Sometime in the morning, I begin coughing. In my drugged slumber, I forget what's happened, and my body convulses with each ragged breath—this moves my broken leg, and so I'm launched into the waking world with a shock, ripped from my dreams by new pain.
Good morning, me.
I peel back the blankets and inspect the damage. From my lower thigh down to my shin, the muscle is swollen and dark. The skin over the injury is a deep purple, but my foot is a normal color, which seems promising. I can even curl my toes, if I focus through the hurt.
Still, I'm not going anywhere.
No more cell phone, as Morgan insisted I leave it untouched in my bedroom. People don't bring their phones to a suicide, apparently. There's nothing to occupy me but the small television perched on the dresser across from the bed. With a flick of the remote, it comes to life.
I flip channels until I find a local station. Five minutes of the weather, a block of commercials, then the news.
Port Lavaca is reeling. Yesterday, Sean Reilly, the 18-year-old Irish exchange student who was arrested as a suspect for the murder of Kayla McPherson, jumped to his death. He was released on a $50,000 bond just two days prior. A suicide note left under the door of the McPherson household includes the message 'I'm sorry for everything, but most of all, I'm sorry for Kayla's death.'
The camera flips to a different reporter, who stands in the driveway of a suburban neighborhood. I recognize the garage door—he's outside the McPherson's home. Ruthless bastards.
The McPhersons aren't shown, but a boy I went to school with is standing in the doorway. The microphone is presented to his face.
I knew Sean, you know. I couldn't imagine him doing something like this. You know what really makes me sick? He came out and helped us search for Kayla when she first went missing, stayed there all night—and the whole time, he knew what happened. He killed her!
—Why do you think he did it?
He must have been a really sick individual, that's all I can say on camera.
And I played soccer with this guy. We were friends.
The news segment continues, and I'm glued to it. It's like watching one's house burn down; tragic, but mesmerizing. Becoming undone.
The screen changes to a memorial for Kayla at the high school, a stack of crosses and stuffed animals. Students stand beside it and are interviewed.
He took someone very special from us. Sean Reilly was troubled, you could see it in his eyes.
You could?
He had this vacant stare, like you never knew what was going on in his head. I never trusted him.
You didn't?
Sean just kept to himself most of the time, he didn't have a lot of friends. Kind of a loner.
Hey, asshole, I had plenty of friends. I was a fairly popular novelty. I only needed to endure two Lucky Charms jokes a day to keep everyone aware of my existence.
Not that there's anything I can say to that, now. Don't have any friends, anymore. In fact, I can never talk to any of those people ever again. Sean Reilly is all theirs, now. He's just a memory for them to twist and abuse.
So, who am I? When I was born, at least my parents were waiting on me, waiting to love me. Now, I don't even have them. I'm alone.
It's like a silence inside me. A dead quiet.
It's just me in this world, and I hate it.
*
Morgan opens my door. Her knee-length dress sports thick black and white horizontal stripes.
"Hey," she says quietly. "How are you feeling?"
I look away. "My knee hurts."
"I brought better drugs," she says, holding up an orange prescription medicine bottle. She tosses this on my chest, and I let it roll to the floor, rattling all the way.
"Cheer up," she commands.
"Subtle."
"Moping doesn't suit you. I thought you'd be able to handle this."
"I saw them talking about it on the news. Everyone hates me."
"People hate an entity they created in their minds with the label 'Sean Reilly.' It's not actually you, it's just a useful fiction to explain what happened—like most of life."
"It's like I lost the rights to myself. Sean Reilly only lives in their heads, now, and they're making him into a monster."
Morgan's points lazily, emphasizing her words. "Sean Reilly only ever existed in their heads. That's how it always is. People don't really ever know each other, not their core selves, their ghosts. We just keep images of each other in our minds, and we play with them. We love them, or hate them, or mourn them, or whatever—but they're only images. Sean Reilly is dead, but you're still you."
"But that is me!"
"That's not you. You can go on and live your life now. I will teach you how to make money, how to enjoy your new freedom," Morgan says.
"I was already going to make money! I was going to go to college, have a career."
"You were going to go to prison," she reminds me. "Besides, what I'm offering you is better than a career." Her tone curls spitefully under the last word.
Morgan reaches into her black purse. Her hand reappears with a small blue envelope, the size of a greeting card. She flips this on the bed.
The package is heavy. I peel back the small red sticker that seals the envelope, and pull out the contents.
"A gift from Mr. Banks," she says.
A blue card falls from the envelope to my chest. I pick it up. The words 'United States Social Security Administration,' are stamped in gold lettering, with a nine-digit number printed across the front. Below that, a name: Ryan White.
"I don't want this," I say. "I want to be Sean Reilly. I don't know who Ryan White is." I press my palm into my left temple and slide it down my face. "I'm trying to be positive about this, really, I am. I just don't understand."
"You will. What Jack and I do will transform you. I'm offering you a superior life. I am offering you clarity. I will make you potent. You will be who you need to be in public; you'll be who the situation calls for, and you'll fool them into thinking whatever you need them to think. Take their system, their world, and play it like an instrument. There are thoughts, and there's the real world, and they're rarely the same thing."