I Am the Real One, Right? (ONC2024)

Chapter Four: Breaking the First Rule

Circling back to the time when I met Norton, I am now apparently breaking both the first and second rules by talking about it, but never mind, I can live with it. I rented a car, unofficially of course, paying twice the price, and drove to meet Norton. It was pretty hard to look at his face. Why, you may ask? Well, half of his cheek was blown off, held together by a bandage.

Overall, it was quite an unusual place, resembling an abandoned old house where several men lived. Norton had his own office inside one of the rooms. He wore no shoes, no shirt, just sat casually leaning on his chair across the table.

I tried to introduce myself, which was quite daunting, not knowing who I was. "Hello, I am, uhh, I was told you could help me find who I am. You have some kind of database of everyone."

The man smiled. "Of course, I can help you, but why do you want to know who you are?"

The answer's pretty straightforward, but how do you spell it out? "I just wanna find out who I was, you know? There might be a whole life out there I'm missing out on—a family, a house, stuff that's mine. Heck, someone might even be waiting around for me to show up again."

I wasn't sure if my answer satisfied him. He reached for his computer on the desk. "Uhm, let's see. Move a bit to your left," he directed, adjusting the webcam clipped to his computer screen. He clicked his mouse to take a photo. "It's searching," he paused. "Meanwhile, tell me, do you really care to reclaim belongings that you don't even remember owning in the first place?"

The computer beeped. "Found it," he declared, a smile spreading across his face. "Mr. Twain, you do understand that having lost everything, you're essentially free to do anything now. Are you willing to give up that freedom?" he questioned.

It seemed he had said something profound, but I got stuck on 'Twain'. "Twain, is that my surname?" I asked. Interestingly, 'Twain' actually signifies two items of the same type. The irony of that realization hit me only three months and two weeks later, on the exact road where I encountered—and ran over—my impostor.

"Yes, that narrows it down quite a bit, doesn't it?" he teased, his voice tinged with amusement.

I leaned forward, trying to sneak a peek at the screen. "What's my first name?" I asked, my curiosity ramping up. "Not so fast," he interjected, expertly covering the screen with his hand. "Look at this, you're spending half your salary on EMIs, for a house, a car," he observed. Then, giving me a probing stare, he pushed on, "Do you truly wish to return to that life?"

I stood up, a bit infuriated, "Of course I do, I own a house. I'm driving this crappy rented one when I already own a car." Norton's expression hardened, his gaze intensifying even further as he launched into what seemed like a monologue, "You are not the car you drive, Mr. Twain. You are not your job. You're not the amount of money in your bank account. You're not the contents of..." I couldn't help but interrupt him, bewildered, "What? What on earth are you talking about?"

"WHOA! Okay," the man stood up, his patience waning. "Words aren't going to cut it with you, so I'll lay it out straight. Who you are, where you live. Everything about your pathetic life," he paused, that annoying smile creeping back, "but there's a catch: you have to fight someone tonight."

Fight? This guy had to be crazy. It was pointless arguing with him. Arguing with him was futile. My identity was just there, a few feet away on his screen, but with his crew looming around, forcefully trying to get a glimpse was out of the question. It seemed the only option was to play along with his bizarre request and find a way to sneak a peek at his computer later.

"Okay, but I'm not exactly a fighter, am I?" I gestured towards my less-than-athletic physique. "This,"—I gave my evidently non-fighter's belly a pat—"doesn't exactly scream 'warrior.'"

"I am Jack's bulging belly, telling him he's no fighter," he quipped, mocking me. "Is my name Jack?" I inquired, puzzled by his reference. "Of course not," he replied with a dismissive wave of his hand. "That's just my way of speaking." Who even talks like that, right?

Then, to my surprise, he made a sensible point. "I'm not asking you to win. I'm just asking you to fight."

So, there it was. I could step into the ring, take a few hits, so Norton finally tells me who I am. And who knows? Maybe your boy here could throw down some punches and actually come out on top?

No, I didn't come out on top. As evening fell, everyone gathered in an underground basement, its vast open space serving as the fight arena. Norton again delivered a seemingly endless monologue on the rules, to the point where a few attendees started to nod off. Then it was my turn to step into the ring.

My opponent was a young man, calm yet focused, with a bit of a nerdy vibe. I later found out he was a keen-minded scientist, dedicated to researching memory loss due to Alzheimer's. What are the odds, right?

We both shed our shirts; I sucked in my stomach, trying to appear a bit formidable. It was his first fight too. It took a while for us to fully engage, but soon we were exchanging blows, completely absorbed in the chaos of the fight.

Norton was indeed right about one aspect—the fight instilled in me an unexpected sense of freedom. Immersing myself in such a raw, visceral experience outside my comfort zone felt liberating. The few punches I threw and the many I received seemed to strip away the layers, exposing a raw, unfiltered me beneath. Why was I even bothering about finding my past life? Would I still have the freedom to just go for it, all out, if I had the weight of relationships and possessions holding me back?

Yet, as the adrenaline faded and the punches grew weaker, the thrill of liberation gave way to a sobering emptiness. It dawned on me that no matter how exhilarating this freedom felt, I wouldn't go home with bruised eyes if I had someone waiting for me. The notion of freedom was appealing, but it also meant losing everything. This kind of existence, though unburdened by my past, felt increasingly senseless.

I might not be defined by the cars I drive or the things I own, but I came to understand that I may be defined by the people with whom I share life, laughter, and love.

I was set on getting my life back, no matter what it took. As this profound thought crossed my mind, a final punch hit me square in the face, sending me straight into darkness, and everything just faded to black.

When I awoke the next day, I found myself in a house, not knowing how I got there. As I was trying to orient myself, someone entered the room and placed a cup of tea next to my bed. There was something peculiar about his gait. "Excuse me, where am I?" I managed to ask.

He turned around, and with a simple directive, said, "Take rest. Drink Tea." It took a few moments for my groggy brain to register what I was seeing. In disbelief, I got up, washed my eyes, and even slapped myself, hoping to wake from what I thought was a bizarre dream. But no, this was no dream. Standing before me was indeed an ape, and he was the one looking after me.