Page 112 of Switch!
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We narrowly manage to stave off eviction, paying rent on the final day allowed. We’re not out of the woods yet. At most we’ve made it to a clearing. The landlord isn’t happy about the back rent we still owe, so I fed him a big story about struggling to find a job until recently. He wanted proof. I provided it by giving him the number of my new boss, Trixie Harper. Her performance was Oscar worthy, as always, when the landlord called.
I don’t feel bad about this deception since we do have jobs, even if they can’t be verified. We busk on weekday afternoons and at night on the weekends. Trixie has been wonderfully patient about all of this, especially considering how free-spirited her life was before I came along. That isn’t speculation. It came up in conversation while we were eating empanadas on a park bench.
“Do you ever regret leaving home?” I asked her, struggling with pangs of homesickness.
“Not really,” Trixie had replied. “I wish I hadn’t hurt my dad like I did, but I don’t miss my old life. I get to wake up every single day and do whatever I want. How many people can say that?”
Not many, including her, now that I’ve roped Trixie into working a steady job. I can’t shake the feeling that I’m dead weight. Even with me bringing people to her and encouraging them to give generously. She’s earning more than ever, but she never had such massive debts to pay off either. If she went back to doing this on her own, she’d be able to work less and save more.
I try to compensate by making the work fun for her. She likes us to jam together, so whenever I notice her patience running out, I make sure to accompany her on the bucket. Trixie keeps suggesting we invest in a real drum. Once we get the last of the utility bills paid, I plan to surprise her with one. Maybe we can buy an amp, which I know she misses. Something called a looper pedal too. She used to have more gear before it became too much to haul around. Not only do I want to reward her hard work, but I’d like her to have a home again—a place where she can keep her important things.
We take time off whenever we need to recharge, and I try to make those days fun. I used my supernatural abilities to sneak us into a movie theater, for instance, and we ended up staying for a triple matinee. We could have easily paid for tickets and saved the time and effort, but Trixie likes it when I use my powers creatively. She repaid the favor afterwards by insisting we busk outside the theater for extra cash. We ended that day, like so many others, by crashing exhausted into bed. Then it’s up again the next day to do it all over. Work, work, work, with whatever rest and relaxation we can squeeze in between. I’m beginning to miss my life as a teenager. I always thought adults had the most freedom, and in many ways they do, but they also have precious little time to enjoy it. There never seems to be enough hours in the day.
Because of this, I usually sleep like a rock, and if I do wake up—like now—it never takes me long to settle down again. Tonight is different. Maybe because the bed next to me is empty. A thud woke me, but it could have been part of my dream. The apartment is quiet. I wait, expecting to hear the toilet flush. When it doesn’t, I yawn and check my phone. Three in the morning. Setting the phone down again, I notice a light shining from beneath the closed bedroom door. Strange. Trixie normally doesn’t turn on the hallway light when needing to use the restroom. She uses her phone like a flashlight instead.
I hear another thud—this one absolutely real—and sit up.
“Trixie?”
Nothing. Only silence. Then, half a minute later, the hallway light switches off. I don’t know what’s going on. A burglar? Someone from Patrick’s past we don’t know about? Worrying that Trixie might be in danger, I get up and creep toward the bedroom door. I open it just wide enough to take a peek.
The hallway is dark and empty. Light is seeping out from around the edges of the spare bedroom door. Panic rises up inside me. I realize it’s not my own at the same time I lose control.
She has no right to be in there. Get out. Get out!
Patrick’s thoughts are followed by action. He races down the hall as I struggle to find a singular point of concentration to reassert myself, but he’s moving too fast. Patrick throws open the door, which bangs into something on the other side and stops short. The narrow gap is just wide enough to slip into, so he does. Concern gives way to curiosity as I finally get to see the room beyond. Boxes and furniture crowd the space, which is strange, considering how sparsely furnished the rest of the apartment is. The clutter wasn’t always here though. Memories come unbidden as I mentally rearrange the room. Take away the stacks of boxes, move the desk to the far wall, clear away the piles of electronics and you’d be left with… a child’s bedroom.
Trixie is standing near a small bed. An open box rests on the mattress, the contents partially spread out over a pink and white comforter. She’s stammering out an explanation, surprised by the sudden intrusion, but before she can get many words out, Patrick growls and launches himself at her. I need to stop him!
Bare feet treading on carpet, ankle brushing against clutter… No, too late. The world is a blur, so I choose something else to concentrate on. Hands clenching into fists, nails biting into palms… Jesus! He’s really angry. I can’t get control of him.
Trixie raises her hands defensively. I don’t think Patrick plans to hit her, but I can’t be sure because he’s not thinking at all. Rage is in control now, rather than either of us.
Stop!I plead.Think! We’re not here to hurt you.
A wave of memories hits me. Everything that Trixie and I have been up to recently, all at once. It’s overwhelming. And painful. Patrick stops in his tracks and presses his palms to his head. I ignore the discomfort and take advantage of the opportunity. If I can’t stop his body, I’ll have to stop his mind. I mentally wrap my arms around him and plummet deep into his subconscious. Only when I feel like I’m about to pass out do I conjure up the black box around us.
Patrick is still in my arms when we arrive there. He shoves me away, face a mask of panic, like he’s fending off an attack.
“Easy!” I say. “It’s me. Remember?”
Patrick winces and places a hand over his forehead. “What are you doing to me? Why does my head hurt?”
“I think it’s the memories I’ve made while you’re in here. I’ve never taken control for this long before, and normally the other person is still with me, like a passenger. You’ve been locked in the black box for too long. I think your mind is trying to catch up with your brain. If that makes sense.”
I notice that we’re both wearing the same pair of boxers I wore to bed and nothing more, so I conjure up Patrick’s bathrobe and hand it to him before creating one for myself.
“Better?” I ask.
“No,” Patrick says, dropping the robe. It disappears, and suddenly he’s fully dressed in jeans, shoes, and a T-shirt. I’m impressed, but then he’s spent way more time here than me. “I’m not completely unaware of what you do.”
He raises a hand and a boxy TV appears. Maybe it’s from the childhood living room where I usually find him. On the screen, I see a closeup of Trixie’s face. She looks concerned before leaning back and slapping me a few times.
“Neat trick,” I admit. “You’ve been watching what we do?”
Patrick’s expression is grim. “She needs to leave. Get her out of that room!”
