Monthly Prompt: Who Am I?

Dear Readers,

First things first. This post is late, meant to come out last Friday. It's even late for the pushed deadline I promised. I have dropped the ball. This post was meant to go out on Halloween, I was late finishing it, and there's no excuses. 

I could tell you I've been busy balancing my regular life with my creative life, and designing merch for the upcoming book, and that I forgot to hit publish. I wouldn't be lying if I did. I would be lying if I said that made it alright for this post to come as late as it did.

Please enjoy the horror story below, and feel free to bring this up during every fight we have moving forward. Thank you.

Who Am I?

2-5k words about someone who no longer recognizes themself in the context of a horror story. It could be about their physical appearance, the person they've become, or decisions they've made.

There were no submissions this month so this is what I've written for it. 

I’d come to think of this body, this life, as mine.

I hadn’t planned on taking it. Then again, I never had. Sometimes I simply wake up and I’m someone else. There seemed to be no reason behind it. No triggers or patterns beyond ruining yet another life in an endless journey through the bodies.

The only thing I knew for certain was that if I could act as whoever they used to be well? No one would know their loved one was gone.

But this body. This world I was pushed into. It was better than any I’d taken before. That I could remember anyway. I’d been pushed through so many I couldn’t remember far enough back to know.

I didn’t even know who I was born as. Man, woman, or otherwise. No name existed to try and identify that existence from any other I’d experienced. I didn’t know how many years ago I’d been that person. How many lives existed between the first and this one.

The one I was in was a man, which often felt more comfortable. Less performative. His name was Chris and he kept a detailed report of his life. Modern technology really is amazing.

All it took was a few hours going through his phone to piece together who he was, and who he wanted others to think he was.

First is always social media. It was once digging around for a journal or diary or even a collection of letters. Social media was better. Pictures of his friends and family with their faces tagged, activities he enjoyed, memories and events filling in crucial information needed to assimilate quickly.

I then checked his maps app and found a history of places his car had been. Each had a to-the-second timestamp so I knew where he went, and when he typically went there.

He kept multiple journals. A food journal with tagged recipes filled in a week at a time told me what his diet would look like, he rarely ate out, and he meal prepped. It included extra entries when he would “cheat” his diet or someone stole his lunch from the work fridge.

The calendar app was filled to the brim with birthdays, parties, appointments, even a work schedule.

My favorite journal was his personal journal. He didn’t write every day, but most of them, and each recounted the missing days information with inside jokes and detailed accounts of his relationships.

One big issue arose. There were, interspersed with his detailed documentation about himself, long periods that simply weren’t there. Months of missing information.

I’d long since learned that it wouldn’t benefit me to worry too badly about it. It would take time to get his mannerisms right and asking about the past could expose me.

I successfully got through the initial part of it. Now who I was and who he was almost felt like the same person. This body had been mine for eight months now. My personal record, a sign that perhaps whatever kept moving me between lives was stabilizing.

This life, my life as Chris, was pristine. He was engaged to a man named Brian, they had been together for several years.

Brian was kind, funny, the type help you clean up after he put flour in your showerhead and accidentally turned the water stream into batter. The type to go with you to the gym even if it wasn’t his thing. The type to make you feel tingles when he traced your tattoo.

He was also close to his family. So was I…Chris. They had somehow become my…his family. No. My family. Just as much as Chris’ own family had.

I worked at a midsize company as a payroll accountant. Chris did. A full time job, with good pay. It had been so long since I’d been able to grocery shop without checking my bank account.

All that practice budgeting, figuring out how many hours to work so the lights wouldn’t be shut off and how much would probably be taken out in taxes, calculating holiday pay and overtime. It came in handy in this life.

Accounting was the best job I could have discovered having. Aside from being good at it, I genuinely enjoyed it. The numbers, the reconciliations, the standardized forms.

After work Chris liked to head to the gym. He had several socials dedicated to what he called his “gym bro journey.” He did regular videos of him doing weight training. He was training for a marathon, and could run without losing his breath for miles.

Often Brian would join. We made content together, mostly doing his yoga class but sometimes making protein shakes together. Sometimes showing his pranks.

All the physical activity meant this body was strong. It wasn’t a struggle to carry all the bags from the store in a single trip. It was helpful given the elevator had been broken in the apartment building since before I took Chris’ body, my body, and I lived on the fifth floor.

Recently I’d stopped going to the gym. I finished the home gym in the spare bedroom, only half put together when it became mine.

Once a month I had lunch with Tina, Chris’ sister. It was the one meal a month I didn’t stick to my diet and didn’t feel guilty about it. We’d go to the fast food place he worked at as a teenager and order the same meals every time. While we ate we’d share family gossip.

Aunt Carol’s mishap at her church bake sale, accidentally using salt instead of sugar in the apple cake she claimed to be famous for. Which cousin was getting married, who was getting divorced.

The first time I’d almost been found out. Tina and I had a secret handshake that didn’t exist in recent journals. Luckily I was able to find Chris’ old handwritten journals from his teen years.

His instructions for the handshake were detailed and included tips on how to remember the order. It was a miracle, really, how obsessive he was about being remembered. About every insignificant detail of his life being documented for “posterity.”

The first entry of the oldest journal explained why. His father had severe dementia before he’d died. His greatest misfortune. My greatest advantage.

No life in all of my own expansive memory had been so perfect. Easy to replicate. Enjoyable in the performance. Stable in every way. No life in all my memory had been one I genuinely wanted to keep.

I’d long since stopped being bothered by replacing people in their own bodies, so the bittersweet had faded into just the sweet.

Everything was all the more sweet when I decided to lower my defenses and allow myself to feel for the people in my life. I looked forward to my mother visiting and bringing my favorite homemade chili. My mood was high on the days my monthly lunch with Tina landed on. A smile I didn’t have to fake crossed my face when Brian entered the room.

This was the perfect life. It seemed this might also be my last. Usually I’d wake up as someone else every few weeks, sometimes a couple months, occasionally a few days.

It had been eight months. Hope turned into optimism turned into belief that I could keep this one. A belief I had stopped holding over a hundred bodies ago. I’d forgotten how good it felt to care.

I was…happy.

The memories no longer felt like they belonged to someone else. I hadn’t lived them myself but I felt like I did. The lessons he learned over time felt like my own.

When something good happened to someone in my life I could authentically celebrate with them. When there were losses I could just as authentically mourn them. I was confident enough to finally agree to getting a dog with Brian.

Chris hadn’t wanted to. He’d been so against it that Brian thought I was sick when I asked if he still wanted one. 

Then missing periods in the journals became important.

It was during movie night. Both of our families would come and we’d stream a new movie from our streaming service on our projector. The rule was no phones but I always just silenced mine. Everyone who might call was in the room, what was the harm?

Then it started buzzing on the coffee table. There had been giggles and whispered conversations through the movie, all of it died when the contact name came up.

It was a string of emojis I couldn’t make sense of. A knife, a dancing woman, a swearing emoji, a red X.

Everyone looked at the phone, getting closer to the edge of the table with every burst of vibrations. They looked at the phone and stared at me. I had no idea why.

My eyes jumped straight to Brian. He asked why…she…was calling, how did she get my number, had I seen her creeping around lately.

I’d become so comfortable I almost asked who she was, what she had done to me or Brian. Perhaps both of us? Panic rose as I stuttered over words that weren’t really words. I couldn’t ruin this life. Not like I had all the rest. But how could I not if someone tried to really talk to me about it?

My luck seemed to hold out. The phone stopped ringing, Tina told everyone to forget about it and watch the movie.

While everyone turned back to the screen, the whispers and giggles didn’t start back up. Whoever this woman was she was important in a bad way.

The next morning Brian stopped me from getting ready for work. He thought it might be best if I called in sick, offered to text my boss for me if I wanted him to. I saw the text over his shoulder.

“Chris can’t come in. You know who is back and he needs to lay low.”

He asked if I wanted to talk about it, if this was why I’d been acting weird the last several months, that he’d thought it was me finally starting to feel safe from her but was I just pretending?

I said I didn’t want to talk about it.

I said I’d do whatever he thought was best about it.

I said I’d be fine home alone.

I promised not to take the dog for a walk.

I promised not to leave the apartment at all.

I promised I wouldn’t even use my phone unless something happened.

I lied. I lied and it riddled me with guilt. All he wanted to do was protect me, make sure I was okay physically and mentally. He left for work thinking I would keep my word and telling me we’d have a real conversation about things when he got home after.

As soon as his car pulled down the street, just visible from the window, I snatched my phone from it’s charging port and pulled up my recent calls.

For a few minutes I just stared at the missed call. Everything indicated calling her would be a bad idea. She was clearly dangerous and significant. Everything also indicated I wouldn’t get any part of the story from anyone but her.

I hit the call button.

The only thing she said before I heard the knock on the door was a darkly seductive voice saying, “I knew you’d come around. I’m not letting you go this time.”

I never felt more like an imposter than I did when my body cringed away from the sound. When my hands instinctively threw the phone at the sound of her. For the first time I remembered something from before this body was my host.

I remembered a name. Rebecca. I whispered the name to myself and knew I should call the police, call Brian, call Tina, reach out to everyone in my contact list until someone who could come over answered.

Rebecca knocked again, louder than the first time. I heard her through the door telling me she knew I was home and alone. She never stopped loving me. She brought her gear just in case.

The more she spoke the more I realized how big of a mistake I had made. When I peeked through the peephole I saw her and immediately felt nauseous at the rope she was holding. She leaned against the door to peek in and I dropped to the floor hoping she hadn’t seen me.

Her promises reeked of being as true as my own that morning. It won’t get out of hand this time, she’s over her jealousy issues, if I wanted her to leave she would, could I just walk her to her car.

I couldn’t bring myself to speak. I couldn’t remember any details really, but I knew that I had destroyed this life.

Chris had a stalker and I’d inadvertently made her think he was inviting her back into his life. I wasn’t even the same person but knew she’d never understand. Never believe it and decide to find a new obsession.

So I sat against the door. I cried. I prayed to the god Chris believed in. I hugged the dog for comfort.

And I listened to her continue to bang on the door and shout promises that grew into threats, morphed into apologies, and cycled back to promises. It continued for hours.

The clock on the stove told me it was almost time for Brian to return and Rebecca was still pounding on the door. She stopped in the middle of a threat to come back with an axe. I heard his voice saying something that didn’t quite make it into the apartment.

Then I heard a cackle that pushed me into overdrive.

I flung the door open to reveal Brian defending himself against her. She was armed with a kitchen knife and he was trying to block her attacks with his briefcase.

Grabbing her from behind I yelled for him to run, get somewhere safe, call the police. Then I felt something strange. A feeling I’d experienced in previous bodies but almost forgotten. She stabbed me.

As my vision faded to black I saw Brian make it to the stairwell, pulling his phone out of his pocket as he went.

Rebecca cursed and accused me of making her promises lies. Look at what I’d made her do.

Her voice turned to echoes when she pulled the knife out and I started spurting blood. I was dizzy. Cold. Fading.

My eyes opened.

I didn’t recognize the room, but I did recognize the smell of the ocean permeating the pillow under my head. I knew just by the dull ache in my back that I was no longer Chris.

It took several minutes before I could bring myself to sit up. I’d just lost the best life I’d ever had. I ached for the people who would now be mourning me. Him. Chris. I resolved to never let myself become attached again. To just play the part. To ignore the way I wanted to scream.

An alarm sounded and I found the phone it was coming from and hoped this body had set up biometrics.

First is always social media.

If you made it this far, you'll probably like my book Shinelle. It comes out November 28 and is available for preorder now.