#0191010

God, I don't even know what to write.

I wouldn't be here if I didn't have something to say, obviously. It's hard to describe.

Tryphosa has had red hair the entire time I've known her. Like. That is its natural state: red and curly and shoulder-length. She's had a round face, freckles, she's been short and curvy and breathtaking.

She was always breathtaking.

And she's had red hair this entire time. But at the same time, she hasn't. It was brown. I swear to God, she did not look like the woman I am dating right now. I don't know when it changed, but my mind is lying to me. She has never looked like this.

We met five months ago. I'm an aspiring playwright, and I used to go work on my scripts in this little coffee shop a few blocks from my apartment. It had the best croissants. And Tryphosa was a regular there too, I think.

She came and sat down across from me and asked what I was writing. She's always been direct like that, never took too long to get to her point.

We started chatting, and… I don't know. We just clicked. Got along too well. Had all the same beliefs, similar enough interests, both came from small (fairly conservative) midwestern towns, she was Jewish and I was raised Catholic but had largely abandoned the faith after high school. We got along well. I can't stress that enough. We were at the coffee shop that day far later than we'd been before because we couldn't stop talking. She asked for my number before we left, and we exchanged socials.

Three days later I asked her out on a date, and she said yes.

The relationship moved fast. We were moved in with each other just two weeks later.

I didn't believe in soulmates until Tryphosa walked into my life. She was the funniest, most charming woman I've ever met. She was beautiful, and her hair was not red.

I think I'm coming to terms with that.

I don't know who this new Tryphosa is, but she is not the woman I fell head over heels for.

She's quiet. Reserved. Not confident at all. She doesn't stand up for herself. She came from L.A., not a small town in Illinois. She is not Tryphosa.

I am desperately in love with her, and the fact that I can't remember her face is just…

Am I losing it? Has she been this other person this whole time, and I just never noticed? Natasha and I could talk for hours into the night, now she goes to bed early and I

Natasha? No, her name isn't 

I

Trinity? No it's 

Trish, or… it's not 

Who the fuck is this person?

I can't read the name I wrote earlier, my eyes keep skipping over it. Her name is not Natasha. Her name is not Natasha. Her name is not Natasha. Her name is Natasha. Her name is Natasha. Her name is Natasha. Her name is Natasha. Her name is Natasha. Her name is Natasha. Her name is Natasha. Her name is Natasha. Her name is Natasha. Her name is Natasha. Her name is Natasha. Her name is Natasha. Her name is Natasha. Her name is Natasha. Her name is Natasha. Her name is Natasha. Her name is Natasha.

Why the fuck am I here? Natasha and I have a date tonight. I'm wasting my time.

FOLLOW-UP NOTES

- Well, for a variety of reasons, this statement is concerning. It is unclear if this is the same “Natasha” that appeared in Case #0191010-A, though assumptions can be made.

- It’s interesting, if it is the same being, to see an outsider’s perspective on the... transformation that seems to occur in a person.

I don't recognize my reflection anymore.

That's a silly thing to say, isn't it? It looks normal. My reflection, that is. It's my face. My eyes, brown and narrow, my nose, with a gentle curve that crooks it to the right ever so slightly. My dimples, my freckled cheeks. My hair, curled and red and falling past my shoulders, partway down my back.

That is what you see, at least. You said so, anyways. You saw red curls and brown eyes and all I saw was that thing, staring back out at me. The way you looked at my reflection was almost pitying. Did you not believe me when I said it was all wrong?

I suppose believing these sorts of things is your job. What did you see in that lost little girl in the mirror? What made you look at her like that? What made you look at me like that?

Did you see me?

My mother Emily has jet-black hair and blue eyes. My father Harrison has brown hair and blue eyes. They're both fairly tall individuals, both have glasses, both have narrow frames and are incredibly bony.

The woman that looks back at me from the mirror has small brown eyes, bright red curls, is short and curvy. She looks nothing like her parents, and they have never seemed to notice. I looked like the two of them, once, I think. I was thin and tall and had glasses, because bad vision runs in the family, and I had long jet-black hair and bright blue eyes.

I was the spitting image of my parents in different ways, and then one day, something changed. And then another day, another thing changed. And so on and so forth.

It started when I moved back in with my parents once college hadn't exactly worked out. I looked in the mirror one morning, and my blue eyes were brown. My mother had just laughed and said I'd always had brown eyes, and at the time I decided to believe it.

It kept happening. The next thing to change was my hair. It became shorter, shoulder-length, curly and red, and my mother had just said something about my great grandmother having red hair, and hadn't we had this talk before, Natasha?

My name is not Natasha.

I have been clinging to that for as long as I can, but I do not know how much longer I'll be able to. I have forgotten my original middle name. I can feel the fake name prodding at the back of my mind, aching to replace my real one, digging its claws in and dragging itself into my memories. This thing wants me, wants everything that makes me myself, wants to devour the entirety of my identity, and I don't know what to do.

Next was my face. It became round, freckled, with a scar above the right eyebrow. It is from an accident, I fell off of the treehouse at age eight. We did not have a treehouse. We did not have a yard with a tree at all. I was adopted. I was not adopted.

My height changed the very next day. That was a week ago. Nothing has changed since, but I've been having constant headaches and trouble with my memory. Something bad is going to happen, I can just feel it, and I do not know what to do about it. You can help. Your institute is supposed to know about these things, isn't it?

And yet I hate you and your work, for some reason. Something inside of me despises you, and maybe it is the monster stealing my skin and making it its own, but you and your people disgust me.

You yearn to understand, and that is everything I seem to stand against, now. I had a crush on my best friend Olivia in sophomore year of high school. I did not have a best friend named Olivia in high school, and I did not like girls until yesterday.

On its own that would be an unconcerning development, but in light of all of the things that are happening to me… I am sure you understand the cause for concern.

I can still feel it, in the back of my mind. Even here. It is trying to take me as I write this. Trying to hollow me out from the inside and use me as its own body. I can hardly think straight enough to write this down. My skin itches on the inside. My head feels as if it is going to split apart.

Natasha. What a plain name. Lovely, normal, perfectly ordinary in every way.

Perhaps it suits me.

FOLLOW-UP NOTES:

- Patience Norris could not be located for a follow-up statement. According to Institute and police records, Patience Norris never existed.

- We were able to reach out to Emily and Harrison Norris, and found they had two children: an 18 year old son named David, and a 22 year old daughter named Natasha, whom they claim is adopted. Natasha confirmed this.