Identity Crisis (Boy x Boy)

Part Two

Local Man Dies In Car Collision. That was on the front of the newspaper that day. It was in a big, bold font accompanied by an image of two cars in an accident on a bridge. Such a brutal, grotesque image it was, but at the same time, necessary to convince the authorities that nobody could live through such a scarring tragedy.

It was over a week since said incident had transpired, and I was now sitting in a small cafe (known as The Great Pot, and often confused for being a marijuana shop), reading about the permanent absence of my old skin. At least I made it to the front page. Most people needed to be celebrities for that honor. Granted, it was through illegitimate means, but in this life I took every pleasure that I could get.

As I glanced over bits and pieces of the article, I was surrounded by the sound of conversation and the aroma of different coffees and pastries. It was nice to be back out in public. In order to completely throw the cops off the trail, my parents and I hid in our home for a while. The presence of new identities immediately after the death of old ones was too risky. That day was my first day of being able to go outside into the open world like usual.

I heard from my parents that staging my death was pretty difficult. As if enough money didn't go into creating a realistic car accident, they also went a step further and hired actors to serve as fake family members and host a funeral. A few complaints came about how expensive the cover-up was, but it served them right for being so sloppy in their crimes.

The felonious lovebirds decided to go with a murder-suicide narrative for their fake deaths, but unlike my story, it wasn't recognized as heavily by the media. They were always bathing in the shadows, so it was easy for them to fade away without suspicion. Needless to say, 'they' weren't at my fake funeral.

I, on the other hand, was silently acknowledged by many strangers in the city. I was a regular customer at this very establishment, for starters. There were countless other people who always saw me around, too. The small family who ran the local market, the librarian who always recommended me books, and the people who knew me through Cody, to name a few.

It made sense for there to be closure, even for those who didn't know me other than my face. Even if it seemed unnecessary or over-the-top, it was never a good idea to give others a chance to sniff around for the truth.

Holding the newspaper firmly in my hands, I merely chuckled. Observing my death from an outsider's view - it almost felt like I was important. Such importance, however, was irrelevant. As I looked up from the material in front of me and scanned the bustling crowd of individuals all eagerly retrieving their daily dose of caffeine, the realization that I was a nobody once again stuck to my brain.

That feeling circulated as I abandoned the table I was sitting at and stood in line at one of the counters. This was nothing short of one of those cliche scenarios where someone starts anew in a city where nobody knows their name, except I was 'starting anew' in a city that I could navigate with my eyes closed. Talk about a mindfuck.

The vibe that I got from such a thought was so strange. It was a sensation that wasn't foreign to me as I had experienced it so many times in my life, but I never got over it no matter how many times I tried. Perhaps it never seemed normal because the human brain wasn't conditioned to accept identity changes. Identity already was a pain to accept and figure out from a young age, so it made sense that it'd become more complicated upon undergoing inconsistencies.

"Are you going to order, or are you going to just stand there like a statue?" An impatient voice snapped me out of my web of contemplation. I had gotten so lost in thought that three people placed their orders and walked away without any internal acknowledgement from me.

Shaking my head for a moment to gather my senses, I glanced forward to see a woman with long, black hair and a shiny piercing on her lip. She held a permanent marker in her hand. I knew this barista. While her name wasn't registered in my memory, I would be able to spot her in a crowded subway. I had ordered from her countless times in my last identity.