Brand New You

 

By Karen Bayly

 

 

       A soft breeze rustled Nicola Byrne’s hair. Strands stuck to her face, but she ignored them and stared down at the train tracks below. Her heart cried but her eyes remained dry.

       The lights of an approaching commuter train grabbed her attention, its distant gleam signaling her next move. She climbed onto the bridge’s railing, sat with her legs dangling above the tracks, and focused on the metal dragon ready to devour her. She must time this perfectly.

       She gripped the railing, sucking in air so fast her head threatened to float away, and readied herself. One hand off the barrier. Her heart raced. One last breath, and she launched herself off the bridge, bracing for pain of hard cold rails and the grind of metal wheels on soft flesh and hard bone.

       Her arm jerked, and her fall halted. She hung mid-air, her hand fixed by a pale, sticky substance to the bridge railing.

       Above her, something moved on the bridge. She kicked at the air, struggling to free herself.

A voice, deep and resonant, reached her ears.

       “Be calm, Nicola. All is well.”

       The surrounding air pulsated with violet light, flooding her with a shock of wonder. Here lay salvation. Here lay hope.

       The train roared underneath her feet, its driver and passengers free from the spectre of her suicide.

#

       Four months later

       Michael Byrnes, partner accountant at Riddell, Shore, and Byrnes, sat in his executive office and frowned.

Outside his office, a beehive of cubicles hummed with busyness. The noise gave him a headache, and he wished the world would disappear and his life would simplify. Most of all, he wished he could repair his relationship with his wife, Nicola.

       He picked up his mobile and speed-dialed home for the fifth time this afternoon. His fingers drummed on his desk as he waited, hoping for an answer from a real person.

       Click.

      Hi. Michael and Nicola here. Sorry we can’t answer but —

       He hung up and speed-dialed Nicola’s cell phone.

      Click.

      Nic here. You know the drill.

      “Ring me, Nic.”

       He leaned back in his chair, fuming and fed up with Nicola’s behavior. Yes, he made a dreadful mistake, but refusing to talk to him about it solved nothing. Her continued cold shouldering had to stop.

       Michael shoved his laptop into his briefcase, grabbed his jacket and strode into the foyer. The aging receptionist, Ros, glanced up.

       “Oh, Mr. Byrnes—”

       “Not now, Ros.”

        He dashed out the door, aware of Ros’s disapproving gaze shooting daggers into his back. To hell with it. Her job entailed making excuses for him and rescheduling his meetings. If the old bag didn’t like it, she should retire and do everyone a favor. Someone young and attractive would be better for business.

He frowned. That type of thinking caused his troubles in the first place.

#

       Michael pushed open the front door, wrinkling his nose at the lemony air inside the house. Nicola’s new obsession with maintaining a clean home made a welcome change from the sloppy mess of the past few months, but did she have to use lemon-scented products? She knew he hated the stink.

       Still, the hallway gleamed with well-polished timber furniture and floors. Fresh flowers fought in vain to defeat the citrusy odor.

       He threw his keys on the side table, ignoring the glass bowl labelled “KEYS HERE”. He didn’t doubt that Nic would see scratches where there were none but so be it. Nothing he did nowadays pleased her.

       “Nic? Hon?”

       No answer. Michael flopped onto the lounge near the landline, picked up the receiver, and dialed voicemail.

Three messages. Perhaps one would provide a clue to his wife’s whereabouts.

       “Nic? Mom here. Are you and Michael coming—”

       He quickly selected the next message.

       “Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Byrnes. Doctor Jackson from the Couples Therapy Centre. You’ve missed—”

He swore and moved to the following message.

       “Nicola. Meet me at five o’clock by the railway station steps.”

        Michael froze, finger poised above the phone keypad, and checked his watch. 4:45 pm. He could make it if he left now. He leapt to his feet and hightailed it out the front door.

#

       The clock on the station platform read 4:59 PM.

        Michael sat in his late model sedan a discrete distance from the station entrance, a pair of binoculars on the seat beside him.

       A train pulled in. The doors opened, and people spewed forth onto the platform.

        His wife Nicola paced at the bottom of the station steps, cradling a large tote bag, her face screwed up with anxiety. She hadn’t noticed him, and he intended to keep it that way.

       A man around Michael’s age and build approached Nicola. Dark sunglasses and a baseball cap obscured his facial features. An ill-fitting navy suit did the same for his body.

Michael raised the binoculars for a closer look. Nicola grinned, her face upturned, and eyes lowered. Was she excited or nervous? He couldn’t tell.

       She took a plastic-wrapped package from her tote and handed it to the man.

       He gritted his teeth as the stranger leaned over, put his hand on Nic’s arm, and whispered in her ear. She nodded, shrugged him off, and hurried away.

       The man took off his sunglasses and polished the lenses. A wave of shock sent icy cold sensations down Michael’s spine. The stranger looked a little like him, except for the violet eyes, which swiveled to stare straight down the binoculars.

       Michael ducked, praying he didn’t hear footsteps coming toward the car. When he glanced up, the man had disappeared. He started his car and sped all the way home.

       Minutes later, he pulled into the driveway, fighting his dread of confronting Nic yet needing answers. An upstairs curtain moved. His wife waited for him.

       Enough. Time for action.

       He burst through the door and chucked his keys on the side table, not caring whether he scratched the lacquered surface.

       “Nic!”

       No answer.

       He took a deep breath and reprimanded himself. Play it cool, Michael. Nic never responded well to anger, and though he was over pussyfooting around her never-ending guilt trip, this time, he brought ammunition to the argument.

       “I’m going to open a bottle of wine, Nic. Join me?”

        He strode down the hallway toward the kitchen.

       Some minutes later, Nicola slunk down the stairs, picked up Michael’s keys, and placed them in the bowl. She frowned and fingered the scratches left by his careless actions. Things would change soon.

       She padded down the hall into the kitchen, irritated at the dirt her hopeless husband tracked into the house.

She leaned against the kitchen doorjamb and frowned as Michael opened the fridge and pulled out a now half-empty bottle of wine.

       “Hello, Michael.”

       He jumped and faced her, his expression reminiscent of a rabbit caught in the headlights.

        “Miss me? Or have you been busy?” She stressed the last word, knowing it would poke his guilt.

       “Ah, Nic... How many more times do I have to apologize?”

       “Let me get back to you on that.”

        A flicker of challenge crossed his face, and he held up the bottle. “Wine?”

        Nicola huffed and walked away.

#

       Midnight was the best time of day in Nicola’s opinion. Quiet, cool, and stunningly beautiful. She stood in the backyard, barefoot and clad in her nightie. Upstairs, Michael slept like a baby, unencumbered by doubt and sorrow. She gazed into the night sky, hoping for a sign to ease her uncertainty.

      “It’s time, Nicola.”

      She turned to see the man approaching her. He seemed more like Michael every time she saw him.

       “And Michael?”

       “Michael will be fine. The new you will be there to guide him.”

       The new her. The reason she agreed to this. A fresh start in a new body and a better world. And Michael by her side, content and committed to her alone.

       A perfect re-creation of Nicola watched from inside the garage, a woman fashioned from her DNA but not quite her. Not yet. Nicola raised a hand in greeting and walked toward her future.

#

       Michael jolted into wakefulness and stared at the space where Nicola should be. He swung his feet onto the floor and staggered downstairs to the lounge room.

       No Nicola.

       He padded off to the kitchen and paused in the doorway.

       Still no Nicola, but the back door stood ajar. He peeked outside.

       Violet light emanated from inside the garage, flooding the backyard with an eerie glow.

      “What the?”

       The light faded, leaving the yard in darkness.

       Michael picked his way over the lawn, cursing at the burrs stabbing his feet. He stood at the garage door, ears pricked. No sound from inside. He knocked. No response. He rattled the door. Locked.

       “Nic? You in there?”

        Nothing. He frowned, headed back to the house, padded up the stairs and into the bedroom.

Nicola lay in bed, asleep.

       He gaped at her, then slipped between the sheets, closed his eyes and relaxed.

“Hello, my lovely.”

        Michael sat bolt upright. Nicola perched on the edge of his side of the bed, staring at him, an odd violet glow burning in her eyes. She licked her lips and smiled, an animal grin, hungry yet cold.

       He gulped and tried to laugh off his disquiet. “My lovely? Wow, Nic. What’s happening? You’ve never called me—”

Nicola leaned forward and kissed him on the mouth, her lips firm, her tongue probing.

       Michael drew back, surprised at her metallic yet earthy taste, such a contrast to her usual sweetness. He wiped his mouth, but the odd flavor lingered.

        The room swam, and he struggled to stay upright. He fell back on the bed, aware of Nicola’s violet eyes burning in anticipation.

        “Nic! What the—”

       “Shh, my lovely. All is well.”

        He tried to protest, but the words wouldn’t form in his mouth, and an almost comforting darkness descended on him.

#

        Michael blinked as his brain swam into consciousness. He was still in the bedroom, but a mattress now covered the bedroom window. Beside him, the bedside lamp provided a dim light.

       His body ached, and he realized his arms and legs were splayed, his hands and feet secured to the bedposts by a pale, sticky substance. Panic set in, and he thrashed against the bed.

       “Help! Nic, anyone! Help me!”

       “Calm down, Michael. No one is going to hurt you.”

        A figure sat at the end of the bed. Michael strained to identify the person, but his eyes refused to focus.

       “Nic? What’s going on?”

       He blinked several times, then gawped. A man stared back, and he wore Michael’s face.

       The man moved down the bed and ran his fingers over Michael’s chin and cheeks.

       “Rather impressive, don’t you think? Your wife provided samples of your DNA. This is the result. You’re quite handsome, you know.”

       Michael pulled at his restraints. “Who the hell are you?”

       “That’s unimportant.”

        “Not to me. What do you want?”

       “It’s more what Nicola wants. She intended to kill herself. Did you know that?”

       Michael said nothing. He’d known about her depression, but suicide? He never considered she would try it.

       “Anyway, to answer your question, we help people become superior versions of themselves. It is how we correct the world.”

       “Are you going to—”

       “Kill you? Of course not. Unlike humans, we are civilized. Now, I must make final preparations for our joining.”

       “Joining? What the hell does that mean?”

       The man rose. “Until then, Michael.”

       “Answer me, you son of a bitch!”

       “All will be well.”

       The door closed and Michael yelled profanities until his throat hurt. He took another shot at loosening his restraints with no success, and sank back onto the bed momentarily defeated, waiting, listening.

       Footsteps, light and fast, travelled up the stairs. The door swung open, and he sighed in relief at the familiar form of his wife silhouetted in the doorway.

       “Nic, thank God. Untie me, hon.”

       “Oh, my lovely. I can’t. It’s time for a brand new you.”

       “What?”

       “I love you, Michael, but we can’t continue as we are. These people have a way for us to be blissful together.”

       “How? With bondage and head games?”

       “No, Michael. Think of it as a reset. We get new healthy bodies and healthier brains to go with it.”

       “What?!”

       “Don’t worry. We’ll still be us with our own DNA. But with improvements. They do it for anyone who agrees.”

       “Well, I don’t agree.”

       “Now, Michael. You lost that right when you cheated on me. The agreement comes from the wounded party.”

       “For chrissakes, Nic. Is that what this is? Some sick kind of payback?”

       “Of course not, my lovely. It’s a gift from our friends.”

       “Yeah? And who are these people?”

       “I think you would call them aliens.”

       “WHAT?!”

        “Don’t fret, my lovely. It’ll be over soon.”

        Michael scrutinized her face, eyes widening in shock.

        “You’re not my Nic.”

        Behind her, the man re-entered carrying a solid black casket, about the size of a small jewelry box, with an odd symbol on the side. Nicola placed a hand on Michael’s belly.

        “We’ll be together soon, my lovely.”

        “Don’t do this! Please!”

       The woman who wasn’t his Nic wandered downstairs, oblivious to his protestations.

        The man wearing Michael’s face sat on the bed beside him and opened the box. Swirling violet light poured out.

        He cupped his hands, and the light gathered and intensified in his palms. It became a vibrant purple sphere within seconds, pulsing like a luminous heart.

        He placed it on Michael’s chest.

        “No, no, no... Stop. Please.”

        The man smiled and crawled onto the bed, positioning himself over Michael and slowly lowering his body.

Michael squirmed and whimpered as the man pressed against him. The light shone brighter and brighter, and their bodies merged.

        Suddenly, all the light vanished. Only one body remained, and it lay face down on the bed, unencumbered by sticky fastenings. The figure rolled over and stretched, luxuriating in its existence.

Michael. Reborn.

        He jumped up and pushed the mattress from the window. Sunlight streamed into the bedroom. He leaned against the glass.

       A glorious day greeted him, colorful and bright, with an almost lomographic hue. Their alien friends had based this world on 1950s advertisements—neat houses, pleasant gardens, happy families, and smiling milkmen.

This was how the world should be.

       On the street, children played catch with a glowing violet ball. The new Michael waved to them from the window.      They waved back, laughing.

       A voice floated up the stairwell.

      “Are you awake, Michael?”

      “Yes, my lovely.”

      Nicola entered the bedroom carrying two flutes of champagne. Michael took the offered glass.

       “Ah, my lovely,” he said, “Here’s to a fresh start.”

       They clinked glasses. “To us!”

       Then they kissed and, snuggling into each other’s arms, surveyed their new world from their bedroom window in supreme contentment.

#

       Six months later

       Mrs. Knowles peered at the real estate agent fiddling with the sign in the house opposite hers. She knew she held a reputation as the whole neighborhood watch in a single human body and saw no reason to hide it.

        The sign read: “Auction Today - Foreclosed Property”, and the dapper-suited real estate agent stood by it as if willing potential buyers to arrive.

       She waved at him. “So, you’re selling the place? What happened to that lovely young couple?”

       The real estate agent shrugged. “No idea.”

       A fancy car pulled up and deposited a well-heeled man and woman, and the real estate agent rushed over to greet them.

       Mrs. Knowles stared up at the bedroom window. Wasn’t that the young couple standing there, smiling? How weird. They waved at her. She managed a hesitant grin and waved back.

        A flash of violet light made her blink. When she opened her eyes, they were gone.

Mrs. Knowles stood open-mouthed in shock. She might be getting on in years, but seeing people who weren’t there?      She sighed. Nothing a couple of home-baked cookies couldn’t fix.

#

       Elsewhere

        The overcast and sultry night reflected Jason’s mood. He stood at the rooftop’s edge, staring at the streets below. The traffic honked and screeched like some primeval monster.

        Tears streamed down his face. His phone buzzed, a text message alert.

It read: I’ll be home late. Sorry! xx

         He sobbed, climbed onto the top of the brick barrier and stepped forward into the air.

         His feet would not move, and his arms flailed as he struggled to maintain balance. But he couldn’t fall forwards, not with his feet encased in a pale, sticky substance.

         Something pulled him backward, and he crashed to the rooftop, banging his head.

         Groaning, he rubbed the back of his skull. The surrounding air pulsated with violet light.

         A voice, deep and resonant, reached his ears.

         “Be calm, Jason. All is well.”

         He stared up at the speaker, eyes full of wonder, and smiled.

~END~

 

 

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Karen Bayly is a writer, software tester, and author of five books: “Tesato’s Code”, a dystopian cyber-thriller; the alternate history novels “Fortitude” and “Courage”; the Middle-Grade fantasy “The Witch Who Wasn’t”; and the gothic horror “Blackeby House”. She began telling stories as a child when she wrote soap operas for her dolls to perform. These days it’s her zoology PhD, research background, and general dismay at the state of the world that informs her writing, an eclectic mix of speculative fiction, alternative history, noir and mystery. Her tales are often garnished with a touch of horror. She lives in the outer suburbs of Sydney, Australia, with two indoor cats, two guitars, and two ukuleles.

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Cynthia Fawcett has been writing for fun or money since she was able to hold a pen. A Jersey Girl at heart, she got her journalism degree at Marquette University in Milwaukee and now writes mostly technical articles about hydraulics and an occasional short story or poem on any other subject.