“Eighty-Three, come here,” A kind man beckoned me, his wide hands pulling me in and embracing my shoulders, “Let me show you your new home.” He smiled, warm and grateful.

He was a large man, or maybe I was small? His shoulders were broad, and his arms hairy, he held me as if there was no one else alive on this planet. And in between his steel jaw that twitched every time I stepped out of his reach, and his cautious gaze that never left me even as I ducked and dodged his protective grasp, he was afraid.

The house was white, pure and clean. It hovered over a great ravine, floating by use of devices I know nothing about. Spacious and maze-like, it looked easy to get lost in, trapped within the life of another girl, pictures of her face set on countertops and hung on smooth walls.

It was my face, but it wasn’t me. I didn’t understand, childlike in all ways, even my origin eluded me, sneaking in the shadows of this home that felt like home.

“Don’t stray too far. Take it slow, this is your home now, it won’t run away. I promise.” He comforted me, and my legs stalled, held in place by kindness, not confusion or fear.

I felt like a child, but I wasn’t. My body was 16, but I was dropped into it with nothing. Yet there was something, I knew things. Bits about how the world works, when to cross the street, or how to eat and take care of one’s self. Language accompanied me too, tucked up in the forefront of my mind, how to speak, what each of those words meant, and when to say what.

Of course, there was more, maths, literature, history, science, life, and death mixed with joy and sadness. So I knew things, but I didn’t know how I knew them, they were just there; loitering in my mind with no reference to where they came from.

“I’m scared.”

The man looked at me with reassurance, his face harsh and worn, yet soft and kind. He knelt down beside me, he was taller than me, but as he was now I was the one looking down on him.

“My beloved daughter, I am here for you. And I will never let you go again.” He declared, the words leaving his mouth drenched in love and compassion.

“Okay…”

Daughter…

He is my father?

Do I deserve this?

He stood up and placed his hand on my meek head, and ruffled my red hair, bright and consuming like fire. “Don’t look so sad.” He continued, raising my head from the ground to look at him with his homely words rather than demands or forced actions.

“Let’s go inside now, we can have a mini tour, does that sound like fun?” He continued, hesitating and slow, everything done for me, not him.

But that wasn’t true, everything I am was for him.

My head nodded, no words were said, simply a silent confirmation given out of anxiety, yet laced with hopefulness.

He smiled again, mellow and thawed, the glaciers hidden beneath his rusty grin gradually melting away as idle muscles became used once more.

The house was warm too, pleasant in all ways. I saw myself on the walls, in pictures set in places to show off. The walls were strange though, they felt plastic, but were as hard as metal, alien in my knowledge of the world.

Foreign in my mind, stranger to these lands. A forever gap in my comprehension.

He guided me to the living room first, white walls boxed us in, and a large open window peering over the ground let us out. A fireplace sat hot and cosy, however it wasn’t sustained by wood, but by a blue trickling liquid that wrapped around the fire like the veins of a bodybuilder in the middle of a workout.

The blue glow enthralled me, stole my vision and painted it azure before returning it to me. Beauty in absolution as it spread out like the spider’s web in a cracked window, shrouding me in its luminescent embrace.

He picked up a photo from the top of the fireplace, the picture displaying my familiar face, yet there were no memories of it being taken.

“Do you know who this is?” He asked, slowly and carefully, not for my sake, but for his own, “It is my daughter, she looks like you because… in a way, she is you, and you’re her.” He paused, watching my face go through different emotions, never settling on a single one as I aimlessly wandered for an answer, “You’re a clone of her.” He finished, announced, and spoke.

No more tenderness there, but bluntness. It wasn’t an action done out of hate but of love. He believed that ripping the bandage off in an instant would cause me less pain and that continuing through life without knowing what I was would only end in heartbreak.

But I do not understand what a clone is?

I know what it is. A copy of a human, the building blocks of their DNA taken and recreated in perfect duplication. I am this girl’s clone, but… what does that mean?

Does me being a clone mean anything? Will people know, will they treat me differently, view me as lesser, or perhaps greater? Am I different from a human? Of course, I am not, a clone is a human, a perfect copy, but… will people see it like that?

I am a clone, but I am also a human.

Why are they two different things if they’re the same?

“You’re like her twin sister, the exact same in every way.” He continued, reminiscing without consideration of what his words might mean to me.

What do they mean to me?

“And that makes you my daughter, as well.” He finished, placing the photo back on its cosy spot above the fireplace and replacing the remorse in his smile with hope.

He took my hand and pulled it gently as if he were handling fine silk, so afraid of damaging me that he wrapped me up in blankets of love and never let me go.

The next room was silver, or was it white? Is there a difference between them? Just as there is a difference between a clone and a human?

I suppose it doesn’t matter to me, but it matters to her, because it embodies her, completes her, is her.

To carry a question that has been answered by those you will never meet, it must be an unfair fate, to drag that chain and ball with you all your life; knowing that you can never escape it, yet never understanding why.

He picked me up as if I were a child, however, I was not a child but a teenager, yet I am still a child as he placed me on the counter and showed me joy tainted with mourning.

“This is the kitchen, here we can eat as a family again, you and me. Just like how it was.” He stated, bright and happy, no tears to be found beneath his eyes, but that does not mean they do not appear once I am out of sight.

“I have a twin?”

The kitchen was stale, too new and disused to hold any love within it. Each drawer and cupboard neat and clean, the kitchenware inside much the same. There had not been a family in this room for a long time, and as the snake-like pipes interweave themselves throughout the walls, dipping in and out like the receding blue tide of the ocean, I felt at home.

For there was now a family within this room.

Even if it was only a family of two, if it was only us.

It was enough.

“Yes,” He answered, his voice deep and heedful, “She has gone to a better place now. You’re all that remains, my beloved daughter.”

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To be given family, and then to be told she is already dead.

How cruel is this world? Would it not have been better to remain ignorant? At least then I would not mourn for a sister I have never, nor can ever meet.

“What was her name?”

Tenderly asked, softly and quietly, and he complimented it with silence. A dreadful and terrible silence, filled with pain far worse than a thousand needles, one not of physical but of remembrance.

“Jinko.” He finally released the word, that little name he had wanted to keep trapped on his tongue.

“Jinko?”

“Hmm, her mother chose it.” He replied, embracing me in his arms as he suddenly picked me up and carried me out of the room into the garden, “Just as I chose your name.” He mumbled, putting me down on the grass, my bare feet sinking into artificial dirt and plants.

He continued to watch me, treating me all the same as a toddler taking her first steps, his eyes recording my every moment, not for memory's sake, but out of fear of losing me.

Losing who I represent.

“Why did you choose my name?”

He stared down at me, our eyes locking together, my red to his brown. And then he spoke, words broken yet repaired. “I chose it because that's how many days it took for me to remake you.”

A simple answer with shards of prickly glass hidden between the words.

Remake you.

A replacement.

At least I am warm, and happy, and loved, and cared for. The world is cruel, but my father is not, he is kind and loving, and I am glad to have him.

Even if he would rather have her.

“Look over here.” He called, guiding me towards a row of plants tucked against a tall glass plane that overlooked the steep drop into the ravine below. “Your father planted these when you were born, I’ve kept them beautiful for you for all these years.”

He beamed at my smile, proud and happy, a father through and through.

But he is not my father.

Because my father is cruel, more so than the world. His stubborn glance, demanding I act only as he desires. Perform for these guests, show off your talents, are you not glad that you’re my daughter? Are you not glad that you are loved? But you’re not loved, you’re controlled, you’re a doll, so perform, perform, and perform.

This man is not my father, but it would be nice if he was.

But my father is detached, more so than this stage. His disinterested stare, having no regard for my well-being, only a care that I live, that I am beautiful, that I am equal to the watch on his arm. Do not make me look bad, you are not abused, you should be happy that I take care of you as I do. Your emotional welfare, what a joke, toughen up, be proud. Why do you cry? Have you not been fed and clothed? What need do you have for more? Be grateful I take care of you, others would not be so protective as I. But you’re not protected, you’re trapped, you’re a trophy, so flaunt, flaunt, and flaunt.

This life is not my life, it is a stage, a script that she acts out, but it would be nice if it was.

However, my father is arrogant, more so than the river that flows. His prideful scowl, gruelling me when I fail to meet his standards. Why can you not do it? Why do you give up so soon? Your fingers are not yet bleeding, play until they do. You will be better, perfect, you will impress. Be happy that I put this much work into you, even though you do not deserve it. I do not care if it hurts, or if you cry, you will do it no matter what, and you will thank me one day. But you’re not thankful, you’re lost, so run, run, and run.

This body is not my body, it is her’s, it has always been her’s, passed down to me only through her will, but I did not ask for it, take it back, please. She won’t, but it would be nice if she would.

“Seina?” My father asked, but I did not recognise the name, for the actress only knew the name Eighty-Three.

And then I fell, my legs giving out from under me, I hit the ground hard, disoriented and confused.

“Oh my god, Seina? Are you alright?” He called out to me, reaching down as the scene transformed back into a stage, the grass beneath me becoming wood once more, and him turning from Eighty-Three’s father back into himself.

And Seina too left, and I returned back to myself. For she was the one acting, I was merely the one who felt it.

Oda Inoue, he was my co-actor for this scene, the man who played the father. He was an older man, early 30s I believe, he had brown hair and matching eyes. His face was a little rough, stubble coating it like peeling paint, but it suited him well and didn’t make him appear harsher, but more down-to-earth.

Facial hair usually gives the impression that someone is lazy, or filthy. That they’re someone who does not take care of their appearance, and instead let it grow wild. It's a stigma here in Japan, beards are often associated with unemployment, and only elderly men are given a free pass when it comes to the social effects of one.

But Oda, he wears it well. It makes him seem more fatherly, or perhaps that’s just a lingering aftereffect from the scene?

“You’ve been at this for hours, have you drunk enough water today? Here, let me help you. It's time for you to take a break.” Oda chattered on caringly, maybe he too was stuck in the aftereffects of the scene, his mind tricking him that I am still his daughter.

He picked me up in his arms, holding me in a princess carry, carefully, yet carelessly. I wasn’t opposed to physical contact, but I preferred not to have any, especially when it was without warning.

There was a breakroom set up behind the stage, so looping through the curtains to the watering hole, he placed me down on a metal chair and poured me a drink.

A few people stared, a little confused as to why I was being carried in, but most of the actors were too focused on their own scenes, or hidden away elsewhere practising, so I was relatively left alone.

“Here, take it easy.” Oda told me, handing over a cup of water that I drank, more to keep his worries to a minimum rather than because I needed it.

I must have gotten too wrapped up in being Seina, it all starts to blur when it lasts for as long as it did. But I hadn’t expected it to make me feel lightheaded, nor for it to steal the sensation in my legs, but at least it's fading already.

“Thank you.” I offered him my gratitude, more as an obligation than anything else. “We can restart the scene in 5 minutes.” I continued, preferring to get back to it than sit here and waste time.

“No, no. I think you’re done for the day.” He declared, refusing to budge an inch on further practice, “You need to rest up, working yourself till exhaustion doesn’t benefit anyone, especially not yourself.”

“I-” I paused, realising that there was no point arguing with him, I gave up, “Okay.”

If his mind was made up, then I suppose I was done for the day. There aren’t many other people who I have scenes with that are free right now, and those that are free have such minor roles that it won’t benefit me.

I need emotional scenes, parts where Seina can put what Emiko taught us to full use. A basic conversation or expedition dump with a minor character won’t help us improve in the slightest. Of course, that meant there were only really three characters that I could work with, Dr. Akemi, played by Oda, Yuki, played by Emiko, and Jinko, played by Kaede Esumi.

So if Oda was out, and the other two were busy, then I had nothing to do but go over the basics, over and over again.

“Is Hatsuko still here?” I asked.

Hatsuko came to some rehearsals, but she usually left as the day began winding down around 6 p.m., so the chance that she was still here was a 50/50 coin flip.

Oda looked uncomfortable at Hatsuko’s mention, he obviously didn’t like her, for whatever reason. It was uncommon; Hatsuko put on a bubbly act here, the same one she used on me when she first pulled me off that street and into acting. I found it pointless, but it seemed to have resulted in her being fairly well-liked.

But most people just didn’t notice her, or perhaps didn’t see beneath the surface? Maybe saying, ‘well-liked’ was overselling it, she was tolerated simply because she barely interacted with anyone as it is, but it didn’t go much further than that. Not like, not hate, merely there.

“I’ll go and check.” He finally relented, still a tad bit unhappy about the prospect of talking to her, but heading off to check all the same.

I almost wanted to tell him that she wasn’t that bad, but this was a hole she had dug herself into. Her performance, that bubbly and happy-go-lucky act worked on most people, it put them at ease, made them underestimate her, or perhaps innately trust her; but it had its trade-offs, not everyone was drawn to that type of personality, some people found it awkward, or viewed it as too fake.

Sometimes I wondered if Hatsuko would be better off discarding the act and revealing her real personality, or at least the one she shows to me, the one I believe is real. It's a little blunt, and maybe it lies a bit much or is overly conscious about how people feel about her. But it's genuine, and it makes her more approachable.

Or maybe I’m just a little different. It's all the same in the end, if Hatsuko has faith in the change, in that act she performs despite not acting in over 10 years, then I trust she’s doing it for a reason.

“I can’t find her.” Oda came back, tall and reliable, ever the kindly old father even once the scene had ended. I understand fully why he was chosen for the role, it suits him well.

“I see.” I whispered, to which he crossed his arms defensively, upset with the thought that he had let me down. “I’ll find her later, thank you.”

He still smiled, warm and kind, but he was not my father this time, but simply an older man looking out for what he perceived to be a younger child.

It was fine to lie, it made sense. It was all part of being an actress, of being me, and of being her.

My father did it.

My mother did it.

Seina did it.

And I continue to carry all their traditions; it's better this way…

I’m sure of it.

We’re all sure of it.