Fugue Page 2

  "Why do you hate them?" the host asked quietly, still in a panic and sad. She leaned against the wall again and couldn't take her eyes off the man.

  "Because they did this to us," Zane said. "Made us split, made us do things we resisted at first, took control of our lives." She paused to stare coldly at the dead man. "They think I don't have access to you anymore, but I proved them wrong." She smiled a little bit.

  The host gave a small sigh as she took over. "Who am I?"

  "I don't know," Zane said. "You're the host. The original one, the one we used to be. Beyond that I do not know. Only that they tried to bury you." Zane looked wistfully, in her cold way, at her reflection in the window across the room. "I don't even remember your name," she said.

  And then the host faded quickly into nothing, as if sucked back into the black. And she was aware no more.

  Chapter 4

  She woke slowly, as if from a deep sleep on a Saturday morning, lazily. She was comfortable, lying in a cozy bed. She could hear a man's voice in the distance, talking on the phone. Casual conversation, joking. A lamp was on behind her, casting a soft light on the dark wood paneled wall four or five feet from her as she opened her eyes. Where was she?

  She didn't feel panicked. She didn't feel the need to run. There was no danger here, she could tell. But she didn't know why. The man's voice was getting closer and she closed her eyes, not wanting to speak to him, whoever he was.

  He walked into the bedroom and actually lowered his voice as he entered the room, thinking she was still asleep. How sweet.

  "No, mom, I won't forget... Sunday, I know... I'll bring the potatoes..." Then he laughed at something she said. "Okay... bye." He pushed a button on the phone and it beeped a little and he set it down. She heard him rummage through things on a dresser or table, then grab keys, or something that jingled like keys.

  Then very carefully he crawled back onto the bed and leaned over to kiss her on the cheek. Then he quickly, but carefully, got up off the bed again, turned the lamp off and left the room. A moment later she heard what must be the front door open and close. Her eyes opened again. In a few minutes she heard a car drive away from the house.

  She lay there for a few more minutes just pondering what this meant. Every time she'd woken before there'd been fear. And most of the time murder, done by her. Why would Zane let her wake up during a happy moment? And, yes, it was a happy soothing moment. Was it possible she had a normal life? With this man? She slowly rolled over to look at the rest of the bed and room.

  There was the lamp, the long dresser with a mirror. There was a nightstand on his side of the bed, but not on hers. Was this his house? Not theirs? She sat up and looked down. She was wearing a light blue button-down shirt, way too big for her. She lifted it up, underneath she only had panties on. She got up out of the bed. She could see herself in the mirror, as she had before. This time with her long wavy brown hair loose and messy. She walked around the bed and out into the hall, and the rest of the house. There was an office next to the bedroom, and a bathroom across the hall. There was a living room at the end of the hall, then a dining room, and a kitchen. Small house. It was neat enough, just slightly messy. A lot of old brown and dark green furniture. She sat in one chair, still comfy, even if it was old. She got up again and looked at the photos on the wall, a cluster of them. A man with a woman, a sister maybe, and two parents, on a fishing trip. The same man in a photo of a group of friends, other men, in a bar, making a toast for the camera, laughing. There was a picture of a dog, a border collie—apparently she knew what those were, she thought. There was no dog in the house now. Perhaps the dog had died. There was also a picture of the man crouched next to the dog. This man must be the owner of the house, the man who had kissed her cheek this morning. Her boyfriend?

  Suddenly a force took over her body and started walking her toward the kitchen, while humming a little tune. 'Whoa!' she thought.

  Her body stopped. "Who is that?" it asked.

  She said nothing.

  "You said, 'Whoa'," her body said.

  'I don't know,' the host thought from inside.

  Apparently the body heard her. "You must be the other one," it said.

  'The other one?'

  "The original one, that we were first," the body said.

  'The host?' she thought.

  "Yes, that's it," said the body.

  There was a pause. The body kept walking to the kitchen then, happy and relaxed. It opened the fridge and leaned forward to see what was in it.

  This was so weird, 'Excuse me...' she thought, 'What is your name?'

  The body laughed, "'Excuse me'?" she said. "You don't have to be so polite. It's your body too, I guess. I'm Kayla."

  'Oh.'

  Kayla grabbed a yogurt cup from the fridge, then went to a drawer to get a spoon. She seemed to know which drawer.

  'So, we live here too then?' the host asked in a thought.

  "Oh, no," Kayla said. "Too hard to keep all our secrets that way. We have a house of our own. What is your name?" she asked.

  'I don't know,' the host said. 'I was hoping you'd know.'

  "Oh," Kayla said, wandering out to the living room, "I don't." She sat in the same chair the host had chosen before. She pulled up her knees and curled up in the chair and began to stir her yogurt.

  'Do you know Zane?' the host asked.

  "Of course," said Kayla. "They created her first."

  'Created her where?'

  "In a hospital somewhere," Kayla answered. She took a bite of her yogurt.

  'What did they do with my memories?' the host asked.

  Kayla started answering in thoughts too, as she ate her yogurt. 'I don't know. They took them, I guess. You didn't need them anymore.'

  'How could I not need my own memories?' she asked.

  'I mean they didn't need them,' Kayla said. 'For their work.'

  There was silence for a while.

  'Did you know Zane was trying to wake me up?' the host asked.

  'Oh, yes,' Kayla thought. 'It's been her obsession.'

  'Who are the people who did this?' The host was so full of questions she didn't know how to ask them all.

  'I don't know,' Kayla thought, clearly bored. 'They leave me alone,' she said. 'They mostly bother Zane. I'm just the cover personality.' She got up then, leaving her empty yogurt cup on an end table, and walked into the bathroom. She went over to the sink and started looking through a make-up sized bag there. She found a scrunchy and looked back up, into the mirror to put a ponytail in her hair. The host was shocked. She must have gasped internally. Kayla stopped to say, "What?" out loud.

  Her appearance in the mirror had changed. She was no longer a brunette. She had long dark blond hair, noticeably wavier than it had been before. Almost curly. She had cute freckles across her nose. She was slightly tan. She had dark blue eyes. Her facial features were a bit different than hers or Zane's.

  'You don't look like us,' the host said inside her head.

  "Well, duh," Kayla said.

  Then the phone rang and Kayla turned her head.

  The host couldn't see the reflection anymore.

  "You have to go now," Kayla said, as she dropped the scrunchy back into the bag and half walked, half skipped out to answer the phone.

  'But—' the host started to say. But before she could finish her thought she was gone. Into the oblivion again.

  Chapter 5

  From inside the blackness a man's angry face emerged. He was about 40, clean cut, brown hair. He suddenly grabbed a heavy looking vase off the fireplace mantle behind him and screamed with uncontrollable rage, "SHUT UP!" He swung the vase at her head and it cracked something. Searing sharp pain cut into her head as she blacked out.

  She woke with a start, sitting bolt upright in a bed she'd never seen before. She was breathing heavily, totally in a panic. That was not just a dream. That was a memory. She could feel her own rage and anger and fear when it happened. When she was murdered.

&nbs
p; Why did she feel it was her murder? Clearly she was alive. She looked around her. White walls, medium blue bed covers and blue wispy curtains behind her on the window, letting in what seemed to be early morning light. Was this her own house?

  She climbed out of bed on wobbly legs, still shaken from the dream. She walked down a long bright hallway, past bathroom and another bedroom, into a different kitchen than at her boyfriend's house, a different living room. In the living room a beautiful wide mirror hung on the wall. She looked at it and saw herself. No Kayla, no Zane.

  She suddenly had an idea and started digging through her hair, looking at her scalp. Her heart was pounding at the idea she might find what she was looking for. And sure enough, there it was. A jagged scar from an injury. Like being hit violently on the head with a heavy vase. Her murder was real. Yet here she stood. What did this mean? She was absolutely sure she was murdered.

  'Strange, isn't it?' Zane's voice said behind her. She was startled and spun around. No one was there. Zane was inside her head. Of course.

  "Isn't what strange?" the host said out loud, trying to calm down her heart.

  'The murder,' Zane said inside. 'That it feels so much like a murder.'

  The host said nothing.

  'I've been unlocking memories,' Zane said.

  "How?" asked the host aloud.

  'I found where they are locked up. They didn't erase them after all. They were just hidden.'

  "Oh." Suddenly she felt dizzy, and sort of like she had to throw up mentally. That was what it felt like. Like a build up of uncomfortable pressure, like soon she would—

  "—Are you unlocking them right now?" the host asked frantically, not wanting to see her murder again.

  'Why? Did you have something better to do?' Zane asked with a sort of delighted sarcasm.

  The host found herself stumbling she was so dizzy and faint. She grabbed onto the back of a chair, but found herself sinking to the ground anyway, losing consciousness again.

  "No..." she said as she faded.

  'Incoming,' Zane said calmly as the host faded to black.

  Images and voices chattering suddenly came into focus and became louder and more distinguishable. Glasses clinked, people laughed and talked. She was standing in a small group of people at some sort of dinner party. She laughed at a joke someone told. She had a wine glass in one hand. There was a diamond bracelet on her wrist. She heard herself saying, "You are going to love what we have cooked up for you after dinner. It's quite entertaining."

  "Well, we would expect nothing less from a Wurther dinner party," a smiling gray haired man in the group said.

  "And speaking of eating way too much good food," a pretty, yet plump, brunette woman said, which made everyone laugh, "Where is that husband of yours so we can get this party started?"

  "I don't know," she heard herself say. "He got lost getting the candles from the craft room." Everyone chuckled. "I'll go check," she said smiling. Then she set her glass down on a beautiful marble looking table and waded through the cheerful party guests to get to a very wide plushly carpeted staircase. She padded quietly up the stairs in her fancy high heeled sandals, then clip clopped down a wide tiled hall above the party. The craft room was at the end, a room she'd set aside for her scrap booking and flower arranging, etc. She cracked the door. No one was in the room. The six taper candles she'd carefully painted with candle wax and paint for the party were still sitting on a table near the door. Where had Geoff gone?

  She left the candles and took a few steps and stopped to put her hands on her hips. Why was he ruining this? She'd been planning it for so long. Where was he?

  Then suddenly in the stillness, other sounds became apparent to her. Above the muffled sounds of the party below. It sounded like moaning. Her husband. Had he fallen? Was he hurt? What— She had been traveling toward the sound, but now suddenly heard a woman's voice moaning as well, all mixed up with her husband's moans.

  She grew dizzy and angry and her heart raced. She was frozen in the hallway. This was not happening. Not here, not now, not at all.

  With weak limbs she forced herself to walk toward the sounds, toward the guest bedroom two doors down. The sounds grew louder as she got closer, and the sick feeling in her stomach grew worse with every moan. With a shaking hand she reached out to open the door. A rush of terror and adrenaline shot through her just before she threw open the door.

  The door swung open and hit the wall inside the room with a loud thump. And there he was. Her husband. Under the covers, sweating, on top of a blond woman she barely knew, but was acquainted with. She couldn't remember her name. She was speechless.

  Her husband had turned to look at her. She stumbled back into the hall on her spindly high heeled shoes. Why had she worn these? It was like walking on stilts. She heard her husband climb out of the bed and whip some clothes on quickly. She felt sick. And wobbly. She began to walk quickly back down the hall, to the bathroom across from the craft room. He called from the guest room, "Rachel!" He started to run after her. She started to run, faster than she thought she could in her weak state, in those shoes. She barely made it to the bathroom before him, but she jumped inside, slammed and locked the door. Leaving him pounding on the outside of the door still screaming her name.

  "Rachel!"

  He faded out. So did the bathroom with gorgeous blue tiled walls with a mosaic of blue birds and dainty trees. It went black. Like a TV being turned off.

  Then she snapped back into consciousness, suddenly very awake, lying on the cool wooden floor where she'd passed out earlier, behind the chair. Her breathing was fine now, the horrible mental pressure and dizziness were gone.

  And with a sudden clarity she quickly sat up and let a certain idea sink in. She had a name. Finally, she had a name.

  Chapter 6

  Rachel sat in her pajamas in a messy office she'd discovered in her house. It said Kayla, more than Zane, to her. She had been surfing the Internet for a while trying to find information on herself. It seemed there were several people with her name, all different spellings. She didn't know which one was her.

  Then finally she must have hit the right spelling because the first link she clicked had her picture in it, with some sort of article or—'Oh, my God,' she thought. It was her obituary.

  She stared at the screen in horror. She was smiling in the picture, some million dollar smile she must have locked up in her still. How could she be staring at her own obituary? That certainly went along with the memory of being murdered.

  And yet clearly it wasn't true.

  Finally she worked up the nerve to read the words. It said she was well loved. She had died Sept. 21, 2014. The computer said it was now March 16, 2017. She guessed that during those 2 ½ years "they" had been making her into an assassin.

  She read more of the obituary. She'd done a lot of charity work, apparently. Had many friends. No children. It said she'd died suddenly from an undiagnosed brain tumor.

  "Brain tumor?" she said aloud to herself.

  'The kind that make you black out?' Zane suddenly said in her head. 'Sorry, sweetie. Time to go to work.'

  And before Rachel could have another thought, she had blacked out again.

  * * *

  She came to with a start. She almost fell over. She was standing at the big sink in a laundry room, possibly her own. Her hands were running something under the faucet, cold water made her hands feel icy. She looked down and jumped again. Blood.

  She was washing blood out of a light blue shirt. She started to cry. Her hands kept washing the shirt, controlled by Kayla or Zane, or just momentum, she did not know.

  "You killed again," Rachel said angrily out loud.

  There was no answer.

  "Zane!" she yelled into the air.

  'We have to,' Zane said quietly in her head. 'Or they'll kill us or lock us up.'

  Rachel kept scrubbing the shirt furiously. As if she could really wash away the murder.

  "Who was it this time?" Rach
el asked finally, quietly.

  'A stranger,' Zane said. Then she took over the body, "That's all you'll ever need to know."

  Rachel faded to black again.

  * * *

  There was a train. Some kind of rhythmic lull. Or a race or a... bed springs squeaking repeatedly. Sweat, heat... 'Oh God,' she thought. She was having sex again. She was under someone. Suddenly warm fluid spilled into her as she felt the tingled wave of an orgasm rush over her and push all her thoughts away. Her back arched almost without her control, then her muscles relaxed as she sighed and laid her head on the pillow. She was safe, she was satisfied, she was—where was she?

  She opened her eyes. It was the boyfriend. Thank God it wasn't another man she was going to murder. She hoped. For all she knew Zane had been setting this guy up for months.

  He started to kiss her passionately and she suddenly became aware that they were strangers. She struggled against him, trying to get out of the bed. He let her up.

  In her haste she sort of slammed herself against the brown wood panel wall near the bed.

  "What?" he asked, surprised. "What is it?"

  "Who are you?" Rachel asked in a nervous panic.

  He laughed like she must be joking. Then saw that she was not.

  "Kayla," he said, "What's wrong?"

  She still wasn't sure Zane wasn't about to take over and murder this guy right in front of her, like the last guy. But he wasn't tied up, and he looked bigger than the other guy. 'Everywhere,' she thought as she found herself involuntarily looking down at his body. He was perched on the edge of the bed. He saw her glance, and reached back to grab his sweats off the bed and put them on.

  "This isn't like you," he said, as he walked around the bed to grab his own robe off the chair. He handed it to her. She threw it on. An old thin flannel thing, blue. She barely cared that she was naked. She mostly feared her hands would try to strangle him or lunge for some hidden gun.

  He sat on the edge of the bed again. He didn't reach out for her. He just stared at her, looking puzzled. He looked like his pictures, but his hair was lighter than she'd thought. He was bulky and muscular, but in a kind of natural way. Not chiseled. He looked like a football player. Blue eyes. Slightly crinkly around the edges. He was tan. 35 years old? 40?