The Clinic

"I did something wrong," I whisper, pressing my calloused hands against the glass door on 5th Avenue, seemingly invisible to those who strolled past it, eyes dragging from one designer store to the next, glossing over the poor people who crept up to the glass door every hour of the day. Poor as in suffering; I had enough money to last multiple lifetimes. As a successful writer and celebrity, I was the epitome of the American Dream, both at home and abroad. And here I was, about to throw it all away, for a fresh start. The glass begun to burn beneath my fingertips, and I could hear my flesh sizzling against an emerging, pulsing red light. 

"Thank you for your remorse. There is no turning back now." The red light expanded to cover my entire vision, before abruptly turning black. 

I opened my eyes in an operating theatre, the bright, piercing lights almost forcing me to close them again. Amidst all the bustling nurses, a woman emerged to lean over me. 

"Sir? We have 2 choices for you." She showed me two pictures; the two men were almost identical, except for their eyes. "Blue eyes or green eyes?" 

"Isn't this about fresh starts?" I asked wryly, knowing it was my blue eyes that plastered every TV screen day in day out. 

"Green, it is." 

"The surgery was a complete success, sir. What name will you be taking?" The same woman was leaning over me again, this time in the comfort of a hospital bed.

"Julius." My voice was raspy, guttural, and unnatural.

"Like Caesar?" I nodded, and smiled slightly. "Thank you for visiting the clinic. It's been two weeks, but your brain has quickly become used to your new body." I looked down at my new hands, longer, thinner fingers, and more pronounced knuckles. I lifted one of them gingerly to my head, tracing the scar wrapped around my scalp. My legs felt heavy; I was a lot taller now than I used to be.

"Forgive me, where do you get these bodies from?"

"Do you really think the government can track every homeless person, every illegal immigrant? All the way up to their deaths?"

"I sincerely doubt that."

"My, you do speak the same as you do on television, Mr. Leonard. I'm sorry- Julius."

"It's okay, I don't think you'll be the only person struggling to get used to it."

When I exited the clinic, I re-entered society in Times Square, instead of on 5th Avenue. Billboards adorned my eyesight, illuminating the crowds clamouring below. And suddenly, the adverts disappeared, the models fading away into the figure of a news reader. The billboards were synchronised, and this sudden change brought the attention and silence of the people crowded on the ever growing wet tiles as the rain began to fall. 

"The disappearance of Mr. Timothy Leonard, the international celebrity and writer turned murder suspect, has now reached the stage to which the country is becoming seriously concerned." The news reader, turning to a stiff, uptight man on the screen asked, "After the brutal murder of Mr. Leonard's wife and children, how has the FBI lost hold of the prime suspect in their investigation?" 

"Ma'am, the FBI have updates-"

"And what if they never find him?"

"I assure you Ma'am-"

"Don't assure me, assure the American people. There is an alleged killer on the loose."

"The thing is, Ma'am, the reason for this interview - Mr. Leonard is dead."

"Dead?" This was broadcasting all over New York, America, the world. They thought I was dead?

"His body washed up near Staten Island. He was murdered."

"Murdered?"

"Except, the reason this was kept from you, the people, is because his murder was strange."

"Strange, how?"

"Clinical almost. As if a surgeon had simply just removed his brain."

"So there's another murderer? Serial killer, perhaps?" Serial killer? Murderer? The clinic consisted of good people! However, my thoughts were interrupted from jostling people around me, uttering rushed apologies.

"Don't you think it's a bit weird, this clinical murder?" A voice crept up behind me.

"I'm sorry who are you?" I asked, turning to face the man who had asked the question.

"These disappearances of celebrities, it's awfully coincidental. Something goes wrong, and they wind up dead a couple weeks ago. It's so clinical. And Mr. Leonard? What an awful person. Not just the murder itself but-"

"Thank you, yes, I know." I couldn't bear to hear about it. I went to the clinic to escape what I had done.

"You know?"

"About the tape." I nodded, vomit rising in my throat.

"Sir, I'm sorry, how did you know that? It isn't public knowledge. John Bode, FBI." He flicked open his badge, and gently pulled back his jacket to reveal the gun he was carrying on his hip. "I'd like to take you in for a statement."

"I'd rather you shoot me." Bode drew his gun.

"And why's that, Mr. Leonard?"

"Because they'll give me another fresh start anyway. A new life." A bang erupted. Bode whipped around towards the sound and I took my opportunity to pounce on him, grabbing his wrists as we both fell to the ground. I wrestled the gun out of his vice-like grip, crashing onto the stone below. "Mr. Bode, why can't you let me live?" We were standing now, a couple feet apart, staring at each other.

"You don't deserve to."

"The people at The Clinic think I do. And they would be more than happy to give that to me." With that I fired the gun, straight at Bode's heart. People screamed and ran, creating a wide berth about me as I waved the gun like a madman. I picked Bode up and threw him over my shoulder as people fled the scene. It wasn't long before Times Square had been completely abandoned, apart from the ghostly wailing of sirens approaching. With his body weighing me down, I ran as fast as I could towards 5th Avenue.

It was a miracle I made it without being found. I pressed my hands against the glass, "I did something wrong."

I met the same woman as before, this time standing, with Bode propped up on the chair next to me, his head lulling, eyes wide.

"Mr. Leonard, back so soon?"

"I've already picked my body this time."

"And the name?"

"Bode. John Bode."