Brown Eyes, Green Eyes
As many of the readers may notice, Elsa has already graduated and is at college already. However, Elsa’s passion for writing is something that will last a lifetime. The three featured stories Brown Eyes, Green Eyes, Mandy, and My sister was hit by a bus today are masterpieces. Elsa is such a prolific writer that I think everyone will enjoy at least one of these three short stories. Happy Reading!
I open my eyes, and I do not immediately know that I am not in the right body.
My blankets are the wrong color, but the fact that sticks to my sleep fogged mind are that I can see the threads of my covers. I grab for my glasses, only for my hand to skitter through the air.
I fall out of bed reaching for a cabinet that does not exist.
If I wasn’t awake, I am now. The only thing stopping me from screaming is my hand clapping over my mouth.
I need to find a mirror.
The hands that caught my fall are the color of mocha.
***
After thirty minutes of wandering around this house, I have found out four things.
One, this lady (because I am sure I am at least 20) has a beautiful house with a toilet that does not flush.
Two, she is very good at hiding toilet plungers.
Three, she really likes mirrors. There is a room in the house that is full of mirrors. It looks almost like a studio, with chairs and paintbrushes scattered through the room. I cannot find a painting.
Four, well— four is that she has a boyfriend. I know this because at exactly 8:39 am, there is a knock on the door. When I open the door, a very good-looking Latino man wraps his arms around me and says, “Babe, I missed you.”
***
Tall and good-looking turns out to be a minefield of information. In 60 seconds, I find out that my name is Rosa, I like Italian chocolate, and that I have a cute Instagram account that has millions of subscribers.
I also find out that the body I’m in has muscle memory.
Rosa’s boyfriend throws me her phone (which is kept underneath the kitchen sink; how weird). I catch it on the throw and then type in the password in less than the blink of an eye.
(Hey, hey, pros of a new body #1: excellent hand-eye coordination.)
I sit down next to the table, only to get distracted by how gorgeous it is. It has gold inlays throughout the wood. To be honest, it looks more expensive than my college fee.
As the boyfriend turns to make eggs, I scramble to open Rosa’s Instagram.
I need to find out his name. My hands aren’t very steady as I swipe through the face lock.
An arm wraps around my waist. “Baby, don’t you need to get to your photoshoot?”
I jerk and watch the phone drop out of my hand in horror.
It cracks on the table and shatters into my foot.
(In the end, I blame Rosa. Really, isn’t metal in a table a major safety hazard?)
***
Being in the hospital is painful as hell. The nurse asks for Rosa’s boyfriend’s name, and I find out that it’s Mateo. He looks at me weirdly as he signs his name on the form.
“You’ve never been clumsy,” he says.
I know, I almost snark back, I’ve been transported into the body of a goddess, it would practically be a sin for me to be clumsy.
Instead, I smile. Unbidden, my mouth says, “I’m sorry.”
My inner eyebrows shoot up at this. Why does my body feel like I have to be sorry?
However, it seems to placate Mateo, who stops looking at me weirdly and starts chewing his lip.
“Babe,” he says, “I’ve already called our photographer and canceled the shoot. But we need to post today, so I thought we could do a cute couple hospital shoot instead.”
He gives me a warm smile. “And the fact that you got hurt is going to get a lot more views than normal shoot. It’s an out-of-the-ordinary thing that’ll really get people’s attention.”
My eyes widen, and I’m trying to make a frog face of disgust. Unfortunately, Rosa’s good looks probably make it look good because he drops a kiss on my forehead.
“Ok babe, I gotta go take care of my other shoot, I’ll see you at four.”
I feel like I’m missing the punch line of a joke. Yet instead of laughing, I am left alone in the hospital.
***
I’ve spent the last hour going through Rosa’s Instagram. And here’s the thing: it’s boring how perfect she is.
(I’m also extremely jealous, but we won’t disclose that to other people.)
It’s no wonder she has two million subscribers. She’s got one of the cutest, most gorgeous accounts I’ve ever seen. It feels almost like I’m a part of her life when I go through it, and her life is perfect. She’s the kind of sweet, funny, slightly sarcastic person that the internet loves. To top it off, half of her posts feature Mateo and a cute insight into their relationship. It’s so heartwarming it’s almost annoying.
At this point, I’d be surprised if Rosa had any flaws at all.
***
2 weeks later…
I fumble and slide through Rosa’s life. I go to shoots with Mateo and thank God that muscle memory makes my smiles look ‘whimsical’ (or whatever else they want me to look like for the day). I watch her Instagram videos late at night to learn her sarcasm and try to pull off the same effect in my videos with Mateo.
I don’t think anyone has realized that I’m not her.
Most of that is thanks to my new face muscles. They don’t really like to listen to me. They’re constantly stuck in an expression that I named “The Confident but Kind Supermodel Look of Introspection”.
They’re especially rebellious when I am around people.
For example, Rosa has a very rude neighbor. His name is Jude (or something, I haven’t figured it out yet). If I had my own way, I’d flip him off. But my traitorous face muscles always smile extra bright at him, and that tells me that flipping him off would totally blow my cover.
Although what’s weirder is my muscle memory towards Mateo.
When Mateo hugs me, my whole body tenses up.
And I swear, it is not me tensing up. I am intent on acting as naturally as possible.
But there’s a tension in my bones when his arms wrap around Rosa’s body. I can feel her muscles melt into the hug like it's normal, but I also can feel all of the stress underneath.
I don’t think that’s normal.
At night, I can feel her body curl up into a fetal position, and I worry.
What was wrong in your perfect supermodel life?
***
Mateo goes to Italy again, and I decide to search for answers.
Admittedly, I’m not very successful. I find the toilet plunger in a side closet on the second floor, but that doesn’t really tell me anything about Rosa.
At 9 am, my feet lead me into the studio. I haven’t been in the studio since my first day here. There’s a feeling in my bones that I don’t want Mateo to be here, so I’ve stayed away from this floor of the house in our videos.
I close my eyes and let Rosa’s old instincts do the work for me.
I walk, surefooted, across the room and flip over the full-length mirror that faces the door. When I open my eyes, I gasp.
Huge brown eyes stare up at me, with so much pain in them that I do not immediately realize that I am looking at a child.
Rosa has painted a child. When I look closer, I can see transparent tears smearing her face.
I know why this room has so many mirrors now.
The child has Rosa’s exact features.
***
There are rags dressing the child. Rags from business suits dangle off her wrists, and rags from different model shoots cling to her body. This child Rosa’s tears are half-hidden by hastily smudged on make-up.
I catch my sob in my hands.
This is what was going on in Rosa’s head.
I blink, and I find that I have started crying.
The mirrors around me pay homage to how good an artist Rosa was.
(The child’s features are a perfect image of Rosa’s.
If Rosa had wanted, she could have become famous for art. As it is, I don’t think anyone other than me knows that she owned paintbrushes.)
I let the tears flow. Crying, I move to turn the mirror back around. Something thumps when I do. I frantically check the back of her painting and scan the edges to check for cracks.
Instead of cracks, I find a blue, leather-bound journal.
My shoulders drop as I pick the journal up. It’s one of those books that have a three-digit code attached to them.
“Rosa really didn’t trust anyone, did she?” I whisper as I slide my fingers over the lock.
A part of me is very afraid, as I click one number past the next. A phone password can rely on muscle memory, but a lock can be scrambled randomly every time.
I try to click the lock open, and I find that I cannot.
***
When I gather myself up from the studio floor, it is already nighttime.
When I rise, I walk with purpose.
I’m going to find out what happened to my body.
Because maybe this is a cliché Hollywood story. Maybe Rosa is alive in my body, and we can resolve this.
I want to resolve this because my heart aches from the look in her painting child’s eyes.
I want her to have a chance to heal that hurt.
And I—
I want to live. I want to give Rosa a second chance, but I also want my own second chance.
My hands are shaking violently as I type my name into my browser, and I let the shudders move through me.
I end up deleting my name right before I press enter.
(I’m a coward, I know.)
In fact, I am so much of a coward that I get up. There’s an excuse on my lips that I need to get ready for bed.
The page in front of me loads to the news. Before I can walk away, a full definition picture of a girl with green eyes loads onto the screen.
I blink once. And then realize that I’m looking at my eyes. Staring out of my face.
Not Rosa’s face.
My face.
The headline underneath reads: High Schooler Hit by Drunk Driver.
All the breath in me whooshes out of me as if I’ve been punched.
I click to open the video underneath, and I watch a car mow through my body like a sheet of paper is blown away by the wind.
Beep.
Beep.
I died on contact.
Beep.
Beep.
This was two weeks ago.
A noise like a TV fuzz fills my brain.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
My phone alarm is ringing from across the room, and I can barely hear it over the roaring in my mind.
I guess this isn’t a cliché Hollywood story, a tinny voice in my brain tells me.
Beep.
I restart my thought process.
If Rosa and I switched bodies, then Rosa is very dead.
The video gets through auto-play, and I watch myself get flattened again.
Very, very dead.
My eyes land on the date of publication, and suddenly, I am moving.
I seat myself in front of Rosa’s painting, and I click the lock to August 26th.
The book falls open in my lap, and I almost laugh out loud.
I let the pages fly by in front of me. There are thousands upon thousands of words, and I flip to a page near the end.
***
August 13th
I think I’m suffocating.
Mateo kissed me today, and my whole body froze up.
Oh—
It is not his fault that I have been hurt in life, but every instinct screamed for me to flee.
And yet. I didn’t. Because I never can, can I? My life has never been lived for me. I have chosen again and again to live for someone else and—
I am suffocating.
I hate this. I hate this life, I hate this body, I hate the Instagram likes.
My manager called me to tell me that I’ve reached two million followers, and I wanted to throw up.
Two million people have decided that they like the cutting, shallow version of myself that I have allowed them to see. They’ve decided that they like a simpering girl just because she can look pretty and have a hot boyfriend. At least a thousand people have told me that they loved me, and not a single one of them knew who I really am.
Mateo definitely doesn’t know who I am.
And I
I am so sick of this.
I am so sick of not living.
— Rosa
***
3 years later—
Her last words were about wanting to buy a cat, and how the sun was shining, and how she wished that she could laugh without feeling like it was for someone else.
I have tried to fulfill her life. I can hear her voice when I speak. And every time I speak, I can hear the echo of I am so sick of not living.
And I live.
I live for myself, and I live for her.
fin