The Cyclone

They threw a bag over my head and drove me somewhere far. It was hard to tell exactly how long, but it had to have been a few hours. I was exhausted, but pain did not allow me to relax in any way. This body ached and the stinging, throbbing sensation of being stabbed lingered in the back and chest. I could feel a long blade slice between my ribs through skin and muscle, punching through my lung and flooding it with blood. It probably sliced through the surface of my heart as well. I might have died faster if they had just slit my throat or shot me, but perhaps they wanted to prolong the pain as I was held captive in this body, feeling everything without the luxury of going into shock or the dulling of the pain with loss of consciousness. It was torture.

The Reaper spoke very little as we drove, and only to the driver. They spoke in a foreign language that sounded like utter gibberish, but fit well with her accent. I wanted to ask what was going on, but my voice seemed to have disappeared with my will to speak. It wasn’t until we finally came to a stop that she addressed me. “Darling, I know you are confused and in pain, and I’m terribly sorry for it.” She didn’t sound very sorry. In fact, her voice couldn’t sound colder with just a hint of manufactured pleasance. “But if you’re even half as tired as I am, we both should go rest. We will discuss our business at a later time. Michael will show you to your room.”

The door to my right opened and a strong arm took me by the shoulder and lifted me from the vehicle. He had to half carry me up an incline. The legs I stood on were gelatinous, probably as useful as a squid’s tentacles for walking upright. After being dragged up a short set of steps, we came to a stop. There were several soft beeps and a door swung open, releasing a cool blast of AC into the balmy night. It was definitely night now. It had already been pretty late in the afternoon when I was captured.

I reached out with a tendril of consciousness and found nothing but solid psychic defenses. They were waiting for me. Trained to contain me. Why me? I knew I had a valuable power. I was trained by the government for intelligence work and other covert operations, it’s not often that you come across someone who can possess others and be in two places at once, but this woman, Reaper, was a target who was hunted. Her power was too dangerous to allow to exist. Hell, I was supposed to terminate her when I got the chance on this mission. Why would she go through the trouble of trapping me in this empty doll, killing only my body? Why wouldn’t she just destroy me completely? She had to know that she could never trust me, nor I her. What could she possibly do with me? What did she need me for that would allow such risks?

I had regained some strength and feeling in the legs and was able to walk more or less under my own power, though still bagged and guided by Reaper’s grunt. The building smelled like some kind of woody incense and the carpet was so thick and plush it was almost bouncy. There was a rattle of a gate and we stepped into what I nervously assumed was an old elevator, but it shot up quickly like it was new. It was an old-fashioned façade. Despite my situation, I was curious about my surroundings and the antiquated aesthetic of my captor. This was clearly a private place, likely her own home.

We crossed another stretch of carpet and entered another room. My bag was finally removed and I found myself in a surprisingly plain suite, at least compared to what I had imagined the rest of the house was like. The color scheme was a gradient of blues and charcoal grey and it was furnished in a modern, minimalist fashion.

“Miss Genevieve suggests you use your time to become accustomed to your body. There are fresh clothes in the dresser and closet and the bathroom is stocked. Rest. Someone will be in to check on you in the morning.”

I spun around, but the man had already left and shut the door. I could hear a click as it was locked from the outside. My heart beat rapidly against my ribs and my lungs couldn’t seem to get enough oxygen to fill. Devoid of the capacity to do otherwise, I sat on the floor and curled up on my side. “Dorothy lived in the midst of the great Kansas prairies-”

My head ached as I tried to summon the words to my only comfort. When I was young and first started to be treated for ADHD, what I later learned was an early manifestation of my power, The Wizard of Oz had been one of the first books I had read, with help from my father. He had insisted on it. It was his favorite book too.

It was several minutes before the feeling of drowning subsided and I rolled over onto my back. The carpet was almost soft enough to sleep on, but the clothes I wore were not. I willed myself off of the floor, if for no reason other than to find something comfortable to replace the stiff suit and starched collar. I walked with almost a drunken stupor across the room toward the door to the closet and opened the latch. The door swung out and open, revealing a huge closet and the wardrobe of a man who appeared to be about my size but was much more elegant than I was. To my right, however, was a tall mahogany dresser that looked a little more promising. I pulled open the top two drawers: socks and underwear. I pulled out a pair of black, cotton boxer briefs and set them on top. The next two drawers held undershirts and sweatpants. I took one of each, grabbed the underwear, and held them against my abdomen. I felt disgusting and nauseous for touching anything, but what else was I supposed to do?

I left the closest with the clothes and carried them to the bathroom where I found the most ridiculously extra shower I'd ever seen. It was one of those huge ones that I'd only seen in movies that sprayed water at you from all sides. I took a deep, steadying breath and set the clothes down on a small table near the door. Shrugging out of the coat, I let it drop to the stone tile and pulled the shirt from the waistband of the pants. I started to unbutton the top but paused, looking down at this body, my body, that I had never actually seen before. With trepidation and avoiding the urge to look down at myself, I continued to unbutton until it dropped to the floor with the coat.

I tried not to think as I unbelted and unbuckled the pants. I realized that I had left the shoes on and quickly kicked them off. Soon I was stark naked. Tears welled as I looked down at this body I now possessed and I no longer felt like showering. This wasn't mine. I didn't want to look at it anymore. I quickly dressed in the clean clothes from the dresser and left the bathroom with the suit left crumpled on the floor.

I reentered the main bedroom and noticed a large book left on the side table by the bed. I looked down at it. I was shocked to see that it was an illustrated copy of the Wizard of Oz, and it was in pristine condition. How much did they know about me that they would have this?

Gingerly, I lifted the hefty book from the table and flipped it open to the title page. I nearly dropped the book as my whole being recoiled and stomach bile rose up my throat. Tucked in the binding was a printed photo of me. I recognized my brown hair, weighed down with grease, pulled back with an old rubber band and the back of the band shirt from the concert I never went to, torn and soaked with blood. I flipped blindly through the book as more photos slipped from between it's pages. It seemed that every inch and angle of my corpse had been carefully documented by my killer.

One of the last photos to fall was of my face. I had died with my hazel eyes wide open with blood staining my lips and chin.

Unable to resist the urge to vomit, I ran to the bathroom and dry heaved over the sink. There was nothing in my stomach to expunge except utter despair.