New Identity

by Tenaya MKD

  It was one hundred percent, without a shadow of a doubt, Cayde. And that meant he was no gas man, or mailman for that matter.

  He lied to me!

  My gut told me he knew something about what was going on with me. He had to! Life just isn't that coincidental.

  He must have followed me. But how could he have followed me when I’m not even sure where I am? That’s a good question.

  “Are you new? I've never seen you delivering mail here before.”

  “Yeah, I just transferred here.”

  “What's your name?” I asked.

  “Cayde, and yours?”

  “Umm, Jim.” Jim Beam was on my mind.

  “It's nice to meet you, Jim.” He closed the door to the mailboxes. He seemed like he was about to walk away, but at the last second convinced himself to ask me something.

  “Have you noticed anyone new around the complex today? I'm looking for a young woman with red hair. She'd stand out.”

  So, he definitely followed me here! But he doesn't know that I’m in a different body. What does he know, then?

  I didn't want to give him any more information about me than he already had. There was no doubt now that I could not trust him. Whatever trust I'd felt yesterday evaporated with the knowledge that he'd been lying to me since the moment we met.

  Trusting people is never smart.

  “Nope, I haven't seen anyone new around here. Besides you.” My eyes narrowed on him. But he didn’t seem to notice.

  “Alright. Well, thanks anyway. Have a good one!” He situated his fake mail bag on his broad shoulder and walked away.

  I couldn't think fast enough.

  Do I follow him? I can't just let him go!

  I wasn’t exactly inconspicuous in Jim’s body. But Cayde was the lead I needed. He knew something about me.

  A seed of hope sprouted in the bottom of my stomach. I waited until he had reached the street and turned left. Then I followed, moving as quickly as I could without “Jim’s” smoker’s body hacking up a lung. By the time I reached the street, Cayde was getting into a white van. One that was obviously not a mail truck.

  Damn liar.

  It didn't take him long to start it up and drive away. In my depressed state that morning, I hadn't bothered to look for Jim's keys, or find his car. So, short of trying to run down the street in my bare feet, I was out of options to follow him.

  The hope that had grown didn't wither though. I knew I would see him again. If he found me today, he would find me again tomorrow. And tomorrow, I would be ready to confront him.

  I walked back into Jim's apartment with my mind racing.

  What will I say to him? What if he won’t answer my questions?

  I wanted to believe that I'd be collected and intimidating. That I’d demand he give me the answers I needed. And an apology for his dishonesty. But knowing myself the little that I did, I didn't want to get my hopes too high. The last time I’d had to start a difficult conversation, I ended up talking to a priest.

  Even so, just knowing that I had a plan, made anxious energy build in my chest. It felt a little like fire. Normally, it might have been uncomfortable. But after the numbness I’d felt earlier, it was kind of wonderful.

  My stomach growled loudly. Chances of finding anything worth eating in the messy kitchen weren’t good, but I went to look anyway. I found a can of generic chili in the cupboard and some frozen dinners in the freezer. The chili would have to do. There wasn't a clean dish in the place, so I washed a scratched steel pot and a big, wooden spoon.

  While the chili warmed on the stove, I paced the kitchen. That fire I was feeling made standing still impossible. I ended up doing the rest of Jim's dishes, just to busy my hands. When the chili was hot enough, I ate the beans straight from the pot. Chewing happened strictly via auto pilot. I barely tasted any of it, which was probably for the best. I don't imagine it was very good chili.

  After washing the pot and spoon, I left the kitchen in a much better state than I'd found it.

  You're welcome, Jim.

  The living room, however, was still trashed. Without thinking about it, I started cleaning. The biggest task was collecting the copious amounts of garbage scattered everywhere: crinkled Natural Ice cans, Burger King wrappers, paper plates, and various other bullshit. I bagged it all up and put it by the front door.

  After hours of pacing and cleaning, the apartment looked almost decent, and I was exhausted. The entire time I cleaned, I’d been trying to imagine the conversation I would have with Cayde tomorrow.

  How do I confront him? He will expect Sarah, so I’ll have the element of surprise. Maybe I should just punch him in the face and demand answers? That's what I feel like doing. I should probably be tactful though...

  It didn’t really matter what I’d say, because by the end of the conversation I would be closer to answers. Closer to my own life. And to my memories. I was clinging to the hope that gave me, like it was my lifeline. It was, really. Without it, I was back in the pit of depression, wallowing right alongside Jim.

  I was hopeful for Jim now too. He’d wake up tomorrow to a clean apartment, and a note on his coffee table that reads: “Take care of yourself.” It might just confuse him. I hoped he’d take it as a sign though. A chance to start fresh.

  After changing all the sheets on the ratty twin bed, I felt okay about laying on it. I got under the covers and willed tomorrow to come faster.

  Tomorrow, I get answers.

  6

  I’m a woman again!

  Who knew having a vagina could feel like such a blessing? I peed with ease, first thing in the morning. It was marvelous.

  In anticipation of confronting Cayde, I dressed right away. I needed to feel like a badass to be my most-intimidating self, so I dug through the dresser. I eventually landed on a pair of high-waisted, black leggings and a black, long-sleeve shirt. The push-up sports bra I chose showed some cleavage, but not enough to be impractical. Running shoes from the closet floor completed the look.

  I’m ready to kick a liar’s ass.

  The past two days Cayde had found me at the home of the person I was inhabiting, so I decided I’d stay put and wait. Thankfully, I was a single woman with a house all to herself today.

  This home was lived in. Comfy. Acrylic paintings featuring different leaves on white canvas decorated the walls throughout the house. When you looked at them closely, you could see each brushstroke and paint layer. They were lovely. And I had a feeling that the woman I was in had painted them herself.

  Unique crystals and rocks decorated every flat surface I could see. The entire house smelled of a sweet, woodsy incense that she must have burned the night before. I loved it all. Pieces of mail, and other knick-knacks cluttering the tables, just made the home feel more welcoming to me.

  While I waited for my coffee to brew in the kitchen, I used a mirror in the entryway to look at my unknowing hostess. I had already pulled her long, black hair into a high ponytail. Her dark skin was smooth, like she was wearing foundation makeup, even though she wasn't. And her brown eyes were lined with long, dark lashes that didn't need a single swipe of mascara to look defined.

  When I find my own face, I hope it’s half this attractive.

  The fragrance of the freshly brewed coffee pulled me back to the kitchen. She kept her mugs hanging on a mug tree on the counter, next to the coffeepot. It was easy to grab the largest she had and pour coffee to the top.

  All that was left was to wait.

  After about five minutes of waiting, I was already losing my cool.

  What the hell is taking him so long?

  I finished my coffee as slowly as I could, without letting it get cold. Once I was pleasantly wired, I figured I might as well address the empty feeling in my stomach. I considered making a big breakfast, like I’d been craving for days. Eggs and hash browns, with sourdough toast, sounded to die for! And all the ingredients were in the kitchen. But I didn't want to be in the middle of cooking when Cayde finall
y showed up, so I settled on plain, instant oatmeal.

  I should have made the big breakfast.

  I ate. I found out my current name was Trish. I wandered around the house, admiring the many art pieces and decorations. I even read a few chapters of The Art of Happiness by the Dalai Lama. Hours had gone by. And there was still no sign of Cayde.

  Maybe he is afraid to approach me? If he was in disguise yesterday, maybe he never intended to approach me? Maybe he just wants to keep an eye on me.

  That thought made my skin crawl. What a creep! He could be watching this house right now...

  Well, if that’s the case, it's time to draw him out.

  He wouldn't recognize that it was me leaving. But if he believed I was in this house, I hoped my leaving would inspire him to move in closer, or otherwise show himself. Grabbing Trish's keys, I headed out the door. I slammed it behind me, so there was no way he’d miss it.

  The suburban street was swaying in the gusting wind. Thankfully, my ass-kicking outfit happened to be long sleeves because I hadn't thought to grab a sweater.

  Walking slowly, I scanned the street for the white van I’d seen Cayde in yesterday. When I didn't see it, I widened my search to include any vans; then any cars with people in them; then anyone at all. Nothing.

  The entire block was full of cookie-cutter houses with manicured lawns, basketball hoops, and Hondas. But not a single person was outside. It was the perfect picture of middle-class suburbia, but abandoned and painted in a foggy gray. I shivered. And not from the cold. I found myself looking over my shoulder every few steps.

  Wind passed through my clothes, chilling my skin. Crossing my arms over my chest, I moved my feet a little quicker. I decided I’d only walk to the end of the block, then loop around and go back to the house. If that wasn’t enough, I’d just have to try again later, with a coat on.

  Screeching tires caught my attention. A black van was speeding around the corner in front of me. I was so startled by the sound that I froze on the spot. A huge mistake.

  It only took the van’s driver a second to flip around and drift into a stop at the curb next to me. Then another second for three men, dressed in black down to their leather gloves, to jump out of the van's sliding back door. They grabbed me from both sides, easily lifting me into the van.

  I had no hope of struggling free from their tight grips. But I thrashed anyway. There hadn't even been time to scream before they gagged me with a bandana and duct taped my wrists together behind my back.

  One of the men simply said, “Drive.” The tires broke traction with a loud squeal as they sped back down the block the way they'd come.

  The back of the van was stripped, except for small stools bolted to the floor. The three men sat on them in front of me, using their arms to brace themselves against the erratic way we swayed on the road. But I had no such luxury. I slammed into the walls with every harsh turn we took.

  They all had bored looks on their thick faces. As if kidnapping a woman off the street was just another day for them. No big deal. That scared me more than anything.

  These men are practiced.

  It's amazing how the body reacts to panic. Adrenaline was pumping through my entire body with force. I was terrified, but those feelings were merely lingering in the back of my mind. On the forefront was an extreme focus on what to do next.

  I have to get away.

  My senses were functioning on levels I didn't know were possible. I could smell that one of the men had used lavender soap that morning. I could hear that the man with his back to me was pushing buttons on a cell phone, presumably sending a message to whoever they worked for. I was taking in every detail about the assholes’ faces.

  Never forget them.

  I had no way of seeing where we were though. There were no windows in the back. And I couldn't see out the windshield from where I was. But I could feel in how the tires met the ground that we had turned onto a dirt road.

  I gathered up every ounce of power that the coursing adrenaline was lending me, and I kicked up at the man in front of me. My foot connected with his skull, whipping his head forcefully into the side of the van. He fell, limp.

  One down.

  “What the hell was that?!” the driver yelled, turning back to look at us.

  The van swerved violently. I slammed hard into the wall, but so did the men in the back with me. Pain wasn't registering for me, but the two still conscious seemed shaken.

  “Damnit, Kyle! Keep the van steady!” the biggest man yelled.

  I positioned myself with my back to the wall, readying to kick again. Both men lunged at me, going for my legs. But I was ready for them. And they were clumsy. I slid onto my back and rolled to the left at the last second, avoiding their hands entirely.

  With more strength than I would have thought possible, I kicked them each squarely in the jaw and sent them flying.

  One of them went upwards, crashing into the roof. The biggest flew backwards. His upper body landed between the two front seats, nearly in the driver’s lap. I’m not sure whether he hit the wheel, or if he just startled Kyle so much that he lost control, but we swerved off the road. The van rolled.

  Everything moved in slow motion as my body bounced off one hard surface after another. When we finally stopped rolling, it was a struggle to pull air into my lungs. I could actually feel myself bruising. Adrenaline was running out. And exhaustion was taking over.

  The van was lying on its side. Kyle had been flung into the passenger’s door and I was pinned against the cold, metal wall, under the dead weight of the three unconscious men.

  Please be knocked out.

  Kyle groaned.

  Of course.

  With the last of my strength, I fought to get my hands free so I would have some hope of defending myself. But between the duct tape and the men on top of me, it was impossible. Blood ran from Kyle’s nose, painting his mouth red. But he was still climbing over the armrest. He would reach me any second.

  Exhaustion, and probably concussion, were causing my vision to tunnel. But I thought a blurry figure dropped into the van from the driver’s side door, just before my eyes closed.

  They won. But at least I didn't make it easy.

  7

  A single, exposed lightbulb hung from the ceiling above my head. It gave off a dingy, yellow hue that, despite being dim, irritated my eyes.

  The stiff, green cot I was on groaned as I sat up. I moved slowly, expecting to feel battered. I was fine though. My muscles were stiff, like I’d been in one position too long. But that was nothing compared to what I should have felt. A glance downward confirmed that I was in a new body. Trish’s smooth, dark skin had been replaced by pasty white.

  What happened to Trish?

  The walls, floor, and ceiling were all cement. I took that as a bad sign. It was such a small space that if I stretched my arms out, I could nearly touch two opposite walls at once. It was more of a closet, really. A creepy cement closet.

  There was a stale quality to the air too. Like when you set the air conditioner in your car to only cycle the cabin air.

  Am I underground?

  I didn't think I was claustrophobic, but that idea made my mouth suddenly dry.

  On the wall behind me was a metal door, and a mirror that spanned from the edge of the doorframe to the corner of the room. I knew it was a two-way mirror right away. There is no other reason to have a mirror that big in a room this small. Imagining that there was someone on the other side, watching me like an animal in a cage, thoroughly pissed me off.

  “Alright, you bastards!” I pushed myself up off the cot. “What the hell do you want from me?”

  Now level with the mirror, my breath caught in my throat. I was so pale that I looked almost sickly in the baggy, green hospital scrubs I had on. Short, messy, pitch-black hair only highlighted that fact, and drew even more attention to the nearly white, gray eyes that were looking back at me.

  I wanted to approach the mirror, to stare at them mor
e closely. But the thought of someone on the other side made me look away instead.

  If I’m in a new body, then how do they still have me?

  “What have you done with Trish? If you want anything from me, you better not have hurt her!”

  Hopefully, they do want something from me... If I was taken at random, Trish and I are both fucked.

  Every minute that passed with silence from my kidnappers made me angrier. My stomach acid felt like lava boiling in my gut as I paced back and forth. They'd attacked me, put Trish's body through hell, locked me up, and now wouldn't even talk to me?

  When Cayde finally entered the room, I was seething.

  “It's about damn time!”

  “Hi, Sarah.”

  “'Hi?’ You just kidnapped me, and you say 'Hi’?”

  His eyes were wide, as if he hadn’t expected me to tear into him.

  “Why the hell have you been following me? What am I doing here? What have you done with Trish?” With each of my questions I became more intense, building until I was inches from Cayde's face. I had been pushed to my edge. And it was showing.

  He took a couple steps back. “Please calm down.” He held his palms out, like he was trying to settle a wild animal. “I did not kidnap you. I'm the one who saved you from being kidnapped. You are free to leave here whenever you'd like. And Trish is fine. Well, she's in the hospital. But she will make a full recovery.”

  At least Trish is safe.

  The lava in my stomach cooled, but only slightly. Cayde had still lied to me.

  He dropped his hands to his sides, apparently satisfied that I wouldn’t attack him. But he still backed up the couple of steps that the tiny room would allow.

  “What do you mean, you stopped them?” I said adamantly. “If I remember right, I stopped them pretty damn well, all on my own.”

  He smirked. “Yes, you did. I got to you just as the van was flipping over. I knocked out the last guy and brought you here.”

  “Then that’s what you should have said. You don't get to come in at the last minute and then act like you're the big hero who saved the damsel in distress. I kicked plenty of ass.”