Talia Gibbons

Tall, fit, muscular. The silhouette of a man stands outside the glass door. He places his hand on the handle and pauses – wagering. The clock ticks on as he wastes his precious time on the decision that has already been made for him. Jingling, the door opens. Still not recognizing the impending doom upon him, he shuffles in.

White light glimpse onto his face as he takes his baseball cap off, revealing a mop of disheveled hair. A round face that hasn’t broken out of baby fat glances around at the untouched, foreign, almost alien parts. He runs his hand through his hair; this is obviously not his usual social scene. Staring down at his phone, he lifts his head up walks towards…

Her.

Her chair is tilted backwards, legs crossed on top of the counter. Looking up at her last customer of the day, she chuckles. They are all the same; unscarred faces that have yet to see the horrors of the world. He shifts his weight and looks around, doubting if he has mistaken this place for another.

Finally, she says to him, “Are you here for the catalytic converter?”

“Yes, and um, my… my uncle needs three… three engine fans, um, seven mufflers and um, a… a spark plug,” his voice cracks as he recites this for what seems like the first time.

She slams her two feet down onto the floor and walks towards the back of the store. Against the eerie silence, their footsteps seem to echo through the whole neighbourhood. Venturing far away from the exit, they reach a bolted metal door. There, she pats down her cargo pants and pulls out a key, slipping it into the padlock.

Click.

The lock bounces open. A creaking sound rings through the vacant store as she pulls the door open.

Maintaining a three-step distance, she followed the guy into his lair. It was dim… and cold. She could practically feel her bones shivering beneath three thick layers of cotton. Her eyes were darting around, surveying the area for any lurking danger. “Don’t trust anyone. Not even family,” her mother had said right before pushing her out the back door. With her right hand in her pocket, she gently patted around until she felt the handle of the pocketknife.

His eyes are still adjusting to the gloom as the fluorescent red-light blinks on. Almost immediately, sets of metal tables materialize in front of him. Pausing before he crashes into the cart, he sees what resembles like hundreds of birth certificates. Haltingly walking along the narrow space, he could already tell all these receipts are worth more than what most people see in their entire lifetime. Curiosity suddenly strikes him. Pulling his hand out of his pocket, he grazes his fingers over the flawless plastic covers.

In the dark, she could just make out the dozens of trays filled with – what she can only presume as – counterfeit documents. Trembling, she took her numb hand out and traced the shape of the eagle.

“Hey!” the guy narrowed his eyes at her.

As he scrambled to tug his hand away, he could feel goosebumps crawling up from his spine. Trudging after her, he enters what seems like her office. Running his hand through his hair again, he sits across from her. Tap. Tap. Tap. The wooden floorboards crackle as he nervously taps his leg against it. Sweeping other knick knacks to the side, she slaps the manila folder onto the desk. He jumps. They are always so gullible.

Bam. The door closed behind them. Her heart instantly felt like it dropped to her gut. They were barely sitting two feet apart. Anxiously shifting in her seat, she thumbed her knife, feeling an odd sense of comfort. Her eyes were trained on the guy as he pulled out the weathered file. The credentials. The opportunity of a new life. Her new life. All laid out on the table.

The room is silent as a grave.

Like a little kid, he waits for her nod of approval before he dares picks it up. Swallowing hard, he finally finds a hint of courage and opens it. Like a deer caught in headlights, his eyes widen as the rustling of paper unlocks the doorway to his new chance. He doesn't quite believe what he’s seeing, but somehow he manages to skim through all of it before tearing his finger away.

She slipped her hands out of their sanctuary, being extremely careful not to let him see the knife. The newfound emptiness brought a new sense of insecurity. She felt him staring at her, at her untried face, her untried hands, her untried life. He knew. In her head, her mother’s voice warned her to put up a front, but she was still just a little girl who knew nothing of the world.

Panic. That’s what his face is saying right now. Pure panic. His breath is sharpening; his hands are shaking. All that’s left of him is a shell of the once popular high school jock. Just like that, his bucket of confidence is down the drain. She could practically feel his soul drifting away. Perhaps it happened when he walked into this room, perhaps it happened when his father didn’t return, perhaps it happened when he realized he was a dead man walking.

The reality of the situation crashed onto her. She was scared. So, so scared. For her life, for her future, for everything. But she knew this was her only escape. Her only ticket out. She had to do it. For her mother, her father, she had to live.

He reminds her of herself.

The guy harshly jabbed his finger against her forehead, “Get it in your fucking head. Those cunts out there murdered your father. And now they’re coming for you. They don’t give a fuck if they kill someone that look like you, that talk like you, that even slightly walk like you. You’ll be dead before you even see the airport. So. Get. It. In. Your. Fucking. Head.”

So she read through it all. A hundred times, a thousand times, a million times. Until it was like a tumor imbedded in her brain. Her own name was long forgotten. Her old life ceased to exist. Her every memory buried in the pits of hell. Over and over, she repeated it.

“My name is Talia Gibbons. I was born on 15 February 1986 in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. My passport number is 31938295. I work at Murray & Jackson as an accountant…”

So she tells him to get it in his goddamn head.

Wiping the cold sweat off of his forehead, he places both hands on his temple and reads it. Studies it because his life depends on it. Good. Again and again, he mouths the same words until his lips turn papery, until his throat turns dry, until his voice gives out.

When dawn approaches, she sends him on his way.

Young, terrified, naive. The silhouette of a boy stands outside the glass door.