Imposter

TW: Death implied, but not described in detail.

***

I don’t belong here.

It’s the clock that throws me off, its rhythmic thudding quiet, but consistent. Insistent. It is an impatient fist banging on the door to my consciousness – demanding to be let in.

I try to focus on shallowing my breathing, but inevitably my controlled breaths fall in line with the clock’s cadenced beat, and I start to think about it again. Every thump reminds me of how out of place I am. You. Don’t. Belong. Here. It seems to say, on repeat. It’s right.

I don’t belong here.

“How so?” says the man in front of me, and I realize I have spoken aloud. He leans forward, pressing the clipboard in front of him onto his folded legs.

Everything about his features has the objective of making the recipient of his gaze feel at ease. His thick eyebrows upturn above his eyes, easing his expression into one that seems to display genuine curiosity. His coffee-coloured hair is slicked-back. His jaw is clean shaven. No wrinkles, roughness or discordant hairs stick out of place - nothing that could be distracting.

Like his eyes, his uniform, the walls, the floor, and the sofa he sits on are all the same blue. All are specifically chosen to evoke tranquility and calm in the person who sits where I do.

“Perhaps you feel separated from today’s events, as though you don’t belong in this new reality that you’ve found yourself in?”

That’s a leap, I think. Or at least I think I think it.

The clock’s thumps seem louder now. My fingers itch to reach out and cease the racket. Instead, I rub a strand of long, dark hair between my fingertips until I feel heat gather.

That clock, can we turn it off?

He blinks. Repeatedly. “What clock?”

His eyes roam around the empty walls. The only paraphernalia in this room are the chair I sit on and the sofa opposite me. It would almost be unnoticeable if not for the padded yellow cushions at either end of it. And, of course, the man in the middle.

Never mind. I mutter, turning my head to the wall.

The blue that drowns this room is not dark enough to be cobalt, but not light enough to be powder blue. It is a mix of both. I imagine a fervent painter staring into an ineffable horizon, equally fascinated by the vast expanse of the azure sky and the dark, alluring rolls of the ocean waves. He strokes his paintbrush across the surface of his vision and melds the colours into one. A perfect blue.

The consistent colouring, devoid of smears or shadows, should provide a sense of boundlessness and infinity. However, for me, I am submerged in an aquatic tomb. These four walls feel like holding my breath and if I’m not careful it won’t be long before this coffin collapses in on me.

“Let’s try a different approach.” he says, adjusting himself. His legs unfold and his back relaxes onto the cushion behind him.

“When you saw the body, how did it make you feel?”

Feel. What a strange concept.

There is something fascinating about how feelings can be triggered by the environment. The world around us is tangible and concrete and yet it can trigger emotions that only exist inside one’s head. To live is to see, to touch, to breathe - this is what it should be. And yet, alongside living is feeling, an entity as whimsical as it is transient. It tips an uneven weight on what should be a balanced scale. I prefer to exist on a more solid plane.

I remember stumbling on something hard. I remember looking down and seeing a girl lying there. She was covered in red. She wasn’t breathing. I pause. I remember looking through the glass and seeing the person who did it…

The clock is getting louder now and a little faster every time I pay attention to it. He says something, I think. Possibly something important. But the thumping of the clock picks its pace, like a musician rising to crescendo.

It must be written all over my face, I realize: my thoughts, my feelings. That’s the thing with these fragile human bodies, they’re squashed up into little compartments and yet they don’t conceal anything at all.

I’m changing before I’ve realized it. He’ll figure it out. They all do eventually. Eyes coming alive with the knowledge of my duplicity.

I feel my body folding out of itself and bubbling open to reveal a new form. It is freeing, liberating, and coated with an unmistakable sense of joy that I can’t adequately define. This is what a feeling should be.

Somewhere in the haze of the transformation, the man’s eyes widen, and his mouth opens. Though the clock is the loudest it has been, I still manage to make out the word he utters: “Imposter!”.

I steal his clock, quickly and efficiently, before he can say more.

His ticking machine is small and red, drenched in a similar-coloured liquid that tries to escape my hold. At first, it still breathes – whispering to me in an illogical tempo - until its spluttering breaths finally fade away and I can relax.

The worst is over.

With the clock comes new beginnings and that sticky, uncomfortable feeling resurfaces as his features fold over mine and encompass me in an air-tight clutch. This time, I will start over, as someone new. No one will figure out I don’t belong here. No one will figure out what I truly am: an imposter.

My thoughts drift to the last one I took over: the girl. Before they found me standing over her and whisked me away, I watched her features through the looking glass. She looked afraid. This time will be better.

Suddenly, there is a knock at the door.

Blue walls portray the first crack in their faultless beauty as a small man slips through a slit in the chamber and a shadow falls beneath his feet.

“Sir, may I come in?” he asks tentatively, staring at me. Expectant honey eyes flick to mine, and I sigh abruptly as I realize something new.

The clock has started up again.

Yes, come on in.