the old man doesn’t recognize me because i am wearing his son’s face. it is a mask that looks just like his, but without the wrinkles and yellow teeth. the old man had wanted me to fade into oblivion, for alma to lose me forever. my grave had become a parking lot. but i slipped into his son and woke the body, and at that moment, my long-awaited plan took its first breath. the skin of the son stretches over my empty cheeks, the hot heart and blood pumping through me like the overwhelming roar of a new machine.
why are you up so early, the old man frowns as he makes cereal in the kitchen. he thinks he is speaking to his son. i can hardly hear him over the loud rush inside me.
your mother came to me last night. she told me to say she loves you, he says. my heart leaps, but then i remember that alma had not meant me. i cannot blame her. she did not know. she left our native jamaica for new york, with the now-withered killer before me. but she will be returning with me shortly. she’ll leave her body to be with me, and the old man will be forced to face the truth: she was always mine.