By Chris, age 14, Dublin
I woke up again,
different again.
The house is empty, a small blessing, but it means I live alone, only the various comics, books, and oh right, the notebook I’m writing in right now, are strewn about like crumbs telling me who I’m meant to be this time.
In here I luckily had a list of errands attached, I must be very organised, ignoring the freakish contents… syringes… test tubes…
In town its very bustling, following the list I entered a lone store, though the shopkeeper gave me a sour look, am I not liked?
I don’t seem to be bothered by the amount of unfriendly glances I get, almost fearful.
On my shopping list there were only stranger items, all relating to some science experiment I am supposedly making, flipping through pages only tells me that this person is crazy about the brain, among other diagrams and symbols, lucky me to be a science freak.
A kid told me he liked my bag and his mother quickly ushered him away, who the hell am i?
I woke up in a double bed this time, distant chatter telling me I no longer live the luxury of a loner.
A mirror in this house this time, though beyond a chaos and blur of colour lining my silhouette, i see nothing, guess its finding myself the hard way again.
Neat and ornate closet, neat clothes, all of them formal, I’m a business man afterall, well according to the stacks of business cards I own.
A brief conversation with my wife tells me I like duck, and have a daughter to pick up from school, I hope I have an automatic.
Fortunately, dangling from my keys is a photo of her.
So far I think I have a solid idea of who I’m meant to be, the old headache trick released some of the suspicion for now.
The radio tells me it’s the 24th of June, and the weathers been nice lately.
My kids’ teacher mentioned something about a play next week, ill mention that, and the weather at dinner. According to my kid my hair is a “boring blonde”. Interesting.
I woke up again.
Different again.
Wrong. Wrong this time.
Alone in a dark hall, only the weak monitors of some machine to light up this post-it note yet whoever I am doesn’t feel alone.
Who could I possibly be to end up here.
Test tubes in biohazard bags labelled “toxic” beside a big diagram of a… brain?
But different… too familiar. I need to remember to tread with caution.
My hands don’t feel my own, not that they ever should have, but they felt like ones I was given. Not ones I stole.
The tang of a lab mixes with the sinking feeling in my gut.
My body is not mine anymore, not that they ever were mine. Not any of them.
It knows that, as it stands before me. Something shifts deep within me.
It knows exactly who I am.