Body Swappers 29
The final push.
Intro/outro sound is Prime Light Harp Melody 165 BPM.mp3 by snikpohneb — https://freesound.org/s/173463/ — License: Attribution 3.0
Transition sound is Clumble.aif by snikpohneb -- https://freesound.org/s/216751/ -- License: Creative Commons 0
Camille didn’t like being inside the body of an abuser, but she hadn’t found any blood from a neighbor, and she knew she might not have much more time. Maya wasn’t stupid–she would figure it out. She already knew a lot more than Camille had hoped she’d ever know. So when Camille had found the band-aid in Maya’s parents’ trash, she’d known she had a fifty-fifty shot this would happen. She’d taken it anyway.
At least he’s not a sexual predator, Camille thought to herself. As far as I know.
When she’d taken him over, he’d been driving. Her heart rate spiked, but she kept the wheel steady enough. She took a moment to orient herself to the road conditions. The arterial was not too crowded, being midday. This is Monroe, she thought when she saw Spokane Art Supply. So he was probably driving home from downtown.
He was dressed nice, she realized, in a long-sleeved shirt, tie, and slacks. It all felt fairly suffocating.
She finished driving him home, and parked in the driveway. Now that it was daylight, she could see the house clearly. So this is where Maya was abused. The blue denim paint was flecking off the siding in places. The grass competed with dandelions for space. It looked like almost any other house on the street.
Camille pulled herself out of her reverie, loosened the tie around her neck so she could breathe more easily, and went inside.
She found the kitchen quickly enough. And the knife block. And from the knife block, she pulled the utility knife. Though, Camille preferred its other name. The petty knife. That’s how men viewed women, wasn’t it? Their problems, their lives. Petty–beneath notice or care.
You would notice this in your artery, Camille thought, admiring the blade. She’d memorized all the most accessible arteries long ago. Temporal, cartid, radial, brachial, femoral. It had been a long time since she’d chosen one at leisure.
She checked the pockets of the slacks, found a phone, and closed it in a random drawer. She didn’t plan to stay in this body all the way to death, so best to cover all her bases. If he could move to look for his phone, he wouldn’t find it.
She’d turned toward the hallway when she felt…a presence? Surely he couldn’t have found his way back to his body, she thought to herself.
Maya’s frosty voice thought back, No.
*
Maya tried not to focus on the fact that she was transferring to a body without that person’s permission. Tried not to think about how that body was her dad’s. How messed up it was that she’d been put in this position, in order to save him.
Of course, I could just…not. She and Robert could wait for Camille to emerge from the sensory depravation tank, and confront her then. But Robert would think less of me, if he ever suspected I could have stopped it. So would Ruth. My mom would be devastated, and unless I stepped in to fill her certainly codependent needs, she would have no one. Besides those reasons, she imagined herself letting it happen. How she would feel.
Like I had blood on my hands. Like I’d done it myself. She imagined it would take a long time to figure out if she’d known on some level, all along, that it was Camille. If she’d known, and complained about her dad, knowing it would come to this.
Fuck that. I don’t deserve to feel that way.
She knew these thoughts were not helping her “gather herself,” which is why she’d supposedly still not started the transference. Before she had any more time to second-guess, she plunged forward through the gate.
Surely he couldn’t have found his way back to his body, Camille thought to herself.
No, Maya responded. Despite the barrier she’d constructed–stronger than anything she’d used to prevent leaks to a client–she could feel her ice-cold anger spilling over. Fine, she thought, let Camille feel my rage.
How could you do this? she asked Camille. Don’t you know this is going to mess me up?
Not as bad as his continued existence does already, Camille responded. Other thoughts leaked over. Don’t you understand? I’m saving you, and, This is what he deserves. Camille had never had to hide her thoughts from anyone; had always shunted her victim’s minds out of the way to her own locked-down body. Maya wondered if she could use that to her own advantage. I didn’t know you could do this, Camille added.
I can’t believe you’re a murderer.
I’m bringing women peace! And justice! Can you honestly say you’ve never wished he was dead?
Just because I get bloody urges doesn’t mean I act on them! Maya tried to breathe, to center herself, but Camille was in control of the body.
As if Camille had only just remembered this, she started walking the body down the hall. And why not? You let abusers get away with a warning. You know that’s not effective. That nothing anyone does is effective. She opened the first door she came to. Shelves full of sleeping bags, boxes, and loose screws announced it was a closet. Irritation flashed from her, and she shut the door again.
Maya was having trouble focusing. She was in her childhood home, in her dad’s body, and Camille’s anger kept washing over her and getting mixed up in her own. And now Camille was moving again, so talking to her hadn’t even been a great stalling tactic. Where are you, Robert? she wondered.
She recalled the meditative practice of acknowledging thoughts and emotions, and letting them go. She saw the anger–her own and Camille’s–but she didn’t have to let it control her. All of a sudden, she felt a shift in her aura, and this mental practice got easier. Had Robert finished adjusting the grid?
Well? Camille asked, opening the next door. Yellowed linoleum, tub, sink, and toilet. Maya could feel that Camille had found what she’d been looking for.
Maya thought to herself, She’s my best friend. Surely she can be reasoned with? Surely she’ll listen to me?
Listen, she thought at Camille, I know what it’s like. Wanting to stop it. To prevent anyone from being victimized ever again. You know I understand that.
Then why are you trying to stop me? Camille wasn’t using a physical voice, so it couldn’t break, but Maya could feel the desperation as clearly as if it had.
Maya asked her, What is going to happen to my mom, if you do this?
Camille set the knife on the counter and unbuttoned the left shirt sleeve. He won’t be able to twist up her mind anymore.
No, but she never chose to leave. Which means she’ll probably find herself in another relationship that hurts just as much. But that person may not just be emotionally abusive. They could be physically abusive, too. There’s no way to make her safe, if she doesn’t choose it.
Maya could feel another shift, this one more subtle. She could have mistaken it for her own acceptance of this fact, which hadn’t really happened before. But she thought it was more likely that, back in the room with her body, Robert had begun rolling a ball on her feet. That meant everything else was in place. But Maya wanted Camille to choose to stop. She didn’t want to have to fight her.
Camille folded the shirt sleeve up. Well, I didn’t come here for her. I came here for you. You did choose to leave, and you deserve some peace of mind.
And you think this will give it to me? Maya asked.
With time, I know it will.
Maya had a flash of insight, and she knew neither guilt tripping nor reasoning with Camille was the answer. She could feel Camille’s anger, sorrow, guilt, determination, pounding against her like waves on a rock. Even though she could withstand them easier now, didn’t mean she should ignore them. If I want Camille to listen to me, I need to speak to her emotions.
I know how hurt you are, Maya thought to her. But I’m really scared right now, and I would really appreciate it if you would give me just a few minutes to talk to you. She crafted a window in her wall, and let Camille feel what she was feeling, even as she kept her thoughts private. Her fear, frustration, and sorrow flowed back to her friend, and the hand Camille had reached toward the knife paused.
What more is there to say? Camille asked. Then she leaked, You don’t understand. Why don’t you understand?
Maya thought to her, I know you’re having mixed emotions about this. Even though you’re sure these men deserve what you’re doing, it eats you up that you have to do it. Doesn’t it? The woman I know you to be is sensitive and sincere. You’ve had to live this whole double life to go about doing this.
It is hard, Camille thought back. Echoes of so many anxieties flowed off her, and Maya felt her shoulder tense in response. But nothing anyone else does works.
Yes, but it’s not on you to make the world work. You’re putting an awful lot of pressure on yourself.
She heard Camille thinking to herself, I am, and, Could I just stop, after all this? Maya gave her some privacy, not reacting when clearly these comments weren’t directed at her. Then she realized something.
Besides, isn’t the desire to control others the very problem at the heart of abuser behavior?
She knew immediately she should not have shared this thought. The silence between them was deafening. Shock, disgust, rage, no word was strong enough to name Camille’s feelings. It’s not the same, she responded, and picked up the knife.
Maya was out of time. She thought, Bow down; kiss the ring, and tried to flex the body’s shoulders. It worked.
What is happening? Camille asked, surprise and fear rippling off her.
I didn’t teach you everything about crystal grids, Maya thought. She assessed the comparative sway of their auras. At first she’d simply been a hanger-on, an interloper, by comparison to Camille. A vine to Camille’s tree. But vines, with time, can choke their hosting tree, if they are too aggressive for sun, for resources. It would be taxing to throw that much weight around, but she had the root anchoring necessary to do it, now.
Camille raised the knife in the right arm, holding the left arm out, fist taught.
Maya let the right arm raise, but continued the motion, arching back and opening the hand. The blade sliced a finger as they lost their grip on it, and it bounced against the wall behind them and clattered to the floor.
Camille let out a shout, wordless in rage, and tried to reach for the knife. Again, Maya let her start the movement, but threw a lot more of the body’s weight into the movement than Camille had expected, and dove face-first into the hallway. Somehow, the hand had shot out and grabbed the knife anyway, cutting the fingers again.
I won’t drop it again, Camille thought, rolling them onto their side.
Fine, Maya said, and jerked it up, into the solar plexus.
She hadn’t expected how much the handle might hurt, used that way.
She was falling…
But this time, from the first instant, she felt the pull of her own body. She followed it home.