The City of Strays

Tall windowed blocks enchanted my eyes from the ground up. Swiping my electric viridian strands away from my eyes, I set out of my studio’s front door with a purpose: in search of my identity. Initially, the rumors of my so-called “doppelganger” had accumulated to almost all corners of my neighborhood, and made its way into popular conversation throughout the entirety of this small city. It reminded me of how close all of us truly are, maybe a little too close to where we start thinking it’s okay to screw with each other's lives and identities. Afterall, this city is home to none other than victims of the war that struck realms; a gargantuan conflict that broke up lands and families and created lonesome stray children by the Trans-Realm War. Despite my efficient speed as I marched towards the city square, I didn’t forget to take in the beauty that had been built just for us lonesome children- amidst all the twinkles of each building’s window, each skyscraper’s height, and each gigantic neon sign- I was reminded of how I was never truly alone despite being all by myself in this city. All of us, each child who had lost their family in the trans-realm war, had gained a huge new one in this city. We prided ourselves with our self-made attitudes by naming our city the ‘City of Strays.’ As dystopian and cliche as it seems, we’re all just trying to find our way on our own in this metropolis after the war; so the idea of one’s identity being stolen by another never quite crossed my mind up until those rumors started to circulate. 

After receiving an email from this facade of a woman, which rather pointedly instructed me to meet her in the city square, I had one goal and one goal only: Confrontation. The wind passing by from each speeding vehicle on the center road wasn’t enough to cool my anger. Nor were the neon signs or windows from buildings which served as illuminations of different panels of life enough to soothe me. I wanted this nonsense to be put to rest. Moreover, I wanted to dive into the lurking questions scattered in my mind: How dare she!? How similar does she have to be to fool this city into thinking that she is me? What on earth is her deal? Is she a murderer, am I being led to my death as we speak? But I found that allowing myself deeper in my thoughts would indeed work against my heart rate which was currently a ticking time bomb. 

The crisp air of the emerging midnight sent a tingling sensation to the stitches on my left arm, opening up lost memories to my days of being hospitalized after the war. Most survivors in this city of strays are aware that they’ve been under some sort of extensive, oftentimes grueling, medical attention. It’s sort of a taboo topic among us. We don’t talk about it, not because we don’t want to recall some sort of trauma infested memories, but because we have no memories of that time to begin with -nor do we have any memories of life before this city-. It’s a good thing, I suppose. No one would want to live with the burden of remembering the family they’ve lost and the lives that could have been. 

Rather more pointedly now, I feel as if I am walking into my own misery. I am officially at the city center, the glow of  blues and pinks of the neon signs and billboards radiate against my eyes, seeping into my head to create one great headache. It’s the nerves, I assume. What if she isn’t a woman at all? That would be a jab to my self esteem if a man somehow fooled everyone into believing that’s me. The wind blows the hood off my hair, revealing my rather frizzy black and viridian locks. I wait for the remaining traffic to pass by, almost expecting to see this person standing right across from me, like this person knew I was here. Seems likely. Feeling rather bold, I jaywalk onto the plaza square, the city’s largest billboard standing in front of me, illuminating my whole being as I stood before it. A couple of benches surrounded me with a small piano and vendors off to the sides of the square. I look around: no one. Not anyone who seems to be, well, me. What sounds to be a a girl about my age emerges from behind. Her squirms and self-muttering catch my attention. She struggled to hold her thick binder alongside a satchel. The satchel looks worn, celestial engravings into the fine leather caught my eye. In fact, her entire get-up caught my attention. She wore a fitted blouse and long plum skirt. Her black blouse had long frilly sleeves and her hair was held into an ornate bun with braids. She seemed like she was chewed up and spat out of an enchanted forest. This girl appeared alien, that was until I saw her face.

She stared up at me from the ground as she was gathering her items, her doe-like brown eyes mirroring mine. The girl stood up feebly as if she was about to say something, clutching the binder to her chest. 

“Selene.”

Hearing her voice felt as if I was hearing my own. She held out a photo to me. 

“Who are you?” I asked firmly, paying no mind to the worn down photo. 

“Look.” She said, paying no mind to my question in return. 

Snatching the photo from her hand, I admittedly caved. The photo depicted a family of five, two sisters sat at the front wearing clothing similar to this strange girl. The sisters looked identical, identical to me…identical to the girl who stood in front me.

“Listen, I’m sorry for the ruckus I’ve caused. Ever since I found my way to you, to this land, people have mistaken me for you. Our mother said you won’t remember anything. My name is Sethera.”

I wanted so desperately to be angry, to shout at her, plead with her, ask her to leave me alone yet stay and spew more false truths at me. Dragging her back to my apartment, I sat her down, or more so she sat me down, and she told me the full extent of my life before coming to this city of strays, before getting separated, before the war, before I forgot about everyone and everything I loved and how I, before, was all alone within this city.