A path has an end but does the man walking on it know? Or does he just keep moving because this is the only way that would lead him somewhere? To what end? What does the man wish to reach?
Home.
He wants to feel at home. A state of place where if you step through your door, people who love him greet with hugs and smiles. It is warm then like re-entering his mother's womb. No one can touch him there. The man is at home.
And I have none at the moment.
First, because this is not my world, and second, I do not know where this body's home is.
So I was wandering around the city, hoping to find an answer to that.
Until I land in the middle of it.
Towering skyscrapers, colourful and noisy ads everywhere, cars and feet running over the road.
I walk on the street until someone steps in front of me.
"Please grab a pack of tissues!"
Says a woman in her early twenties, handing me a pack of what she's giving. The wrapper features an older man looking up at me with a confident smile. Vote for Harley—the future of the Center is in your hands, says the text around him.
The Center is the city I am in. The air is no better here. The people: their faces tired, voices exhausted, and those almost identical black formal suits. We all blend together well.
"A tissue."
The woman scans me with her grey eyes, now without a smile.
Oh, right, I've been standing here for a minute now.
I take the tissue, expecting the girl to step aside.
She doesn't.
"Do you want me to take more of those?"
"Have you not fixed it yet?" The woman says, now with a different voice.
One that I've heard before.
This is her.
Is she here to kill me?
I sigh, "I thought I did it right. I got in."
"You did, and we are happy."
I don't feel a shred of pride. "Glad I, a lower being, can make someone like you feel anything. Say, how many are you, exactly?"
There's a middle schooler who stabbed me, a nurse who sliced my neck, and now, a woman handling tissues, helping someone running his presidential campaign.
"We are a lot."
"Like ten?"
"A lot."
"Twenty?"
"Lots."
"Millions?"
"...a lot."
I'm beginning to think she's not going to give me a number.
Her fist knocks twice on her head, "You better fix it fast."
"You see, I'm not really an expert in remembering. I don't even know how I did it in the first place."
"It was your fault, human. You stopped yourself, didn't you?"
"I don't know."
"Do you feel disgusted?" Her eyes run from my top to my bottom.
I know what she meant.
"From what I can remember, he's a good guy," I look at both of my palms, "caring, loving, smart, and… innocent. For you to shove me out of all people into someone like this, yes, I feel disgusted. I used his body to lie to someone who believed him."
I ruined the guy by just acting like myself.
"Do you feel guilty?"
This feels like I'm in a therapist's room all of a sudden. I don't want that. I don't want to feel like I have to depend on this being in front of me for emotional support. Thankfully, the sense of people walking past us, cars' engines polluting the sound, and this uncomfortable air grazing my lungs—reminds me I'm in an unfamiliar world in someone else's body, fighting an unwinnable fight.
I decided to answer her, even though she already knew the answer to that. "After so many deaths you've put me through, I forgot how to."
She nods with a subtle smile and all, "The human we drag in here will answer that differently. You have to fix it." She knocks her head once again.
"Maybe some time later. I'm tired now."
She points at one of the huge buildings, "Just walk in that direction until you find Sunshine Apartment. It is your resting place."
"Uh... thank you?"
"Yours is room twenty-one."
"Right."
For a being who put me in this hell, she is sometimes too helpful.
Maybe she is just in the mood to. I think this is the best chance to ask her once again.
"Say, about the cheat I asked before you cut my throat, is it still possible to make it a reality this time?"
"Mister?"
Grey eyes. Full of questions. The woman is backing away from me, ready to run if I step closer.
A completely different person. The One Who Put Me Here is nowhere to be found in her face.
I had to make sure...
"Have… we met before?"
She shakes her head. "This is… the first time I saw you. Mister."
She's not pretending, is she?
No, I don't think so. In fact, if I press her any further, I won't be surprised if what she's holding in her pocket now turns out to be a pepper spray.
I walk away, still trying to figure out what just happened.
Did the one who put me here possess her for a while there? Is that how this works? Interesting. Another piece for a puzzle that needs millions—small win.
Now, to Sunshine Apartment. Where I suppose my home is. Hope it's warm.