Self Insert

This is a teaser for a larger work that is in progress.

I thought I would wake up and look in a mirror and scream.

It wasn’t like that at all.

It was like being a baby. I flailed around, uncoordinated and displaced.

I would look at my hand in front of my face and not recognize it as mine.

I would see the ceiling and not know if it was above me or below me.

Was the world upside down or right side up?

The sounds around me were gibberish. I couldn’t tell where they came from.

I often became overwhelmed and cried.

I wanted comfort desperately.

Sometimes they would wrap me up in blankets to calm me down.

When they began feeding me with a spoon, I felt like I was going to choke and spat it up. Sometimes they yelled at me for making a mess. At least, it sounded like yelling. I was pathetic.

Time didn’t make sense, but I was told later that it was over a month before they thought I was ready. Once my senses calibrated and I could sit up and stand and eat and understand words again, they brought in a mirror.

I didn’t scream. I disassociated.

They said they would try again later, maybe in a few weeks.

I started to feel myself. They said it would help.

I asked for privacy and touched every part of myself that I could reach.

Was this me?

I was thin and bony. My legs were long. My reach was amazing.

The way my body responded to my own touch was unexpected and uncontrollable.

I laughed and smiled. I could get used to this.

I heard the nurse giggle on the other side of the door.

“Can we come in?” she asked.

“Yaw es,” I said with conscious thought and effort. “Mear er.”

“What did he say?” the doctor asked.

“He wants the mirror,” the nurse answered.

They brought it in again. I was even able to hold it myself and see the new me.
It was still jarring, but I grounded myself by touching my face while I looked.

It was me.

My jawline and cheeks were angular. My eyes were slim and dark. My nose was distinctive, like a fin. My neck was long, and my Adam’s apple was prominent. I had dark coarse hair on my face and bushy eyebrows that could use a trim and wax.

It took several more weeks to relearn how to talk and move well. Every day we worked on motor skills and language skills.

Slowly, my body felt more like mine, but I wasn’t the same person. I had to make peace with that, they said.

“Think of your old self as dead,” they told me. “It’s better that way.”

I have my own apartment now. I dress myself. I feed myself. I sleep well most nights. I am well taken care of monetarily.

My job is to be observed. They need to know how well this works before trying it on someone worthwhile, I suppose.

I am used to being poked and prodded, but now they only come in once a week to take samples and do tests. I answer their questions before they ask them. I know them by heart.

I watch videos and take walks. I have a pet frog that I like to paint pictures of. I work out in the first-floor gym. I wear a watch that monitors my vitals and gives the research team my location.

Tonight, I’m going to do something different. I am going to go out and socialize.

“Hi, I am Jack. I am 27 years old,” I tell the mirror. “I live alone and work from home. After I graduated from college, I got a job in IT at the clinic…but that’s a lie…I’m Janice. I’m 94 years old. I worked as a receiving clerk for many years, but I’m retired. My husband preceded me eleven years ago. One of our children died young. The other one is in memory care. I’m a science experiment. There’s a nurse who was nice to me and held my hand when I was afraid. I call her ‘mom’ when I’m distressed. It’s so embarrassing. I’ve never felt so alone, and I want to try my new body out. Do you want to come back to my place?”

I give a thumbs up to the mirror and laugh.

“Best pick-up line, ever!”