Why Not Me

I parked the car, eager to leave its stale embrace, and step out into the busy lot. The grey skies above made me reluctant, having forgotten to pack an umbrella, I was tempted to sit it out for a bit until things cleared up, though I was already running late.

Impatient, and excitable, I grabbed my bag from the boot, and dashed across the tarmac towards the reception, following the confusing sign-posts across the large car park towards a rather ramshackle hut.

To my surprise, and muted concern, the resort - from here - seemed like nothing more than a deserted air-strip, a few hangars and workshop-like barns dotted about the place. Somewhere you might imagine people would test-drive cars nowadays.

At the reception desk I was greeted with a glowing smile by a young man called Clark.

"Mr. Benson," he squeezed my hand to shake it eagerly, "it is an absolute pleasure to meet you. Did you have a good trip?"

"Yeah, it was all right, bit of traffic on the A22, but..." I tailed off, suddenly feeling like this was supposed to be part of it and I wasn't quite playing along.

"Well," he beamed, "I'm sure everything will be absolutely perfect from here on. Ah," his eyes discovered a short, neat young man standing just behind me, "here's your assistant, Mr. Kendrick."

Mr. Kendrick stepped forward, his face young and pale, his eyes wide and keen. "Sorry I'm late sir..."

"No, it was -" I began, but the expression on Kendrick's face suggested I change my tune; "That's quite all right."

"We'll take a car to the hotel, this way sir."

Kendrick lead me past the reception, down some steps and into - what looked like - a small parking garage. There was a discrete black car with tinted windows waiting, the driver stood by the door, holding it open, nodded his greeting.

I slid in and Kendrick followed.

As we drove he began listing a schedule to me, whilst reassuring me that everything was in hand, he offered me a drink, a virgin bloody Mary, which, when we reached out destination I was allowed to take with me.

A hotel bellhop got the car door for us, he smiled and wished me a good day, and Kendrick handed him a tip, which the bellhop thanked me for. I was ushered into the hotel lobby, Kendrick steered me away from the reception towards the elevator - having already checked in on my behalf earlier - and we emerged, after a quick ascent, in the exclusive penthouse suite.

Practically as soon as I stepped into the room, even before I'd had a chance to take in its luxuriant decor, a room service trolley had been wheeled in for me to enjoy a delicious brunch of eggs Florentine followed by Belgian waffles with fresh strawberries. I had a glass of champagne, which I drank standing on the balcony over-looking the city. The weather was cool and calm.

When I returned to my room a nervous looking young woman was standing next to Kendrick. She pushed a fallen length of hair back behind her ear and was introduced to me as Allie McCullough, a reporter for Marquee magazine.

She extends her arm, offering a hand, "It really is an absolute pleasure to meet you."

We talk for thirty minutes, I'm a little awkward myself, unsure of how to respond to some of her questions, but for the most part she's delightful and offers me all sorts of praise and compliments. At first I was bashful, blushing beetroot, but soon the wealth of compliments made me feel like, yes, I deserved them. Why not? It felt good, and she didn't seem sycophantic in her praise, just honest.

As our time together drew towards an end Kendrick stepped over and whispered for things to be brought to a close. I had a signing to attend, so it was back down in the elevator, into the car and off - a short drive - to a nearby record store, a large, yet cool, retailer that already had a queue snaking outside.

I was rushed in, to cheers and applause, down the aisles towards a small table that was set up with a large poster advertising my presence.

With coffee and cake at my side, and another assistant - a young woman by the name of Bea - I met hundreds of fans, people who were all smiles - some actually crying with joy - who just wanted to meet me, shake my hand, some asked for a hug, and everyone wanted a photo. It was overwhelming, and they shared their stories with me, how my work had changed their life, had spoken to them, made them realise something fundamental about themselves that - until then - they had never had a chance to really understand. It was humbling.

Afterwards I felt exhausted, even though I'd barely left my seat for two hours, and we drove to a charming little restaurant for lunch. A complimentary bottle of champagne was gifted by the manager, who said she was also a fan of my work and asked for an autograph.

We then went to a boutique fashion store so I could get a suit for a red carpet event I was due to attend that evening. I, at first, was apprehensive about being too extravagant with my choices but the manager of the store told me that it was all free as I was doing him a great service wearing it to the premiere that night.

"Just remember," he smiled, "to tell everyone where it came from!"

Then I got my hair done, a manicure, teeth whitening, everything.

And so that evening I went to the premiere of a new blockbuster film, but as I stepped out of the limo and walked the red carpet I was dazzled by a hundred camera flashes and the sound of people - both photographers and fans - screaming my name.

"Mr. Benson, sir, this way sir," the photographers seemed to shout in unison, making a little disorienting as to which way I should turn.

Kendrick had advised me to dictate, with my body language, as to which section I was posing for, though, he added, they'll probably keep snapping regardless of whether I was facing them or not.

I signed some autographs and then - nearer to the entrance - was a gathering of press, holding out microphones. I spoke to each one in turn, telling them about my clothes, my excitement to see the film, I didn't quite know what they wanted to hear so I just said how great everything was - which I guess was true - and then went into the packed auditorium to watch the film.

There was an afterparty, very elaborate, drinks and dancing. I didn't notice any other celebrities there, but people came up and told me they were producers and executives and all sorts, so that was pretty interesting to meet them and talk about their work. They all said how much they loved what I do.

Around midnight I was feeling quite tired, and, as if by magic, Kendrick was by my side helping me into the car so we could go back to the hotel.

Once I was back in my room, and on my own, I decided to have one last cheeky glass of champagne before bed. I stepped out onto the balcony to enjoy it, leaning woozily on the metal railing, soaking in the quiet ambience of the city at night, the distant twinkle of the stars, the murmur of traffic below.

As I lifted the glass to my mouth I fumbled my hold on it, sending it falling from the balcony where - a second later - it smashed on the top of a building that appeared to be across the street, but was - in fact - about a metre away, it then plummeted down thirty storeys in the blink of an eye, before crashing as gigantic shards of glass - towering over the miniature cars - on the street below.

I looked at the misproportioned carnage, too sleepy to care, they'll clean it up tomorrow.

Collapsing into bed I turned on the television, to act as some sort of lullabye, and the entertainment news was on, reporting from the evening's premiere, featuring my red carpet interview and some experts talking about my great outfit and how good I looked. When the piece ended it began all over again, playing on a loop as I drifted off to sleep.

The following morning I had breakfast in my room, read the paper, a large picture of me on the red carpet adorned the front page and there was a further feature in the celebrity section.

Kendrick came to let me know the car was ready, I finished my coffee, followed him down to the street and we rode back to the parking garage.

Leaving through the main reception, Clark, the young man at the desk, handed me a gift bag. I thanked him, shook Kendrick's hand, and walked back out into the confusing car park.

As I strolled back to my car I passed a woman glancing up and down from her booking form, she called over.

"Is that the main reception, mate?"

"Er, yes," I replied.

She didn't thank me, but she quickened her walk and hurried off to the reception excitedly. I slumped into my car, peered into my gift bag, which featured a DVD of the entertainment news report, a pristine copy of the newspaper and photo album of my day, along with some other knick knacks.

I started the engine, pulled out of the parking space, and drove back home.

Adventures

With great force they wrestled the helmet from Mr. Malpasso's sandpaper hands. It was the last piece of the costume that he'd made, the outfit that he'd been wearing almost every day for the last fifteen years.

When they finally prised it away from him, he, a sixty-two year old man, bawled like a spoilt toddler, dribbling and elongating with a cartoon like stutter, until it sounded ridiculous, one word: pleee-he-he-he-heease.

They took it out front, with the rest of his hand crafted uniform, and set it on fire. It's for your own good, they said. His daughter, Melody, reminsced to nobody about how embarrassed she was to see her father walking around town dressed like a space pirate or something. Captain Malpasso, her youngest, Stevi, corrected her, but her mother wasn't interested.

Mr. Malpasso didn't want the ceremony, they all thought - his children all thought - that it would be symbolic for him, a liberation both literal and figurative, that it would release him from the trappings of his fantasy. You can live your life again, Dad, his son Ryan had smiled, warmly clapping his old man on the shoulder.


He just sat there, in his favourite chair, letting them bumble around him, tidying things away that didn't need to be tidied. They put this week's tv guide into the magazine rack, meaning he'd only have to fish it out again in a short while. They moved the coasters back into the little coaster holder and straightened the framed photographs on the mantlepiece, thus rendering their careful angling nul and void. Now she didn't look over his shoulder anymore.

Doesn't mum look pretty here, Melody asked rhetorically holding a frame. How old was she?

Melody's husband, Phil, took the picture, turned it over, searching for a clue to the year. Graham, he called, his voice slow and simplified for Mr. Malpasso's presumed benefit, how old is your wife in the picture?

My wife is dead, Mr. Malpasso said flatly.


It had been a month after the funeral when he had first worn the outfit. He had walked into the office to various hushed and muffled responses, a few uncensored laughs, and sat himself at his desk and got on with the tasks at hand. He made his calls, he wrote his reports, all was as normal, except he was dressed in a gaudy, shining diving outfit with a vibrant, mirrored helmet, various pipes and tubes hunched up and into the heavy fabric like the body of a sea monster, there were adornments such as the tassled shoulder pads and some random patches, medals and insignia.

He was called into his manager's office before 11am, and after patiently listening to the inevitable company spiel, Mr. Malpasso very reasonably stated his case and his manager agreed and let him continue to wear the uniform to work.


However when Melody saw her father in the uniform for the first time she burst into tears and batted him away, as if he were riddled with disease, when he tried to comfort her in his arms.

She asked him why he was wearing that stupid costume.

He said it made him feel like everything was ok.

She snuffled up the tears, tried to compose herself and accept it.


It was four years ago, when she overheard her father talking to Stevi that she cried about it again.

Dad's lost his mind, she told Ryan. He was telling Stevi about the planets he'd been to and the creatures he'd met, he was telling her about the greedy lizards who live in the clouds, he was talking about things made of eyes and a rocket ship in his shed. A rocket ship! I just thought he wore that thing like a blankie, a comforter, y'know, but I think he thinks he's actually a spaceman.

Ryan was flippant, said he could tell Dad wasn't nuts just by looking at him. Sure, he dresses like he's from a 1970s sci-fi show, but people wear all sorts of weird stuff, he's not doing any harm.

He was curious though, and later, at dinner, he casually mentioned outer space in conversation. Like, I don't think there's anything out there, he lied.

Out where? his father had asked, lifting his visor to take another bite of chicken.

In space, aliens and stuff.

There are aliens, his dad replied.

What?

Plenty of them, all sorts, more than you can imagine, some like us, some you couldn't comprehend.

How do you know?

I've been there, I've been to space, I've seen the universe.

When did you go there?

I go there all the time.


So Ryan agreed with his sister and they began plotting an intervention, it had been eleven years and the time had long since past that he should be confronted on this. Though he kept the suit clean, patched it up when necessary, the suit was no longer the issue, and clearly, to them, the fantasy had begun to rot his brain.

At first they sat him down and talked to him, they kept repeating; You know it's not real Dad?

Mr. Malpasso would look sheepishly at the ground, a glimmer of recognition they suspected, but he'd smile and square up to them defiantly, It's real, he'd say.


So, after four years of quiet private discussions, unexpected trips to therapists, they finally decided to take the drastic step to destroy the uniform, burn down the source of all this trouble and release their father from his delusion.

When the flames had burned out, and the house had been put in order, they stood in the front room where Mr. Malpasso stared at his dim reflection in the television screen.

Ok Dad, Ryan said, we've put some dinner in the oven, it's heating up, should be done in half an hour. Do you want us to stay or would you rather be alone?

He sat, stoic, only his lip seemed to wobble as if with inaudible words.

Melody, not wanting to leave on a bad note, crouched next to her father, put a hand on his side and smiled up at him. I'll come round tomorrow, ok Dad? Help with some gardening?


Phil tried to listen to the radio, straining his ears to hear the football results under Stevi's sing-songing in the backseat whilst she butted the heads of two plastic ponies together. The car door opened and Melody got in, her eyes were red and she, in hurried, fluttering movements, wept away eager tears.

You ok? Phil asked, one ear still squinting to the tinny howls of the crowd.

He told me that this was a terrible reality.

Who did? Your old man?

Melody nodded, sniffed.

Some thanks, Phil scoffed whilst starting the car. Give him time love, he'll learn to appreciate what you've done for him. 

And they drove home.


Mr. Malpasso tried to go to space again that night, but he couldn't do it without his uniform, he just found himself lying in bed, feeling the sheets too tight around his body, and the space where his wife used to sleep, unoccupied for fourteen years. He wished her goodnight, said her name out loud as he had done all that time ago, and had not done since her death.

Mr. Malpasso didn't go to space that night, but he was no longer part of our terrible reality the following day.

There's No One Out There For Anyone

St. Valentine's Day, an idea of a tradition clinging on from a long forgotten time when people loved one another and wished to express it.  I have a box of faded, delicate love letters written between my great-great-great-great-great-grandparents, I'm not even sure if that's enough greatness, but I didn't want to waste your time.
    It was skin-crawling, reading those words, those sickly sweet secret sentiments shared between two people of an emotion, a feeling, I cannot conceive of.  It makes me shiver uncomfortably just thinking about, trying to imagine how that must have felt, it's like cockroaches crawling on your skin, or worms wriggling beneath it.
    But, for me, it shared a private, unspoken fascination.  It was a time where the feeling that lead to the conception of their children, and ultimately me, was driven by a different desire.  They weren't thinking about propogation, instead, they were in love and that love brought them together, provoked the desire to hold one another close, to kiss and cuddle, and, ultimately, to have sexual intercourse and give birth to children who they would also love and raise as part of a family.
    It seems so alien and irrelevant, but it is how it was.
    A friend of mine, I can't tell you his name, once told me, in confidence, that he thought he was falling in love with a girl in our seminars.  He was so ashamed, he didn't know what to do, he wanted to be with her, but he couldn't stand to think of her with other people and knew he couldn't say anything, that he couldn't ask to be his and only his.  If she told other people he would be ostracised.  He couldn't even bring himself to have sex with her, though she had come on to him a number of times, because he knew it would only make things worse for himself.  He would tell her lies, make up medical conditions, just so he could get out of it.
    I listened, but I had nothing to say to him.  I don't care about him.
    I don't understand why someone would want to go back to that way of thinking, where ridiculous imaginary emotions get in the way of sexual pleasure and rational reproduction.  Why would a man and a woman want to solely dig into the same genetic well when they could spread their genes far and wide creating a more diverse, culturally and intellectually exciting society.
    Love is a stupid concept, I don't know where it possibly could have originated from, it seems to preclude the basic instinct of any human being, the primitive, and ultimately more pleasurable, urge.  Why create a weight of guilt to hang around your necks when you commit, what they called, adultery?
    I have plenty of friends, a number of which I regularly have sex with, alongside those I have a handful of frequent sexual partners, and then there are nights out where perhaps I was go to a sex club or just to a bar and perhaps go home with some people for sex.  I am absolutely indiscriminate with my sexual preferences, as I feel everyone should be, and I have had sex with all types of people.  Why would I only want to have sex with one person for the rest of my life?
    I have tried to imagine it, and it must get boring, or the sex must lose its appeal for at least one, if not both, people in that pairing, and then, what can you do?  I imagine the stipulations and pre-conceptions of the love partnership would prohibit you from requesting another sex partner, and then your sexual frustrations could only be re-directed into unhappiness.  Why would someone do that to themselves?
    I will have friends all my life, as I will have sex partners, maybe they will continue to be the same people, maybe they won't.  If I felt that my sex partner had to be the only person I would be spending my life with then I would perhaps judge my sex partners and my friends more harshly.  I would not have sex with many of the people I have sex with for reasons as prejudiced as intelligence and genetic benefits.  I have friends and sex partners for all manner of occasion, and I feel no more distant or closer to any of them based on their thoughts and feelings.
    I wish my friend hadn't told me that he thought he was in love.  I don't think I can be his friend anymore.  He was always strange.  I thought he was quite liberal, but he would not have sex with me, yet he expected me to stay at his house drinking into the night, and I do not see why I should have to masturbate and he forbid me from doing so in front of him.  He is far more conservative than I expected, and I am surprised that he would dare open up to me.  People have said I have a friendly face, so maybe he thought I could be trusted.  I guess I can, I won't tell anyone who he was, but I shall have to cut him out of my social life.
    I feel sorry for my distant relatives, bound by their love, how that must have stymied them financially, how it must have inhibited their ambitions, compromised their dreams.  I have a freedom that they could only dream of, I am untethered, I am fulfilled, I am wanting nothing and bound to nobody.
    If someone loved me I don't think I would want to know.  I cannot imagine being able to sex with someone who loved me without pitying them, and that, among many others, is an emotion I do not wish to experience.  I have never understood why emotion ever invaded the enjoyment and gratification of sex.  If anything, when I try to conceive of love as a general experience, I can only see it interfering with the process.  How can the two things go together without one cheapening the other?  If you felt that strongly about someone then I can only see sex seeming tawdry when cast under that shadow.  Whilst sex as an expression of love seems ridiculous in equal measure.
    Sometimes I think my curiosity could be misinterpreted.  As much as the antiquated idea of love does fascinate me it is not for envy, as I believe envy is an emotion that is only really associated with love, and since we have no need for love we have no need for envy, we have no want because people don't treat things with such a precious facade.  I do not love or hate anyone, I am utterly indifferent, as I have everything I need and that which I do not have I do not need.
    I have only been refused sex three times, once by my friend as I have already described, once because they told me I was too young - I was seventeen and they were forty two - and once because they said I was too drunk, but I do not think that was the real reason.  Besides, I generally only wish to have sex with people who I share some commonality with, though, largely, I think this isn't always entirely necessary, it is my one real sexual preference and I am only less particular when I am outside of my comfort zone and feeling horny.
    There was one girl who got pregnant, that was a few years ago, and once she had the baby she was straight back at University.  I've heard about men and women who wish to raise their own child, but that isn't the norm, as it used to be, besides there are plenty of centres that will raise the child to a good standard.  My parents chose not to raise me, I have never met them and have no desire to do so, my early years attendants were good and I was lucky to have some strong teachers, hence why am I still in education now.  Though I'm not sure what I want to be, perhaps a banker, I hear they have a lot of sex.
    I think my sexual desire is quite high, I have sex every day, usually with one of my housemates in the morning or at night, and then often with classmates on break times or after school.  I go to a sex club probably once a week and can spend a whole day there and friends invite me to orgies quite regularly.
    There is so much I have to do, so many people I want to have sex with, so many things I hope to achieve before I day, and I cannot imagine trying to form the heightened, unrealistic emotional connection expected of my perception and understanding of the concept of love alongside trying to accomplish all that I wish to within the span of my life.
    But I read these love letters from generations past, left with me when my mother and father decided to take me to a centre as a baby, and I feel a twist in the pit of my stomach, a peculiar sadness that they were so naive, that they believed in a fantasy, and spent their long lives in this state of delusion thinking that it would have some sort of lasting legacy, some sort of meaning beyond their limited days, and here I am, many years down the line, and I know how little it all meant, how worthless it all was, and for some reason it makes me sad, and I never feel sad.

Me, Me, Me

Perhaps I am a control freak, but I can't help but feel that the world would be greatly improved if everyone behaved exactly as I do.
    Now, I do not think that I am a paragon of humanity, but I am courteous, organised, polite, thoughtful and considerate.  I look out for others and behave in a fashion that, if followed, would undoubtedly result in a decent, structured and well run society.
    Yet every single day I find myself cuddled onto the most packed train cars where the ignorant mass expect personal space for their newspapers at the expense of the comfort of their fellow passengers.
    Once I reach my office through the herd of self-serving cattle, I find a parade of toneless, inhuman emails impatiently stacked in the dreary inbox of my virtual employ.
    This carnival is sometimes punctuated by the snippy thrum of the work phone or the hurried chortle of my mobile and a tinny, inaudible huff will berate me or make vague requests, perhaps deliberately avoiding to ask important questions in some sort of surreal psychological test of my own, alleged, selfishness.
    Home I canter to be lambasted with rhetorical trivia and half-words, a string of nothing that somehow means everything to those eyes I try to love.
    I tell her all this, like a decent fool who still believes in honesty.  She chides me, calls me conceited.  Why does she stay here?  Why do I let her?
    If she were to behave like I, if she were to be reasonable and understanding.  But, I can't tell her this, because that makes me wrong.  I don't know how, but it does.
    I sleep bitterly again, as if my own life were travelling alongside me, out the window of a speeding train, and I am unable to reach it.
    I wish this world understood those things.
    I wish everyone was just like me.

The alarm clock jabs me awake.  The space beside me means she has already left for work.  Cruelly, I am glad.  I can savour my morning.
    In quiet rooms I urinate, I make toast, I drink coffee.
    I stand at the window and look at the city, if feels like it belongs to me.
    Before showering I look at my naked body in the mirror.  It has never quite been the body I wanted, I have been too aware of its shortcomings in relation to those presented to me, and I can only imagine how it appears to other eyes.  I have always considered myself a compromise and I guess I do feel lucky for the women I have had who have touched this body and kept their dissapointments to themselves.
    I dress slowly and erratically, my wardrobe an un-coordinated collective of muted colours.
    Do I even want to go outside today?  I am unsure as to what it has to offer me, but part of me is convinced it is beneficial in some regard.
    I reach the street, my bus is there, I hop on, checking the balance of my travelcard and easily finding a seat.
    A few stops later I slip through the doors and snake immediately into the coffee shop ahead of me.  I order my latte, fumbling for my bank card, hiding my pin and nimbly sliding to the counter at the far end whilst checking my phone for messages.
    The cardboard cup arrives, despite the heat I take a first lively sip.  It has a peppermint bite.
    "This isn't my latt-ARGH!"
    The sound is sharp, jarring even to me, but I am not startled by this involuntary bark for long.  More disconcerting is the worried, furrowed brow staring at me.
    It is my worried, furrowed brow.
    It is my worried, furrowed brow.
    Is it my worried, furrowed brow but it is on another body.
    I blubber sounds.  I am not aware but the cup has left my hand and I'm stood with one foot in a scalding pool of someone else's beverage.
    "That's my face," I slobber.
    But the jabbering panic of my own expression is not reflected in this doppelganger.  Instead its eyes look to its colleague, and, like signposts they move my gaze until I am looking at the cashier who wears my face with an auburn moustache.
    "Sir?" it says with a nut-brown toned impression of myself. "Are you well sir?"
    "I'm fine," I yelp loudly and then I lose consciousness.

I wake up in a strange bed.  Its sheets are stiff and foreign.  Almost immediately I know this is a hospital.
    A faded blue curtain surrounds me.  I can hear coughing and it is unnerving for its familiarity.  This curtain taunts me as if about to reveal the punchline.
    Instead, preceded by a rustle, a doctor walks through.
    At first I hold my eyes closed tighly, like a child trying to escape bad thoughts.  His presence moves around the bed towards me, and I cautiously peek at his shoes.
    They are sharp and bright black.
    It is inevitable that I look at him and, like plucking a thorn, I do it fast and suddenly.
    "Oh God, no." I whimper aloud, "Not this face."
    "How are you feeling?" it says, more warmly than I have ever been.
    I shake my head, "No, please, no, no."
    He moves a hand, palm out, toward my forehead and I flinch, then very deliberately avoid its contact.
    "What's your name?" I finally ask him, quivering.
    "I'm Dr. Raymond Cole," he replies with reassuring conviction.
    "That's not my name," I answer, more to myself, but he responds;
    "Why would it be?"
    "Don't you see?" I implore, as if the full question is already there, hanging in the air between us like a bauble.
    "See what?"
    "You have my face," I gasp. "We have the same face.  Those - those others had my face."
    His eyes, my eyes, scrunch up and examine me.
    "How old are you?" he asks,
    "Thirty four," I reply.
    The doctor then walks to the curtain and slowly, purposefully, draws it back a few feet.
    It reveals a body in the next bed, old hands, holding a bowl, my lips drinking soup from it.  My face, but olive coloured, hairless, liver-spotted and papery.
    "Mr. Ludlum here," he begins, "is seventy six."
    The doctor says this as if it explains everything and there was nothing more to be said.
    For a while I am unable to respond.  The wealth of questions is a disorderly crowd, each jostling for prominence that they cram my mouth, stoppering all sound.
    Naively, all I can do is put my hand on my chest and plead, "This is me."
    Its importance is lost on his vanilla face.

I am discharged and try to leave with my head dropped down.  But each glimpse of a face is enough to shift my eyes, alert like a cat's, into theirs and I see them all:
    There I am with a crew cut, wearing a Black Flag vest that shows off my tattoos.
    There I am laughing into my telephone,  a goatee beard and shark tooth necklace.
    There I am sitting in a wheelchair, one eyes shut tight, the other damp and red.
    There I am eight years old, one hand down my shorts, the other picking my nose.
    There I am dropping coins into a vending machine, my light hair down to my shoulders, my short top hugging my breasts.
    ...
    ...
    ...my...
    ...my breasts?
    "Do you mind?" she says, the words coming out of my face in softened, plasticine tones.  My chin is the smoothest it has ever been.  My neck looks odd without its Adam's apple and it slopes elegantly into the plunge of my cleavage.
    I am all too aware that I am staring.
    "Do you mind?" she repeats.

The street is worse, a shambles of sights: me in a hat, me with a dog, me with shopping bags, me with a fringe, me wearing a mini-skirt, me on a scooter, me delivering mail, me selling fruit, me in a hurry, me in a queue of me waiting for a taxi driven by me, me dressed as a statue dancing for coins, me on the floor disshevelled but smiling, me holding my baby me, me nervously shaking my hand, me picking up the wallet I dropped and handing it back to me and me saying thankyou which makes me bow my head, me jogging, me leafleting, me asking the time, me going home, me waving to me and me who are holding hands, me kissing me, me, me, me, me, me.
    I run into my flat and I close the door.  I lock it.  I unlock it and peek outside then I close it and I lock it again.
    "Hello?" I call, expecting to hear my voice return like an echo, but it is silent and I can breathe.  I note the time, she must still be at work.
    I look for pictures of us, but I can't find any.  I don't know why, but I expect her not to be me.  She just seems so permanent.  It doesn't seem possible.
    I open some books and they seem unchanged, but I haven't read them before, so I can't be certain.
    I need to distract myself, she'll be back in a couple of hours and though it seems so inevitable I can't dwell on it until it is too late.
    I turn on the radio and the familiar chords of Subterranean Homesick Blues are vibrantly rattling out of the speakers, but, as Dylan sings it is not with his familiar drawl, it is with a lumpen impersonation, an unsettling hoot that grates like bad karaoke.
    I leap from the sofa and pull my copy of Blonde On Blonde from the shelf, and there's my face standing against the scene, scarf, coat and curly mop of hair, the name is the same, I am Bob Dylan.
    I shut the radio off at the plug, as if that will somehow correct this tragedy.
    Then with a horror-movie turn to look over my shoulder I face the television.
    I'm answering the question correctly.
    I'm breaking up with myself whilst a pop song plays.
    I'm selling butter and then holidays and then car insurance.
    I'm scoring a goal.
    I'm playing Johnny B. Goode at the Enchantment Under the Sea dance.
    I'm reading the news of my court case for fraud.
    I turn off the television and I'm reflected in the glass.  I try and turn it off again, but realise it's permanent.
    The front door unlocks and I bury myself in the sofa cushions, trying to muffle the sound and make this an event that's happening in the distance.
    I feel a hand on my back and I freeze, hoping it will forget I'm here and leave, but it runs up, under my shirt and toward my neck.
    I can't stand it, so I spring across the room, dragging my furniture with me and retreat to the corner.
    The voice follows me, "What is it?" it asks, it's sweet and concerned, it seems to want this to be a game, but there's a serious edge.
    I turn as if revealling some horrible disfigurment.
    There it is, plain as flour.
    She is me.
    "I hoped it would be you," I sigh, remorseful.
    She smiles, clearly misunderstanding.

I sit down with her and explain everything as far as I understand it.  To her credit she makes my face look attentive and committed, but I sense that regardless of what I say her reaction will be the same, I just don't think she's really listening to me, and that is strangely unlike her.
    When I finish she looks around, her eyes moving to three specific yet indistinct places across the floor, she then nods once and asks if I'd like a drink.
    She puts the kettle on, prepares two mugs, goes to the bathroom.
    I've left before she returns.

I hammer on the door.  Though I was here two nights ago I worry that he might have left, or that, for some reason, he never existed.
    After another minute or so the chain-lock is reluctantly removed and the door squeaks ajar.
    "Cliff," I blur, "I need a drink."
    "I'll get my shoes," comes a half-asleep reply.

More than anyone else Cliff resembles me.  Even before he had my face.  We have been best friends for twenty five years, so, oddly, it doesn't seem too unnatural when I look at him and see me.
    He, however, is looking at me with my face as if I'm crazy.
    "You think everyone has your face?" he asks, bewildered.
    "Look in a mirror," I gesture behind the bar where all my faces are reflected.
    He look at the both of us for what feels like a long time.  I am unable to comprehend his indifference, but it's there, and he soon breaks into a hushed laugh.
    "This is definitely the weirdest thing you've ever said, man!"
    "What can I do?"
    Cliff shrugs and swigs his bottled beer, his eyes glancing around the room.  He leans forward and whispers, "Mate, check that out."
    I look over my shoulder to see me by a cigarette machine in the corner drunkenly fondling my breast whilst sloppily and shamelessly sticking my tongue down my own throat.
    "Oh Jesus, man, don't show me those things!"
    "Christ," he sat back, "you really are messed in the head.  Maybe you should see a shrink?"
    "Yeah," I snorted, "or a priest."
    "Stephanie's dad's a vicar," he suggested off-the-cuff, but for some reason it made sense.
    Cliff called Stephanie and begged her for her dad's number, which she duly texted over in return for a month's loan of Cliff's cinema pass.  I managed to convince her father to speak to me at his parish church in two hours.

I was a little tipsy when I met the soft-spoken, silver-haired me on the rain soaked steps of St. Jude's, but he didn't seem to notice.  He told me to call him Danny, which felt peculiar.  I asked if we had to go to the confessional, he said he had coffee and biscuits in his study.
    "You were very vague over the phone," he smiled, "But you did sound genuinely troubled.  Can I ask, are you religious?"
    "No."
    "So why did you want to speak to me?"
    "For some reason I thought you might actually listen to me.  I didn't want another doctor just to shrug me off."
    "What's your concern?" It was a peculiar phrasing, but it felt reassuring.
    "Danny," I took a breath, "everyone has my face.  I mean everyone.  You.  You have my face.  Your daughter, Stephanie, she has my face.  Hitler, Hitler has my face."
    He considered his words for a moment and then asked, "How do you mean?"
    I drew breath through gritted teeth nearly at a loss for words, but persevered in the hope of sense tumbling out by chance.
    "Yesterday," I began, "people looked different.  My friend Cliff, my best friend, had a long nose, a Roman nose, like Julius Caesar.  My girlfriend had full lips, a bit like a moody fish, and freckles across her nose and cheeks, whilst her ears seemed just a little too small for her head.  But today they both look exactly like me but with diffferent hairstyles and body types.  Their voices also," I continued, jumping on top of his next sentence, "they sound like me doing an impression of them, and you, not only do you look like me but older, but you sound like me pretending to be the kind of person I imagine you are."
    I then proceeded to do a note perfect impersonation of Father Danny's voice which he smiled solemnly at.
    "If you've just come here to mock me," he said in a careful controlled manner and I immediately repeated the sentence back to him, matching the intonation perfectly.
    "I'm serious," I added hastily in my own voice.
    "Well," he murmured after some consideration, "follow me."
He walked me out into the main hall of the Church and we stood by the altar.  I looked down at the well maintained copy of the Bible resting there, whilst he stared up towards the abstract, coloured shapes of a stained glass window.
    "You remember," he stated rhetorically, "that the Lord made all in his image, perhaps that is the root of your dilemma."
    I raised an eyebrow, I was worried he was about to try and baptise me or something.  But he didn't say any more, he just held his gaze and I followed his line of sight and realised he wasn't looking at the stained glass window but he was looking at a statue of Christ on the cross, and I looked at the figure, and I realised...
    I was Jesus Christ.

The following day I woke up on Cliff's sofa and I felt an enormous weight had been lifted from me.  I was not expecting it all to have been a bad dream, indeed, the sight of me making me breakfast seemed strangely comforting, as if I was somehow both observing and performing those actions.
    I drank the coffee he handed to me, he chuckled to himself and asked, "You seem pretty happy, did you discover God last night or something?"
    I was content to go about my day, almost embracing the idea of a world populated entirely by me.  I even began to notice the improvements that I expected, such as better pedestrian awareness, more orderly queuing systems and simple, polite behaviour directed towards strangers.  In general, people would smile at one another, laugh at their own fumblings and always be willing to lend a hand and look out for their fellow citizens.  This was immediately apparent even from the most cursory of observations, there just seemed to be an almost choreographed harmony to the way people moved when out in society and it didn't feel forced or artificial, it just felt right.
    I decided to go to the same coffee shop as yesterday, something which, in the normal world, I would have been apprehensive of, but here the same staff members treated me warmly and respectfully, though they must have known it was me.
    They must have known it was me?  This kept going around my head like a carousel, the question asking itself in varying tones as if searching for the cadence that would invariably lead to an answer; They must have known it was me?
    Some time later that day a woman with my face approached me smiling widely and held her arms open as I drew close.
    "Gavin!" she beamed.
    I kept walking towards her, but my pace slowed cautiously.
    "Gavin!" she repeated, no doubt registering in her voice.
    I looked over both my shoulders, but there was no one else there.
    "Gavin?" she asked the name this time and I shook my head apologetically. "Sorry," she said, her tone sad and confused.  "You look just like him."
    I smiled and nodded, "I can imagine."
    It didn't really bother me until it happened again later, but this time the name was Oliver.  The old man who had mistaken me apologized.  I asked him if I looked like Oliver, and he said, "Yes, you're the spitting image of my son."
    This rattled me, so I went to a charity shop and bought some new clothes, then I got some hair gel and styled myself in a fashion unlike any I had tried before.  I took a bus to the florists where she worked and brazenly strolled up and down, barely a foot from her nose.
    She looked at me and smiled warmly.  I smiled back, feeling very foolish, until she said; "Can I help you sir?"
    I scowled directly at her, her wearing my face, and I abruptly left the shop.
    I looked deeply into every one of my faces that I passed, and they all looked back at me, smiling at first, but, as their expression met mine the smile soon dropped and all that was left was the fear in their eyes, the fear that had been there all along.
    I went to the bar where Cliff worked and I ordered drinks from him without him ever geuinely acknowledging me.  Sure, he grinned and called me 'Mate', but he did that to every patron of that bar that I observed him serve.
    I felt like a ghost, as if I just floated through rooms, sometimes someone felt my presence and they smiled in my general direction in order to appease my restless spirit.  But it was no longer enough.  I wanted to tear down the walls around me, to strip myself of my clothes and bare my naked body to them all and proudly scream: "This is me."
    But that would not be enough, not for them.
    How long had these people had my face?  Had this world of me sprung up overnight or had everyone always been this way and I had only just awoken to this world as if from a dream?
    Whilst there are remnants of unity throughout general opinion, the population is still as splintered as it was when every face was unique.  To me this makes sense, whichever way you look at it.  If this change was spontaneous then, of course, opinion would remain.  If it has existed for ages then, even if all thought began alike, it must have fragmented.  But then, why haven't looks evolved?  Why this constant?
    Perhaps this is merely just some cruel joke, no matter how you dress people up they will never be unified, there will never be consistency of thought and feeling, no matter how destructive, anti-social, xenophobic, misogynistic, sexist, racist, homophobic, vile, ill-tempered, disgusting, degrading, degenerative, repressive, regressive, insensitive, hurtful, shameful, bile-inducing their ideas may be, decency, goodness, warmth, supportiveness, these things don't chime with everyone, at least, not in an all-encompassing fashion.  Though it seems, to me, that any thought outside of my liberal viewpoints is backwards, broken, selfish and strange, there are many others who would disagree.
    But, isn't that why I wanted this, everyone to be like me, it doesn't make sense that thoughts should still be fragmented.  The more I know myself the more I hate myself, the more I see the doubt and distrust in my behavior.  As much as one can fear the uncanny and the unknown perhaps the opposite is just as unsettling.
    It is not everyone else, regardless of what face they wear, what attitudes they hold, when they take everything away, when you get down to the very core, it is what I have always known, it is what has always, on some guttural level, driven me, it is a simple truth, it is me I hate.
    Walking around this world of doubting faces, where everyone is uncertain and so fickle of who they might be staring at, who they might be talking to, I am all too aware that if I were to die today it would be hard for anyone to miss me.  There are a billion other mes all jostling for prominence.  Once I am gone to the unimaginable nothingness of death time will continue and, in a way utterly disconnected from myself and all I ever hoped to achieve, I will be replaced by another exactly like me.  Stripped of any individuality, if I were to die, how would anyone grieve?  The only thing anyone can miss here is my name, and would they really miss that?  What do I offer this world outside of myself?  Every thought, every idea, every ambition, every dream, I have kept them all inside, I have sneered cynically at the world outside from within my shell and never tried to better either it or myself.  It doesn't deserve me, I have thought, and I was right in the wrong way.  This world does not deserve me, I should burden it no longer.