The Man with my Face

Waking up, I wished I hadn't. I preferred unconsciousness to this throbbing on my temple. My wrists hurt too, and opening my eyes I saw handcuffs chaining me to a pipe that ran floor to ceiling. To the side were shelves of cleaning supplies.

I had been deposited in the janitor's closet.

I'd have laughed at the situation if my mouth weren't gagged by duct tape... and a sock in my mouth. My feet were cuffed together, but free from the pipes. A breeze from the air conditioning made me realize that more of my body was exposed than I would have liked. I wore only my boxers and a sock.

I pulled my face to my hands and worked on the duct tape, but it was no use. The layers were too thick.

Scanning the closet by what light there was, I noticed a toolbox in the corner. I squirmed until I was able to hook the handle with my foot, pulling it across the concrete to me. It was slow, but I was determined. What else was I going to do? Halfway to me, I removed my foot from the handle and pulled with my knees. Within reach at last, I opened the box and sifted through the tools until I could find something to help me get out of my predicament.

Screwdriver! Hammer! I won't be stuck in these bindings for long!

I banged the screwdriver into the links, but my lack of leverage couldn't make a dent. After sending the hammer into my wrists twice, I gave up that approach. Back to the toolbox.

Wrench? No. Pliers? No. Blow torch? Hmmm, that could work. I carefully removed the torch and set it on the floor. It took but a few tries to light it, and it bore flame, bright like my determination to escape my bonds. I turned it down a few notches, until it was blue and intense, and then thrust the links that were keeping me chained together into that flame. It took a few minutes, but the links became orange, then red, and then nearly white. I removed the metal from the flame and used the hammer I had earlier discarded. My lack of leverage didn't matter now, and soon enough the link cracked.

Finally, freedom!

I turned off the torch, and hopped towards the door as I struggled with renewed vigor at the silver trappings holding my mouth in place. No such luck removing the tape. I reached the door and turned the handle, easily opening the door. Whoever had left me in the closet, nearly naked, hadn't thought anyone would enter it during however long it had been that I was knocked out or trying to free myself.

The door opened, and my ears were deluged by the faint sounds of distant sirens. I could see red lights flashing around the corner further into the research facility that I worked. To the left was the front security desk, and daylight through the glass doors just beyond. I took a few steps toward the desk, but stopped as a wave of nausea overwhelmed me. There lay Jack, his lifeless eyes staring at me from his chair, a dark maroon stain marring his white shirt. His security badge flashed in the sunlight at me, from what little part wasn't covered in blood. It reminded me of the saltines he so loved to dip in strawberry jam.

I heard footsteps coming upon me from behind, and turned in time to see a brown haired man turn the corner at a run. He looked at me in surprise, which I mirrored. Beyond being mostly naked with duct tape over my mouth and broken handcuffs dangling from my wrists, we were perfect mirror images.

“I'm impressed Dr. Richards.” he said as he walked the few yards to where I stood, flabbergasted. “But I also thank you, for saving me the trouble of removing you from that closet.”

He removed the lab coat he wore, my lab coat, and draped it around my shoulders. And then in a motion almost too swift for my eyes to follow he swiped his hand up toward my head. A sharp pain like a lance pierced my brain and I staggered back, emitting a muffled “umph” while falling to my knees with my hands to my head.

I pulled my hands away from my head, and noticed a small smudge of blood on my left hand before I gazed back up at the stranger wearing my face, in time to see a small black device disappear within a pocket. His face held a smug grin, and then everything about him wavered, his brown hair turning a dusty blond. A scar formed across his forehead. But the smug grin remained, as he stepped around me.

Boots echoed along the corridor he had come from, and we turned our heads to see a half dozen men with rifles run around the corner, and they leveled their rifles at us. No, not at us, at me. I had only moments to register that the man to my left yelled “It's Richards! He's gone crazy!” before the cracking of the rifles.