Soul Return (Patreon)

Standing in front of door number 54, in one of the most ordinary, unremarkable houses on the outskirts of Bucharest, Robert Smith caught himself noticing that his fingers, even though he tried to control them, were shaking on their own, lightly tapping along the edges of the fabric of what felt, in that moment, like an overly tight dress.

— Adună-te (Pull yourself together), — he hissed under his breath and clenched his palms into fists. But the voice, its tone, and most importantly the words sounded so strange and unfamiliar that it only made things worse.

The cold light of the building’s hallway hurt his eyes. Two elevators on the sides stood frozen, like witnesses who didn’t give a damn that everything inside him was cracking. The tiles under his sandals felt too smooth — his foot stood differently than he was used to, his center of gravity had shifted, and Robert caught himself slightly spreading his knees so he wouldn’t lose balance. The dress pulled down, hugged his hips, tugged softly at his waist, and higher up the fabric pushed firmly against his breasts, which reminded him of themselves with every breath by their strange, unfamiliar weight. He had been standing here for a minute, but it felt like an eternity.

And yet just yesterday morning he woke up in his small bachelor apartment in Ohio. As always, he brewed coffee, opened his phone, and saw that notification. Spam. But no — then a call came. He never answered unknown numbers, but this time, for some reason, he picked up. They were calling from a federal agency that in the notification named itself dryly and facelessly — the National Re-Exchange Center. At first he even laughed, thinking it was a prank: the voice on the line calmly, almost casually informed him about the “results of a scheduled Soul DNA test,” which he had apparently taken automatically — through his medical insurance, his old hospital file, blood tests once done after a fracture.

— Is this some kind of joke? — he said then. — I didn’t agree to anything.

— It is in your own interest, Mr. Smith. If you do not appear, your insurance will be annulled. Bank accounts blocked. — the woman on the phone replied immediately, dryly, as if she had heard this response a hundred times. — To appeal the results, fill out the form at the branch address in your area.

— What address? — he snapped out then sharper than he intended.

— Sending all the information via text.

The operator, a woman with a dry voice, fell silent, followed by relentless beeps. Robert had no plans for the day; a lonely bachelor life was always frighteningly empty in that regard. But the last thing he wanted was to go to one of these exchange centers that had caused so much noise a few years ago.

‘Birth exchange.’ He used to spin a finger at his temple whenever someone on yet another TV show talked about how much his or her life had changed after a “return.” He would snort, switch the channel, and think it was just another scare story for ratings. Now that word circled in his head with unpleasant persistence.

At the center he was met by a man in a black suit and glasses. Robert even joked that he must have a neuralyzer in his pocket. But the man didn’t smile and silently nodded for him to follow.

Everything was too simple and ordinary. So simple that Robert didn’t even have time to understand how he had already ended up in a chair with cold armrests that hugged his forearms, leaving him no chance to jerk away. The straps clicked quietly, almost politely. A transparent screen was lowered in front of him, and lines began to run across it — legal phrasing, diagrams, signatures already placed there by someone else.

— The procedure will take eight minutes, — the technician said without looking at him. — Any questions?

— I… — Robert swallowed, feeling something was wrong. — This is just a check, right?

— The check was yesterday. Today is execution.

The screen in front of his face changed: instead of diagrams — a short file. A photograph of a woman. Dark hair, serious gaze. The caption: Ana Popescu, București.

Robert shifted his eyes to the technician. The man softened a bit, smiled, and said, placing his hands on his knees:

— Our experience shows this is better, Mr. Smith. I recommend you just relax. That way the procedure is less painful. Breathe evenly. Look at the screen.

The screen before his eyes seemed to move closer — or maybe he himself fell into it with his gaze. Fast clips of Ana appeared on it. There she was as a child — a skinny girl in the courtyard of a concrete apartment block, knees scraped, strange boys laughing while she stubbornly didn’t cry. Then a school classroom, rows of desks, and she sits with her shoulders tensed while the teacher says something sharp without looking her in the eyes. Then a kitchen — narrow, yellow light, and an older woman with the same eye shape whispers something into her ear, and Ana nods, her gaze lowered.

The clips ran too fast, but each left a sticky feeling, as if he was being force-fed someone else’s biography, cramming it into his head, and at the same time text in an unfamiliar language flashed by, becoming more and more recognizable with every second.

— Stop… — Robert exhaled, but his lips barely moved.

The next clip was especially unpleasant: Ana in front of a mirror. Already an adult. In the same dress, almost the same. She pulls the fabric down, checking if it’s too short. Her look — tired, wary. And the thought, clear like writing: ‘The main thing is not to make him angry.’

Cold ripped through Robert.

— No… — he whispered. — I don’t want to know this.

But he didn’t just know — he felt.

— Beautiful woman, — the technician breathed out, typing something quickly on the keyboard, but the sounds were already blending into some strange mess, becoming quieter, then louder, until finally a discharge ran through his whole body, like from something electric, and everything around disappeared.

Robert inhaled, but immediately choked on that breath. His breath came out different, somehow higher.

Air filled his chest differently. It rose and at once pulled downward, with a noticeable inertia and unfamiliar weight. Something pressed heavily on his shoulders, his armpits, and between his legs everything felt too tight and wrong.

He jerked his hands, but instantly understood that the straps were pressing his arms down firmly.

— Liniște! (Calm down!) — a woman’s voice sounded nearby, making Robert turn his head and immediately feel something slide along the skin of his neck.

Hair?!

Dark strands slid along his neck, tickled over his collarbone, and from that simple, everyday feeling Robert was hit harder than by the procedure itself. He tried to jerk his head sharply, but the straps held, and with the movement his breasts swung heavily, pulling the fabric of the dress forward and downward — not painful, but humiliating…

— Ce mi-ați… făcut?... (What did you… do… to me?...) — he said, hearing his new voice clearly for the first time, filled with panic and something unexpectedly soft, fragile, high, as if he had just inhaled helium.

— Respirați, Ana. Totul a decurs normal (Breathe, Ana. Everything went as planned) — the woman in the white coat said, staring into Robert’s eyes.

Robert wanted to look away, but couldn’t. Flickers of thoughts flashed through his mind. Too short, memorized, cautious, and at the same time so obvious. Don’t make him angry. Don’t argue. Nod. Support. They overlapped with panic, with the heaviness on his breasts and their movement, with the straps digging into his skin. He felt how the body reacted to every emotion differently.

— Eu... eu nu sunt Ana... (I… I’m not Ana…) — he started, and at that moment the locks clicked. His arms and legs became free. The female technician took a deep breath and gently yet firmly placed her palm on his shoulder, holding his gaze.

— Ana, ascultați-mă. (Ana, listen to me.)

She told him everything. About how the “birth exchange” was real. About volunteers all over the world, even in countries that banned this technology. And about how all the data indicated that Robert and Ana had been subjected to this procedure at birth. Everything, everything, everything Robert had heard before, yet never thought would touch him.

— Și acum rețineți: tot ceea ce s-a întâmplat este strict secret. Nimeni nu trebuie să afle. Doar… încercați să vă obișnuiți (And now remember: everything that happened is strictly secret. No one must know. Just… try to get used to it) — she smiled for the last time, — vă asigur că este spre binele dumneavoastră. Sufletul trebuie să fie în propriul său corp (I assure you it’s for the best. A soul must be in its own body)

‘A soul must be in its own body… Dogshit!’

Clenching his teeth and curling his fingers into fists, Robert thought, standing before the entrance door. The thin skin on his fingers stretched, his nails dug painfully into his palms. The dress rustled faintly with the movement, his breasts responded heavily, shifting, as if reminding him of their reality.

He closed his eyes for a second. Don’t make him angry. This thought surfaced automatically, like a survival instruction. Not his own, but now inseparable. He forced his shoulders to drop, unclenched his fingers, even tried to give his face that expression — calm, a bit tired, convenient.

Heavy footsteps sounded behind the door. Familiar not to him, but too recognizable to the body. A short pause, probably to check the peephole. It didn’t last long; the lock clicked and the door opened.

— Ana? — the man said, with a thick belly, a yellow T-shirt and boxer shorts, — De ce stai acolo ca un idiot?! (Why are you standing there like an idiot?!)

In his head it flashed at once: Victor. Forty-two. A municipal repairman, the eternal smell of metal and cheap cigarettes, and a habit of grabbing her ass whenever he felt like it.

The left buttock tightened instantly when he took a couple of steps, heading inside the apartment. And for a reason.

Victor suddenly reached out and grabbed his left buttock, as if checking whether his usual property was still in place.

— Hei! Unde-ai fost atâta? (Hey! Where the hell have you been?) — he squeezed harder, and Robert jerked with his whole body.

The dress stretched tight across the hips, the seam dug into the skin, and his breasts swung in a heavy arc — so strongly it knocked the breath out of him for a moment. The sandals scraped on the tile: the step back came out short, unsteady, as if those familiar centimeters of balance had been taken away.

Don’t make him angry. Don’t make him angry. The thought flashed by itself, not as advice — as a reflex burned in.

— Nu… nu te mai purta așa… (Don’t… don’t act like that…) — slipped out of him, and he immediately bit his tongue, realizing how dangerous any attempt to argue sounded.

Victor squinted, letting his gaze run over the dress, the pattern, the waist, the legs in sandals.

— Aha. Te-ai îmbrăcat frumos pentru “consultație”, nu? (Aha. Dressed up pretty for your “appointment”, huh?) — he snorted.

He stepped closer, and Robert caught the smell of cheap cigarettes and beer. Victor’s hand slid higher, as if about to grab him by the waist, pull him closer — and from that simple trajectory a wave of disgust and panic ran along his skin. Because it felt too familiar. As if he had endured this a thousand times and already knew what would follow.

— Intră odată! (Get inside already!) — Victor barked and, without letting go, practically shoved him into the apartment.

The door slammed behind his back. The lock clicked. And in his head there was only one thought:

‘Hold on! Figure it out! Get your life back!’