Page 17 of Rox

He sighs before laying down on his back, scrubbing his hand against his mouth. I can see the battle behind his eyes. I know I’m asking a lot, but I deserve to know who the man I’m falling for is.

“Mimic, please. You tell me one name, yet your ID says something completely different.”

“It’s not easy to explain, Rox.”

“Well, I need you to try, Mimic. I just gave you myself.”

“And I gave myself right back to you.”

“Did you, though? Or was I given a lie?”

Is this fair of me to ask? Or demand? Why can’t I allow myself to accept him as simply Mimic? I know a lot of the men in the club don’t give their real names out. It’s something they hold near to their hearts. Is this any different?

As much as I want to say it isn’t, it is. It’s very different. There’s nothing I can tell myself at the moment that will make me accept the fact of not knowing his name. I want him, but I want all of him.

All of nothing, and frankly, having nothing won’t do for me either.

“Mimic…”

He takes another deep breath while closing his eyes. I’m quiet as I wait for him to say something, anything. Right as I’m about to give up, he finally speaks.

“Do you know why I’m called Mimic?”

I sigh while I roll my eyes. “Why would I know that? No one knows shit about you, Mimic.”

He chuckles softly, “That’s true. Anyway, I came here with my road name. It was something I gave myself.”

“I thought they were something you earned.”

“Normally, yes. But I knew who I was and what I should go by. My life wasn’t easy. I went through a lot of bullshit when I was younger. I’m the typical stepfather was a piece of shit, couldn’t save my mom, people died, origin story.”

“Mim—”

“—Don’t. Please don’t cut me off. I need to get it out,” he looks at me pleadingly. I nod in agreement so he’ll continue. “Thank you. Anyway, after my family, actually no. I don’t call them that. Only my mother was my family. After the pieces of shit who killed her died, I set out on my own.

“It wasn’t easy. Nothing about my life has been. I’ve been through so much shit that no one should have to experience, but it’s the shit hand I was given.”

He pauses for a moment. I wonder if he’s gathering the nerve or deciding what to tell me. I wish I didn’t promise him not to speak, though. I’m lost. I’m positive he’s leaving out information, but I don’t want him to stop telling me the story.

“I killed them: my stepfather and his sons. I killed them for what they did to her. I couldn’t save her. I couldn’t get caught, so I ran. I wasn’t going to live my life in a cell for what I did to them. After what I found them doing to her, I refused. So I left.

“I knew I wouldn’t make it long while on the run. I wasn’t sure how I was going to survive, but I did what I had to. The answer to my problems came in the form of a friend who ended up overdosing and conveniently had all the paperwork saying who he was. I took it. I became him. I mimicked him.”

My eyes widen. I’m not sure what it was expecting, but I also know it wasn’t that.

“I don’t want to bore you with the details of every identity I’ve taken.”

I can’t keep my promise anymore. I have to ask. “Do you kill them?”

He looks at me and smiles. I don’t think that that’s a good sign. “No. Well, not really?”

“The fuck does that mean? Not really?”

“I’ve killed two. Out of every person I’ve mimicked, I’ve only taken the identity of two. I did it because it happened to work out, not because I wanted to be them.”

“How many “thems”have there been?”

“Seventeen”

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