That's Not My Name

by Megan Lally

I am Mary Boone.

Girl you are NOT mary boone

“Everything checks out, Mary. These documents are genuine, and I’m confident we’ve figured out who you are. I’m comfortable leaving you in your father’s care if you are?”

Lord, he never went back and checked the basement

“—so, so sorry. I should have been paying better attention,” he says. He looks miserable. “I made breakfast on autopilot. The eggs were for me—it never even crossed my mind that you wouldn’t remember you can’t eat them. I’m so sorry.” Eggs. I have an egg allergy.

Red flag

“You can take my Adidas, but you can’t take my liberty.”

Iktr

I towel off and dig through the bag, deciding what to wear. I settle on a pair of leggings and a blue tank top. I pull the shirt over my head, and it rolls into a constrictive bunch under my armpits. Something’s not right. I wrestle it off, tugging it up half an inch at a time until I’m free, and hold it out in front of me.

It’s way too small. Almost comically small. How could he look at this and think it would fit me? I check the tag on the leggings but they’re smaller than the shirts. These look like they’d fit a middle schooler.

Now how your "dad" that far off with your size? Red flag

“You know, something about you looks so familiar. I can’t put my finger on it.”

Honestly, what’s more likely? That I’m a confused teenager with a concussion who’s putting way too much stock into dreams…or that I’ve been kidnapped and I’m being spoon-fed fake memories by a sociopath?

Definitely the latter