It was grim news, but when isn’t it? There had been a mass shooting in a public area and many were killed. That was what I gathered from the scroll on the screen which was bad enough - but they were running footage of the scene with the first responders going about their jobs… and there I was, being tended to by a medic.

From glancing at the scroll (the TV was on mute), I could see that the shooter was dead along with his numerous victims so “I” was one of the survivors, rather than the perpetrator. But the me on the screen did look up at the cameras once and my stomach was suddenly gripped by that sinking feeling I remembered from riding roller coasters when I was a kid.

The footage was up for a few seconds more before reverting back to the reporter doing her soundless, yet serious, speech. I kept watching, waiting to see the footage played again - I must have been mistaken, seeing things - but the news went back to the studio.

The call for my flight was announced then and I reluctantly got up, eyes fixed on the screen as I slowly walked past it, then hurried to the boarding gate. My tired brain was trying to figure out how something like this could even be possible, but I decided to try to clear my mind and settle for a few minutes in my seat and close my eyes. I heard an all-too familiar female voice nearby but couldn’t begin to look up and confirm my fears - thankfully, the voice drifted past me to a seat a few rows back and I didn’t look back to see if it was the woman from the flight that morning and at the coffee shop.

Nobody claimed I wasn’t “a real person” that flight. I was even able to drift off for an hour before landing. The sleep didn’t just help rest me but gave me a small measure of comfort. I dreamed of my childhood pet, a black cat called Sala, who liked being held. I hadn’t thought of her in years but the dream felt real - all the memories came back, of her soft fur, the way she’d look at me with her eyes closed, the combination purr/meow she’d make when she was happy - so much so that I expected to be covered in cat hairs when I sat up in my seat.

I hadn’t been sleeping well recently. Maybe the uncanny events of the day could be put down as the culmination of days of poor sleep and building stress? Lack of sleep could make the mind play tricks on you in your waking life, after all. In the same way that I’d felt that I was really holding Sala the cat in sleep, perhaps my taxed mind had conjured up the unlikely image of seeing myself/my brother on TV at the scene of a tragic event, and even blurred the likenesses of two women?

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

We landed without incident and went through the tedious rigmarole of exiting. I began drinking shortly after leaving the airport and the rest of the day - the rest of that week - became a void of forgotten empty time. It wasn’t until afterward that I made the connection that the black cat I saw on the window sill at William’s apartment looked exactly like Sala.

*

I had shaved that morning and emerged sober for the first time that week when I heard someone accuse me of being something else I wasn’t. The person walked up to me holding their phone out, camera first, talking a lot of gibberish that my frazzled mind wasn’t able to untangle in the moment, but later, after watching the video appear on a popular “news” site that specialised in conspiracies, I was able to find out what this stranger was saying.

At the time, the sunlight in my eyes making me squint meant that I didn’t see the man move quickly forwards and attempt to pull back my shirt.

“Where’s the bullet wound, man?”

I didn’t know what to say, said something garbled in reply.

“See? No wound - he wasn’t shot! He don’t look injured. He’s a CRISIS ACTOR. How long you been doing this man - you CIA?”

I pushed him off of me and hurried on my way - surprisingly the man didn’t follow.

A crisis actor isn’t the sinister thing some online communities think it is - it’s a legitimate job wherein an actor pretends to be a disaster victim to help train first responders. In the context of my situation though, these conspiracy fans thought that I was part of some government psy-op to fake mass shootings and help the government push through gun bans, or something.

The video of my ambush I saw later on also included the footage I had seen in the airport lounge a week ago, confirming what I had by then convinced myself was a hallucination: it really was “me” in the news footage of the mass shooting’s aftermath. Or William…

Days went by and I got hundreds of random messages sent to my social media accounts and email all along the lines of the first stranger’s questions. I deleted accounts, apps, changed email addresses, but somehow the new ones got found out too. The odd thing was, I was in the same boat as my disturbed accusers: I wanted answers as well. What was my/William’s face doing on that news report?

I resolved to find out once and for all. Rather than waste time again trying to call someone at Wilson Group, I was able to find an address on a message board. I still had time off from work left and decided to make the trip. It was nearby but I’d need to drive a few hours there so I’d have to rent a car, maybe even stay a night.

Having become overly conscious of venturing outdoors by that point, I had the rental car dropped off on my street and, covering up my suddenly-troublesome face, set off very early in the morning to confront whoever was behind Wilson Group in person.