Identity?

Chapter Six

     It was only a few minutes after midnight when I lay silently in my new dark bedroom. The walls were bland, nothing but white; something I'd have to change soon or I would snap at any instant.
    My hand went up to my chest and I fingered the stone guitar pick gently. What was Jarrett doing right now? Was he okay? Was he still grieving over my death? Was he thinking about dying too?
   I couldn't take it anymore. I got up out of bed and walked into the room where the Team was briefed for missions. "Computer," I said. "Can you show me Jarrett Hewes? Address 2753 South Main."
    "Processing." The computer's female voice said. A holographic screen appeared in front of me, showing Jarrett's house. It wasn't anything extravagant. Just a two-story, three-bedroom house. The bland paint was peeling, and the front steps were cracked stone. The window that belonged to Jarrett's room was lit up, curtains drawn, the glass pane cracked from a childhood episode of me throwing rocks at it to get him to wake up and explore the city with me. His mom had yelled at us something fierce for it.
    "Enhance," I commanded softly, and the image zoomed in on his bedroom.
    Jarrett lay on his bed, wearing headphones, iPod up all the way. He was playing chords on his electric guitar, though it wasn't plugged into an amp so it wouldn't wake his parents. I smiled at the image before me, knowing Jarrett was okay.
    I was about to turn it off and go back to bed when I noticed something. He was wearing a small copper ring on his pinkie finger. That was the ring my dad had given to me for my birthday the years ago. Looking down at my left hand, I saw it was in fact gone. I smiled when I saw it was on his pinkie finger since it was the only finger it fit on him. He'd always joked about how small my hands were.
    "No wonder you suck at guitar." He'd said when he first started to teach me to play. He laughed when he put our hands together, palm to palm, and saw how his were about two times bigger then mine. "They're so tiny."
    I chuckled softly and looked down at my wrist, seeing the tattoo on the inside of my wrist. It spelled out his name and the letters were curled in a pretty writing, almost as beautiful as it has once been. The letters were dark, almost black now, hardly readable.
   "I'm engraving my name into you with blood-red ink," Jarrett had smiled wickedly, jokingly. "Modern-day blood pact."
    Tears rose in my eyes at the memory, and I could see his identical tattoo with my name—my old name—on his right wrist. His was perfect, untouched, but mine had been ruined by the fire that had ruined so much more in my life.
   "Computer, shut down." I ordered, tears streaming. The transparent holographic screen disappeared, and I returned to my room. On the desk sat a laptop, so I sat down and turned it on. The screen lit up and soon enough I was on my Facebook page. 
    My profile had over fifty plus notifications, and almost the entire school had posted something about me dying in the fire. Checking the date, I saw that the posts had been published six months ago.
    Six months! I was out for six months?!
    Taking a deep breath, I clicked into Jarrett's profile. By scrolling through his posts, I saw that he'd had eight performances with his band these past six months, including one at my funeral. Cringing at the thought, I went back to my profile.
   I clicked the "Deactivate Account" button. A small window popped up that said, "Tell us why:" in big blue letters. The answer was simple. I typed in my response.
    I am no more.
   Clicking delete, I slammed the lid of the laptop shut.