He Is NOT Him

Chris opened his eyes. The ceiling was unfamiliar-an expanse of cream-colored plaster with intricate crown molding that screamed old money. His head throbbed, a dull, rhythmic ache behind his temples, but his senses were screaming. The air smelled of expensive lavender detergent and the faint, cloying scent of a woman's perfume on the pillow next to him, not the musky, post-coital scent of shared intimacy.

He sat up. The movement was fluid, instinctive. His body felt lighter, weaker than he was used to, but the frame was good-broad shoulders, long limbs-just soft and unused. The muscle memory of a thousand fights was still there, coiled in his brain, waiting to override the sluggish reflexes of this new vessel.

A flood of memories that weren't his crashed into his skull. Chris Olson. The failure. The husband who begged. The man who was terrified of his own shadow.

He looked to his left. Elizabeth Washington was asleep, her blonde hair fanned out over the silk pillowcase. Even in sleep, her brow was furrowed, a permanent etching of dissatisfaction. The "original" Chris had worshipped this woman, groveling for scraps of affection.

Chris looked at his hands. They were uncalloused, soft. He clenched them into fists, watching the tendons shift. He could work with this.

Elizabeth stirred. Her eyes fluttered open, blue and cold as a winter sky. She saw him sitting there, staring at the wall, and her expression immediately hardened.

"Don't start," she said, her voice raspy with sleep but sharp with annoyance. She sat up, clutching the sheet to her chest, expecting the usual routine: Chris apologizing for existing, Chris asking if she loved him, Chris crying.

Chris turned his head slowly. He looked at her. He didn't blink. He looked at her not as a wife, but as a target assessment. Heart rate steady. Pupils dilated. Defensive posture.

"Start what?" Chris asked. His voice was deeper than she remembered, stripped of the whining cadence she loathed.

Elizabeth paused, her hand tightening on the sheet. She felt a sudden, inexplicable shiver crawl up her spine. The way he was looking at her made the air in the room feel thin.

"The begging," she snapped, swinging her legs out of bed and reaching for her silk robe. She tied the belt tight, armor against a man she no longer respected. "The divorce papers are in the study. I want them signed before breakfast."

Chris let out a short, dry sound. It might have been a laugh.

He stood up, completely naked. He didn't hunch his shoulders or try to cover himself as he usually did. He stretched, his back arching, the muscles shifting with a predatory grace that seemed alien on his frame.

He walked over to the nightstand. There was a pack of cigarettes there-hers. He shook one out and lit it. The flame flared, illuminating the sharp angles of his face.

"You don't smoke," Elizabeth said, the statement hanging in the air like a question she was afraid to ask.

Chris took a long drag, the cherry glowing bright orange. He exhaled a stream of grey smoke toward the ceiling. "I do now."

He turned and walked toward the bathroom. He didn't look at her. He didn't ask if she was okay. He moved with a terrifying economy of motion.

Elizabeth stood by the bed, barefoot on the plush carpet, feeling a sudden, sharp pang of displacement. It was her room, her house, her husband, yet she felt like the intruder.

"Chris!" she called out, her voice rising. "Did you hear me? The papers."