by Masktrix
You walk down Acacia, shifting with discomfort, your breasts straining against your uniform fabric. It hurts. It chafes. But then you only have Marion’s uniform, not her bra, so you’re just going to have to live with it.
You’re fully disguised as Marion now, the only telltale signs your shoes - your Will Prescott sneakers padded with newspaper to fit your Marion feet - and the lack of bra. Marion doesn’t wear much makeup, although the shades and colours she does have can be bought pretty easily. Her hair is easily tied up into a bun now you know what you’re doing. You have her thoughts, her appearance, her very being. In one hand, folded over the arm, are the dresses. Marion is a self-confessed ditz, and you know she’ll assume she already collected her stuff. The DVD was another thing she chalked up to her jumbled mind. Way to go, Marion.
You stop and crouch down, holding out your hands before you enter your apartment complex. “Hello, Smoke,” you say, greeting the apartment cat - actually owned by your neighbours Dan and Holly, but adopted by more or less everyone. Cat appeased, you press the buzzer.
“Zzzkkpppt?”
“Mr Hollister, it’s Marion, 3b? I’ve left my key at work, can I use the spare?”
“Klklpppffftttt.” The door’s magnetic lock opens, and you push inside. The Super is there to meet you. He’s a reed-thin man, a shock of red hair with a cleft lip.
“If it doesn’t show it’s gonna be twenty bucks out of your wage.”
You give your best Marion smile, your jolly, oval face beaming with relief. “Thank you, mister H! You are a life saver!” You take the key in one hand, the other continuing to hold your dry cleaning.
“Still 20 bucks.”
Last time it was ten. The time before that five...
You nod, warm and friendly. “Gotcha.”
You would normally take the stairs. Marion would - she needs the exercise, she would tell herself. Instead you take the elevator. The third floor, you know from the maze of memories, fears, hopes and ambitions drifting over, under and weaving through your mind is like a feed of information. You only need to pull it and...
You fell over and grazed your ankle on your seventh birthday.
You went to the prom with Francis Dearborn and when he kissed you, he was so nervous you’re burst out laughing.
You have an all-time crush for that Hollywood actor in all the blockbuster movies, Chris...
You shake your head as the door opens, propping up your glasses to see clearly. The real Marion is on a double shift and won’t be home for three hours. Plenty of time. You could even help yourself to the tuna salad in the fridge, or that double-thick fudge ice cream saved for lonely nights in watching... ice hockey? Well, you shrug, whatever people like.
The apartment is small, but scrupulously clean and neat in a desperate attempt to get organized. TV, soft fabric sofa, open plan kitchen in Nordic pine. In front of you are photos of your, Marion’s, family on her central table: parents, elder brother Logan (the one who confessed to his little sister he likes women’s clothes), younger brother Brent (the smart one). You pause, breathing in all of Marion’s thoughts. Then you make your drop-off.
The dresses go in the bedroom closet, neat and tidy. Objects returned, you pause and wonder how much you could take to borrow Marion’s identity around town. The uniform is a given; who knows what you could do with that. But what else could you get away with? Bras and underwear are easy: Marion can’t keep track. Shoes are out, but she wears cheap sneakers and work shoes from the same store and can be copied. You begin to help yourself to shirts, sundresses and even a pair of jeans you doubt she’ll miss. You could be Marion anywhere with these. You stop at the dresser and look at your stolen face, unbuttoning your uniform and exposing your chest as you take the shirt off.
“Hey!” You wave, faking the enthusiasm the real Marion feels when meeting her friends. Part of you wishes you could go to the wedding as her. Maybe you could; polish some more masks, gain some new identities. You slip on a bra (oh god, much better!) and button your uniform on again. Part of you wants to take some jewellery but that would be missed. Instead, you throw your stolen items in a sports bag (the beaten one that she always means to throw out) and make your exit.
You’re 10 foot from the door when the key turns in the lock. What the hell? You freeze in panic, the bag dropping to your side. Moments later the real Marion opens the door and steps through, closing it after herself. It’s too late to duck behind a sofa: you’re simply stuck, in the open, her double. You could remove the mask but you doubt that would help. You scramble to try and understand. Then it hits you. You have Marion’s imperfect brain. She cancelled that double shift last week. Remember Marion, you idiot? You want to swear at her forgetfulness.
But that’s nothing compared with what happens next. She turns around.
Two Marion Pruitts stand a few feet apart, facing each other. Both in work clothes. Both with long hair tied up, a warm, round face and glasses. Figure. Height. Scent. Sound. Except the sneakers on your feet, you are perfect.
You smile warmly and wave. What else can you do?
“Hey!” Fake Marion, you, greets Real Marion.
The original’s jaw falls to the floor. “The fuck..?”
You wonder what you’re going to do next.
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