, Duncan Gray, a Bay Cove city councilman. Why he’s meeting with Vinnie, though, I don’t know.
“Yeah, totally spaced on it,” I say, hoping I’m sounding close to how I feel like Vinnie talks.
Sometimes when I’m in people, I can hear their voice, memories, like best-of clips, running through their brains, replaying old conversations. This is helpful when it comes to sounding like my host. But sometimes people think in words they’d never use in public. One time I was in a straight-laced prim and proper fifty-year-old bank manager named Susan. Her head was filled with gangsta rap lyrics. She thought of her customers as bitches that needed to get stitches. I assume she normally kept those thoughts to herself. I wasn’t going to put her job at risk by attempting to talk like that. Though, I did find myself laughing at her mostly inappropriate thoughts throughout the day. Those eight hours were a struggle. It’s a miracle I managed to keep her job.
Rosa leaves the bedroom, and I finally get out of bed.
As I shower and dress, I cull Vinnie’s memories for details of my meeting with the councilman. Apparently, there’s a big exchange about to take place. I’m supposed to hand over a flash drive with incriminating photos and videos of a local church pastor, James Wilson, engaged in some less than Godly behavior.
How Vinnie got the evidence, or why Councilman Gray wants it, I don’t know. I’m probably working under the auspices of Mr. Bruno.
After my shower, I dry off and head into a huge walk-in closet, greeted with perhaps the most expensive clothing I’ve ever seen in a man’s wardrobe. I choose a pair of fitted charcoal trousers and a white dress shirt. I vaguely recognize some of the brands, while others I’ve never heard of. Everything is exquisitely tailored. Probably bespoke.
I dress in the full-length mirror and admire Vinnie’s physique. He parties hard but has the kind of body that requires daily hours in the gym to maintain. He’s broad-shouldered, with olive skin and a killer smile. He could be a movie star — if he wasn’t a mobster.