Author's Note: This is the first in a series of vignettes I've written, grouped together because most of them contain some element of fantasy or are of a surreal nature (they happen in dreams, for instance). This one was written in second person, as a sort of experiment. It is not meant to be a comfortable sort of story.

It's a play, isn't it, and you've forgotten your lines again. There you are, standing on stage, waiting for the actress beside you to finish speaking her piece, and then—sudden silence. Your turn to speak, and yet you say nothing. What are you supposed to say? Her speech does not prick at your memory; you cannot remember what it is you are supposed to say—yet here you are, standing on stage, with the audience waiting for you to deliver your line. While her words have roused feeling within you, it is not the right feeling—or so you think. The word associations you make are wrong, the entire idea you have is wrong—so you do not speak. The silence is uncomfortable, unnatural.

Finally, someone else speaks, pretending as though you have said your lines, and you are hustled offstage as the act ends. Backstage, you are chastised for having forgotten your lines, and your understudy is sent on in your place. Unprecedented, the director says glumly, but if you really are going to botch your lines so horrendously, it simply must be done. The understudy dons your costume, and walks out when the act begins, slipping neatly into your place. You watch from the wings. From this angle, they look just like you, down to things that the makeup cannot change—eye colour and hair colour—and you, you note with a start, are starting to fade. You shut your eyes tightly and listen to the rest of the act, versus watching, too afraid of what you might see. Everything slowly becomes a dull roar. As you open your eyes again, everything fades to black . . .

You wake in a bed not your own, in a room that is not yours, in a house you have never seen before. You rub your eyes, noting that your skin colour is vaguely different now—darker, perhaps, or lighter, or maybe there are no freckles where there were before—and kick the covers back. You pick a suit off of the chair next to the bed, dress, and take the train to a job that you've never held before. The feeling of newness fades over the day, and by day's end, you're feeling like your old self again. You wonder what made you feel out of sorts, then remember the dream you had the night before, and laugh. A theatre, of all places—how strange. You recall the dread associated with not being able to remember your lines, and the way the understudy was sent out on stage, still smiling at how ridiculous a dream it was, and however strange it might have been, and however out of place you must have felt, you were not really replaced by the understudy—it was just a dream, after all, and nothing real—you cannot have traded lives with them.

You will forget the dream you had. You will forget the feeling of not belonging, of having been replaced. You will never realise just how wrong you were, dismissing it as having been a dream.