The Identity Chameleon

He proudly pulled out his wallet; I had asked to see his ID. He didn’t match his picture — not even slightly. I told him that we couldn’t help if he were unable to identify himself. But still, he insisted that he was the person in the photo.

Not knowing what to say, I said nothing. Before the guards could arrive, the man started aggressively grabbing at his face. Scabby skin was torn off piece by piece. Bystanders looked on — fearful, and some even fled the building.

Flesh was hitting the ground with several tiny plops. When he was finally finished, he had a new face. An entirely new face.

“Now, can you see who I’ve been all along?” muttered the mysterious man in a raspy voice.

I felt an uneasiness trickling throughout my body. I coerced a smile, then took the ID out of his bloody, grubby hand and quickly studied the photo once more. To my terror, it matched perfectly.

A sharp grin began stretching over his twisted face — his entirely new face.

I began providing him the service I had recently denied him — though the boisterous pounding of my heart would interfere with my ability to perform.

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