Excerpt: Aesthetics and Identity

Imogen felt good, invigorated by the chilly fall night air.
She walked the streets easily in her comfortable shoes, unafraid of the dark. I have to find somewhere to sleep tonight, but that shouldn’t be that hard. If nothing else, I can go home and sneak in through the window. She had snuck out so many times before, it should be easy to accomplish. Not that her parents had ever known, of course—her Ma, in particular, would have flipped if she had found out that Imogen went out after curfew.
She didn’t know that she was being watched.
At first.
I mean, really; is it that hard to figure out?
She kept walking.
Five minutes later, she reached the end of the sidewalk and stopped. She did not turn, however, merely stopped and stood there.
“What is it you want?” Her own voice sounded hard and frosty in the air.
A sigh. “Such animosity.”
Imogen turned then, but slowly. She had to keep showing that she was in control of this situation. The man laughed, softly; despite the fact that now he was wearing a scarf around his neck, this was definitely the beautiful one that she had seen before. Before she had Disappeared, even, in that line at Narita.
“What else did you expect? I assume you know something about this. What were you going to do, watch and wait for me to figure it out?”
“Yes, actually. Such a smart girl you are.” He grinned meltingly. “I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced, Imogen.”
“You obviously know my name,” she shot back. “So all that’s left is for you to tell me yours.”
The man inclined his dark-haired head. “Of course, of course; where are my manners?”
“Possibly down a toilet, you might try looking,” Imogen said, acerbically.
“I’m Vincente DiAlessio,” the man went on as if she hadn’t spoken. “And you are Imogen DeVerta, twenty years of age. I am honored to make the acquaintances of such a lovely young lady as yourself.” He bowed, just slightly.
“As am I,” Imogen said, making very sure that the way in which the pleasntrie was phrased said no such thing. “So what is it you want? Out with it; I haven’t all night.”
“Well, for one, I wanted to congratulate you for your little show of independence back there. It was truly stunning. Also, I want to extend to you an offer that you will not find it easy to refuse.”
“Oh? Is that so?”
“Yes,” Vincente replied, leaning closer. “Tonight, Imogen DeVerta, you have the chance to save someone you love dearly from a terrible fate.”
“I love no one but myself,” Imogen replied.
Vincente’s smile widened. “Is that so?” Suddenly his hand shot out, capturing her wrist in one smooth, easy motion; she tried to pull away, but his grip was like iron and then, just as suddenly, the world shimmered and blurred around her, as if a heat wave had passed by.
And Imogen was looking down a dark alleyway where a woman walked, her hands full of shopping. Her face was that of…
Imogen gasped.
“I believe this is you mother, the woman who gave birth to you?” Vincente said, lightly. “She has forgotten you, and yet you watch. Is that not an irony?”
“What the—“
“Watch, and you shall learn.” His eyes were unreadable.
So Imogen watched.
The woman who was her mother walked down the dark streets, her arms loaded with packages. She was not an imposing woman; Natsuki DeVerta was shorter than either one of her daughters had been, and slim, still with a vaguely girlish face. It was odd that she was alone—but then again, Imogen reflected, maybe Christmas shopping had started early or something. She was wearing a nice dress and a long coat and pumps—it was obvious that she had been out all day. Maybe her car was parked a long way away. Imogen leaned forward, a terrible feeling of foreboding washing over her.
Sure enough, the shadows morphed and moved, and the man was staggering out of whatever nook he had been hiding in. Drugged eyes focused on the well dressed, obviously well off woman walking the sidewalk, then took in the fact that no one else appeared to be present. The metal barrel glinted in the streetlight as he blocked her path.
Natsuki looked up, and Imogen felt her heart leap into her throat. Ma…no….
The man raised the gun with trembling hands and said something indistinct, gesturing towards the purse hanging from Natsuki’s shoulder. She reached for it, but too slow—the man’s trembling fingers were the only thing that spared her life as the gun fired.
“Someone will have heard that,” Vincente commented. “He might not have been intending this before, but he’ll do what needs to be done now.”
This time, the gun was aimed point blank at her mother’s head.
Imogen squeezed her eyes shut as the shot fired.
It was several minutes later that she realized that she was sobbing softly, and also that normality had returned. She opened her eyes and glared at Vincente, who shrugged.
“All I can do is show you these things,” he said. “I can do nothing about them.”
Imogen took a deep breath. She had a vague inkling of where this was going. “Can I?”
“Perhaps,” Vincente said with a shrug. “What do you think you can do?”
Imogen felt her hands clench.
“There’s only one thing I can do.” She might have forgotten me, but she’s still my Ma. I cant let her die, knowing what I know.
I’ll do this for you, Ma. Even though it’s morally ambiguous at best.
It’s better you be alive to disapprove.
She looked up at Vincente. The man’s eyes glinted, and she knew that she was playing right into his hands. But I can turn that to my advantage. I have to do this anyhow, and he’s the only one who can help me. So I’ll tolerate him a while longer.
“How?” she asked, and she was proud that her voice did not tremble.
Vincente extended a hand to her. “Unlike this man you have just seen, you do not require a weapon to kill or incapacitate. The power I refer to has resided inside of you since you were born—it is extremely unusual that you remained repressed this long. However, it has been activated by your Disappearance, and now your requirements to use this power are limited. You have amazing control.”
“How do you know this?”
“there was a woman bearing your description who died at an apartment complex in Tokyo recently, wasn’t there?”
“Yes, but I hardly see how…”
“Imagine,” Vincente breezed on over her, “how shocked this woman must have been , to see her own doppelganger raise her hands to kill her.”
“What are you saying?” Imogen’s blood was pounding in her ears. This cant be, how can this be? I killed already? “I was asleep that night, or maybe out clubbing. How could I kill without knowing it?”
“How could you disappear from all existence in the space of twenty four hours?” Vincente asked, then shrugged. “There is no explaining these things.”
He moved in a little closer. Imogen held her ground.
“Go to that apartment tonight?” he said, “and all will be explained.”
Imogen didn’t believe him, but there wasn’t much of a choice, was there? Besides, if she were going to be in danger—what would it matter? Neither the mother she was trying to save, nor the lover she had lost, nor the father who had loved her would remember or see. They were safe.
“I will,” she said.
“Then it is time,” Vincente said, “for you to meet yourself. Know yourself as you will be.”
Imogen felt the world’s reality swirl again.
She was about to seal her promise of revolution in the darkness.