Twisted Tales

Hi, my name is Bella, which is short for Isabella. I live outside the city in a small neighborhood with long sidewalks and few trees. Don't ask what city it is because at the moment I can't remember. I realize I should know where I live, but recently details—especially ones pertaining to my life—have been getting all mixed up.

I know it sounds crazy, but I feel like someone is playing a practical joke on me. It's like I'm constantly forgetting who I am. Some days all the details feel right and sometimes they just feel—wrong—like they were something else before and now it's all changed.

Crazy, right?

That's why I'm taking the time to write all of this down. I figure that if I put everything on paper then even if I forget something there will be a record to look back at. Maybe I'm just being paranoid. Maybe there's nothing to the lapses in memory or my confusion. It could just be stress; although I don't feel like I lead a highly demanding life that would cause that.

Anyway, as I said, my name is Isabella. I have green eyes and brown hair, although I feel like at some point my eyes were actually brown and not green. That could be a thing or I could be recalling a time I wore colored contacts. Or maybe I only wished for them to be brown. Either way I'm considering dying my hair red to go with the green eyes.

I have no freckles but was graced with a crooked smile. My nose is also a little bent from when I ran into a wall as a kid. It never really healed properly and I don't think I was ever seen by a doctor. My parents were the "suck it up" kind of people.

I currently live in an apartment with two cats. One is a red-orange tabby—or part tabby. He has black around his face and paws and is a big boy. He's very loving and enjoys sitting on my lap—which is where he is now. He also does not like me having another cat.

The new addition has only been around a few days, but Peter—that's the tabby—acts like the other cat—and I can't recall its name or gender right now—is an imposter. I don't think he's a fan of cohabitation, but he'll have to get used to it.

I work at a coffee shop downtown on Mondays and Tuesdays. On Wednesdays and Thursdays I work at the local library. Friday is a day for me. Sometimes that means I take classes like art or woodworking. Right now, it's a month long pottery class--or at least it was supposed to be a month long.

So, here's one of those weird occurrences. I signed up for a pottery class that promises a finished project by the end. The first class was great and we covered all the basics. I got to meet a few of the other students, including a nice man named Paul. I was hoping to get a wheel next to him this week, but when I went in for class everything had changed.

And when I say "everything" I mean everything.

I walked into the same classroom and there were no pottery wheels to speak of. Long tables and chair had replaced them. There was a different instructor and the lesson was on using pastels not clay. There was also no Paul and none of the other students seemed to notice or think the change was odd.

Of course, I asked the instructor about it and she showed me the description of a multimedia art class that rotates each week. I swear that was not what I signed up for, but my name was on the sheet. I also thought the class was in the morning, but it turns out that it's actually been in the evening and while I've somehow forgotten that I've still made it to the classes on time. I'm not entirely sure how that all works out, but again, weird things have been happening. All I have to say is that it's good Friday has nothing else scheduled.

Anyway, Saturdays and Sundays I spend with Mrs. Meger. She's my next-door neighbor and doesn't get out much. Marge—or Margery—is ​a short, white-haired woman with a lot of spunk. She tells me exactly what she wants from the grocery store each week and that is what I get her. There are no exceptions and she doesn't like to be kept waiting. She also doesn't like excuses. Her trill voice can be grating but she's got a soft spot somewhere in her that sometimes shows on her face. I actually have a book I borrowed for her from the library that I need to drop off. I'll be right back.

Okay, that woman likes to talk. Where was I? Oh, yeah.

Mondays and Tuesdays at a bookstore and Wednesdays and Thursdays at the library. Did I say coffee shop earlier? I actually work in a bookstore. I don't know how I got that mixed up, but maybe it's because you can still get coffee there. I don't know.

I also don't know when I actually dyed my hair, but it's red now. I remember thinking about it. I ever wrote it down. I just don't remember doing it. But when I stepped into the bright hall light outside my apartment just now it is definitely red.

I asked Margery about it and she said that she doesn't remember my hair ever being brown. She said it's always been this color. I don't think she's lying, but it also doesn't feel right to me. It's hard to deny the coloration right now so maybe she's right. Maybe I'm just losing my mind.

I swear I am a normal person. I have a very uneventful life where each day I work, eat, sleep, and do the same thing over each week. I have a family—parents, older brother, and younger sister—but I don't see them as often now that I live in California. California! That's right. That's why I feel so out-of-place.

I don't remember exactly when I moved out here or even out of the house, but I think it was after college. Or was it to attend college? The answer will come to me at some point. At least, I got a state written down. I'm still unsure about the city though and a part of me feels like I'm just trying to decide where I want to be from, as if I can just make things up and they will be true.

One hundred percent crazy, right?

Oh, I wanted to note on paper that I met Margery at the library. She was volunteering there one day a week when I first moved into town. She offered me a job and then checked with the manager to see if they could hire me. That's just how Margery is. And she gets away with it! I'll never have that pull.

Anyway, since they were willing to work with my schedule at the bookstore I picked up the position. Margery retired not long after, but I still pick up and drop off the books she orders in.

She does a lot of writing now, but refuses to let me read anything. The "work" is what she does when I'm not visiting and it's her life, so I guess I can't blame her for not wanting to share it.

And, by the way, you can tell from the moment you walk into her home that she writes a lot. There are piles of notebooks everywhere. No computers, just piles of spiral-bound notebooks, papers, and notepads. Each character she writes about is her personal friend. She talks about them that way too, like she's grown up knowing who they are and what they like.

I don't know if she'll ever get anything published, but there's a lot she could pull from. I've tried to encourage her to put something together, but I'm not certain she's actually written a cohesive story before. I think she mostly writes about the characters.

I only say this because I stole a glance at a few of her notebooks while she was in the bathroom. Now I completely understand why she calls them friends because even in the few paragraphs I read I felt like I knew who they were.

Now that I think about it, I'm certain one of the characters I glanced at was named Paul--as in the Paul that liked pottery and disappeared from the class once it changed. Odd, right?

You know, I think Peter has gained some weight. He's sitting on my lap again and he just feels heavier than I remember. Maybe it's the puppy I got last week.

Wait, did I just write last week?

I don't remember shopping for a dog. I thought I got a second cat. Did I even pick up a kennel, food, or a leash? What kind of dog did I get? From here, the couch looks like it may be covered in golden hair, so maybe it's a lab or retriever. I swear it was a second cat, but--no--it definitely smells like there's a dog living here.

Frank! That's the dog's name. Maybe that's why Peter doesn't like him because they're both males.

I really thought it was another cat. I mean, that's what I put in my notes earlier on the page. But maybe I got that mixed up too. Margery says that happens a lot more as you get older. I don't feel like I'm that old, but I guess if I get this confused now I'll be used to it by the time I'm her age.

Speaking of—or writing about—age. I'm not really sure how old Margery is. It's a bit rude for me to ask, so I don't, but I have to say that I am impressed that her not getting out does not keep her less busy. She is always writing. In fact, the very last person she wrote about—and I sneaked another peak when she wasn't looking—was of a man named Phineas.

This is where things gets even weirder because I swear I know this person. And I don't mean because I read what she wrote. I mean, I feel like I actually know this person. I think he comes to the coffee shop where I work.

No, bookstore—no—I really think I work at a coffee shop because Phineas—or his look-a-like twin—orders a double shot mocha latte on Tuesdays with a single pump of hazelnut. He's in school to be a physicist and has a large black lab that he runs with on Thursday afternoons by the library. I've never actually spoken to him, but I do know who he is.

Apparently so does Margery because she's been writing about him--like she wrote about Paul--and getting all of the details correct! How is that even possible? She's never been to the coffee shop to know what Phineas orders. She's also never seen him run with his lab—whose name she says is Shadow, although I can't verify that—because he didn't start making that loop until after she no longer volunteered there.

I have to say that I'm a little scared to ask her about him. Firstly, I don't want her asking how I know him and secondly, I don't want her asking if I've ever looked in her notebooks. Is it sad to say that after putting all of this down on paper I'm a little leery about Margery?

Am I overreacting because she seems to know details I don't think she should? Maybe Phineas visits her when I'm working. I've never seen him on this end of town, but that doesn't mean it's not possible.

Margery writes about a lot of characters so she's got experience inventing histories and stories. Maybe I only think I know Phineas because I read about him in her notebook. After all, I was getting confused about the coffee shop and bookstore, so maybe I'm the one thinking I know someone that doesn't exist.​ It's always possible.

Heck, if I can't remember if I fed Frank or Peter today a lapse on my part would not surprise me.

Hang on, who's Peter?

According to my previous ramblings, Peter is my cat. But I don't have a cat. I have a dog named Frank. Seriously, what is going on? Am I losing my mind? I feel sane and I can obviously write and reason to the point I can form coherent sentences. My hands, arms, and eyes are still being used at this exact second. So why are all the details mushing together into nonsense?

I know I've had times where I've felt scattered in life, but never before have I had written proof of this. Maybe I should show this to a doctor. Do I mention this to Margery too?

That last thought makes me shiver and I'm not sure why. I've known her for several years. She's sweet and really can't hurt anyone. I mean, she's retired and stuck at home. She wouldn't even have an outside connection if it wasn't for me. So, do I show her the mess of convoluted pages I've accumulated?

She is a writer after all. Maybe she'll know what to make of it. Or maybe she'll just tell me not to worry and that all the details will fade with time and are not worth fussing over. I guess it can't hurt to ask her opinion. Who else do I have out here to confide in?

-----

Hi, my name is Anna and I live just outside Los Angeles. I am taking the time to handwrite these words because some weird things have been happening to me and I feel there should be a record of it. It's like details in my life suddenly change, like I have no control over who I meet and where I go. It's really odd because I feel like I have changed and yet I'm not sure why or even how.

I honestly think it all started when I moved into my new place and met my next-door neighbor. Her name is Margery and she likes to write--a lot.