Chapter #15Into the Life of Sean Mitchell by: Seuzz   "No, I'll do it," you growl at Caleb. You notice that he hasn't even made a move toward the mask. "Christ, I didn't think I'd have to guilt you into it."
"No, I'll do it," Caleb blurts out. But his heart clearly isn't in it, for he doesn't fight for the mask. "You're going to kill me, aren't you?" he says.
"I haven't killed you yet," you retort.
"The day's young. And you know, maybe it won't be you, maybe it'll be Sean who comes back when you put that thing on." His brow furrows, and his eyes grow wet with worry. "Maybe we should tie you up before you—"
You push him back and hop onto the table. Before you can think through the ramifications of what you're about to do, you jam Sean's mask to your face.
* * * * *
You're being squeezed to death. Someone's got their arms wrapped around you in an unbreakable hold, and they are squeezing you hard. You struggle, and as you are a talented wrestler, you know exactly how to twist and leverage your mass. But they are too strong, and they have wrapped themselves all about you. They are a snake, and you are a sausage casing, and they are squeezing you, and in a minute your raw flesh will come bursting out of your skin and splatter all over the walls and ceiling ...
You open your eyes with a gasping choke. You're on your back, and hands are pulling at you and squeezing you. You slap at them, and someone yells sharply.
You rise up on one elbow. God! The pain in your abdomen! Feverishly you grab at it. There's a hard, tight right about your waist, and it is squeezing your organs into jelly.
"Hold still, Will!"
Your fingers close on metal. A buckle! You pull at it, and it feels like something inside you has popped. Hands flap at yours. "I'll get it!" the voice yells again.
But you've too tight a hold. Somehow, your fingers knowing better than your brain, you pull a length of leather free, a skinny tongue of metal pops loose, and—
Thank God! You let out a deep sigh as all the pressure relents.
Well, most of it. Things are still a little tight down there.
Tight upstairs as well. You feel like you're all wound up inside some bed clothes.
You're staring at a dusky ceiling and trying to figure out what's going on when a face appears in your line of vision. You frown at it. You know it.
"Will?"
Caleb! Your fingers flex, and he jumps back as you reach for his throat.
Then you remember who you are, and what has happened.
"Oh, God damn it," you mutter, and kick off shoes that are now several sizes too small for you. You take a couple of deep breaths, then peel off jeans that are also a too tight fit.
Not that Sean Mitchell is fat or anything. But he is bulky about the abdomen, and he's built on a larger scale anyway. You peel off the constricting underwear, too, and after you sit up you take the socks and shirt off as well. You scratch and rub yourself all over, and grimace, then sit up and swing your legs off the side of the table.
At first you think Caleb must have run off, but then you see his face peering around a bookcase. He freezes when he sees that you've spotted him.
You roll your eyes. "You can come out now. I've decided not to kill you after all."
He doesn't move. "Who?" he asks in the plaintive manner of a terrified owl, and points at you.
"Me. Will. Your friend. Which doesn't always stop me from wanting to kill you, and today wasn't the first time I've wanted to."
Caleb steps out from behind the book case, but he still hangs back. "Yeah, well," he says in a shaky voice. "It's not like you could'a killed me before."
"I know where you sleep," you remind him. "But damn!" You stretch, and kick your feet back and forth. "So it works? I look like Sean Mitchell now?"
Caleb nods, and points to the mirror. You glance back at it, then stand with a grunt and shuffle over to give yourself a look over.
Yes, it's a familiar face. Broad, a little flat, with soft, whitish whiskers running along the jaw and cheek, and shaggy blond hair that falls over your brows and ears. You grin. It's an easy, confident smile that goes with the direct, confident gaze. You raise and flex a bicep—it's like a python rippling under your skin—and scratch at a hairy pit.
Caleb appears in the mirror behind you. "How much have you got?"
"All of it," you tell him, and turn around to flap your cock at him. He jumps back.
"Ha ha. I mean—" He taps his forehead.
You put your head back and think a moment.
"Birthday, Social Security number, parents' names—" You stop to frown at that, and at another name. "Address. Best friend when I was five years old. Uh, name of my third-grade teacher. My class schedule." You pinch the bridge of your nose. "Oh yeah, and how to do this!"
Whomp! You grab Caleb, throw him onto a table, and inside of three seconds have him pinned.
"Erk," Caleb croaks. "Yes. I think you've got it." You grin and let him up.
* * * * *
You bump fists with Eli Anders as you saunter past to drop into the desk behind him. Across from you, Tanner Evans, one of the nastier of the school bullies, hunches over his phone and ignores the blatant stare of disdain you're giving him.
I could never get away with that kind of a stare before, you think to yourself with a smile. Then: I could get used to this.
"This" is being Sean Mitchell. Despite the playful confidence you felt in the basement immediately after waking, you actually went to bed last night feeling spastically mortified, both at being in a strange bedroom and in a strange bed. But when you woke this morning with wood you felt hardly any compunction about filling a sock with cum. It keeps the pipes clean and shiny, was all you thought as you dropped heavy feet to the floor afterward and stumbled to the shower.
"Morning, dear," Mrs. Mitchell said when you padded into the kitchen, already dressed for the day in comfortably broken-in Levis and a sleeveless sweatshirt with "Westside Dragons" stenciled on one side and "Wrestling" on the other. (The one with "Football" on its back is in the hamper.) You kissed her cheek and made some coffee and breakfast, and after she asked you about that thing, you told her "I'll talk to some of the guys about it." Then you cleaned up for both her and you and drove yourself to school.
It's first period now. Mr. Santiago's "Current Issues" class. Your friend Keith is in here too, sitting on the other side of the room and scoping out the girls. You're watching the open door, though. You gave Sean's schedule to Caleb before parting with him for the evening, and your best friend and collaborator in magic glances into the classroom with a querying eyebrow just before the first bell rings. You stretch meaty arms with upraised thumbs, and grin. He nods, and is about to turn away when Will Prescott pads up behind. The latter does a wide-eyed double-take at you, and for a moment it looks like he's about to come in to talk, but Caleb grabs him by the neck and hauls him into Mr. Walberg's room, which is directly across the hall.
Eli, who is on the wrestling team with Sean, turns around with a quizzical expression. "Guys I work with after school," you tell him. "There was some excitement yesterday."
"Yeah?"
You shrug. "But it's all over with."
Well, so you hope. You returned to Salopek to tell Jack that the mystery box you'd been sent to track and recover couldn't be traced further than the rec room of the Acheson Community Center, where "you" had delivered it last Monday.
Eli turns back around as Mr. Santiago steps to the front of the class. You lean back and play with the brim of your cap, flipping it up and down.
Then you drop your hands into your lap. Don't break it, you chide yourself. It's too valuable.
* * * * *
Second period is wrestling practice, which is probably Sean's favorite class, and as you have not only his memories but his talents, his tastes, and his intuitions, you find yourself having a blast in it as well.
And yet you are distracted enough by another issue that Laurent Delacroix, the captain, pulls you aside to ask where your head is.
You roll your eyes. "Well, it's not up my ass, if that's what you're asking," you reply. Laurent snorts, but smiles. You wince and bite the inside of your cheek and remind yourself that it's really not any of your business.
I'm not here for long, you remind yourself. A day or two? Hopefully? Even if we don't get Sean ... fixed ... then Caleb can take over for me. Or we'll put the mask on a golem. I'm not really Sean, even though it feels like it. I didn't mess up Sean's life, Caleb did, so it's not up to me to fix it.
And what I'm thinking of doing might not even be the right thing to do.
But then you remember the expression of wan worry on the face of Sean's mother, and what she said just before you'd made the (so you thought) rote reply, "I'll talk to some guys about it."
If you don't do it for Sean, can you at least do it for her?  indicates the next chapter needs to be written. |
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