Marley Lucas settled into her seat at the community theatre. She took out her program and scanned it. Her eyes landed on her sister’s name. She smiled.
Her younger sister had worked hard to get the role of Miranda, and Marley gleamed with pride as she waited for the curtain to come up. Mirabel’s going to do great, she thought.
  “How have you been sleeping lately?” Dr. Ashe asked, perpetually scribbling on a half-consumed legal pad.
Marley shook her head, as if she could get a blank screen in her mind, like an Etch-a-Sketch.
She’d shrugged. “I’ve been having a hard time sleeping, but then, doesn’t everyone?”
Gosh, couldn’t this memory leave her alone?
“Not necessarily, Marley. Everyone has a hard time falling asleep from time to time, sure. But have your sleeping problems persisted over a long period of time?”
Marley paused. “Define a ‘long period of time’.”
“Oh, about six months.”
Marley was silent.
“Marley,” Dr. Ashe coaxed. “You need to tell me these things so I can help you.”
“Okay,” Marley said flippantly. “So I haven’t been sleeping for the past few months. I’m fine. Really. I just need some sleeping pills. That’s all.”
He jotted down some more notes. “And have you been feeling more suicidal lately?”
It was on the tip of Marley’s tongue to say yes, but she shook her head instead. “Nope. No suicidal tendencies here.”
Dr. Ashe peered at her through his glasses, as if he knew she was lying through her teeth. He bent over his pad again.
Where had that come from?
“Do you often feel like you haven’t any control of your actions?”
Marley looked down at her lap and fiddled with a zipper on her purse. “Sometimes,” she said after another pause.
Dr. Ashe nodded as he flipped a page on his tablet. “Do you often feel like you’re not the driver of your body, but rather a passenger in it?”
Marley didn’t speak. Dr. Ashe peered at her again.
“Do you have any traumatic memories from your childhood?”
Marley winced. “Please, Doc. Don’t go there.”
“I must. If you want to be well again, you need to tell me these things.”
A sharp pain staved Marley behind her eyes, threatening to drown her in darkness. She could see a faint image playing out against the darkness like a movie on a dirty screen. Baby Mirabel was crying on the concrete floor, a bruise beginning to form on her head. Marley had dropped her on accident.
She was six years old.
Her father came down on her with a fiery, heavy hand and flames of anger in his eyes. He screamed hurtful words at Marley as he hit her over and over and over. He put her in a basement closet and left her there for what felt like days.
But it wasn’t my fault...
Marley crumpled to the floor, and she couldn’t remember what happened until she heard Dr. Ashe say, “Wake up, Marley.”
He peered at her over his glasses, which had slipped halfway down his nose.
Marley rubbed her eyes. She felt as if her soul had been drained.
Dr. Ashe took his glasses off, which normally meant a diagnosis. He cleared his throat. Marley gazed at him, anxiously awaiting her news. “I’m afraid you have a dissociative identity disorder...”
The curtain opened, but Marley couldn’t concentrate on the story. She didn’t feel too bad about her lack of attention. Mirabel wasn’t on yet, and Shakespeare’s language was hard to understand, anyway.
Then, Mirabel walked onto the stage, arrayed in a dress of light blue. A golden headband encircled her light brown curls. She’s perfect for Miranda, she thought, basked in sisterly pride.
Favorite.
Marley turned in her seat. She could’ve sworn she heard someone speaking.
As Prospero chastised Caliban, Marley was aware of an odd smell gradually permeating the house. She sniffed. It smelled like some fabric was on...
“Fire!” Someone offstage yelled.
The alarm wailed like a grieving mother as the audience raced toward the glowing EXIT signs near the foot of the stage. Marley darted into the aisle, hoping to escape relatively unscathed. An elbow jutted into her side here, someone stamped on her foot there. Her high heels tripped her, and she fell onto several fellow escapees. Another elbow hit her in the face.
“Hey, lady, move!” someone yelled behind her. A rough hand shoved her forward.
She checked her mouth. Good, no missing teeth. She pressed against the crowd to the outside.
Marley stared up at the milky grey sky while theatergoers and actors alike waited for the firemen. She looked around for Mirabel. Where on earth was she?
A plain-faced woman standing by the wall of the theater, her black hair pulled back in a tight bun atop her head. She kept looking over in Marley’s direction. Marley tried to ignore her, but the woman, after awhile, came to her anyway.
“You look oddly familiar,” she said. “Have I seen you before?” Marley checked her memory. “Sorry, don’t think so,” she said, smiling courteously.
The woman chuckled to herself. “My apologies. You remind me of someone who auditioned for the show. She looked a lot like you, but with darker hair. You wouldn’t happen to know a Lucasta Moreau, would you?”
Marley shook her head. “But I’ve heard that there are at least seven other people in the world who look like you. Maybe she was one of mine.”
“Well, that’s a funny coincidence.” She stuck out her hand. “I’m Jane Matthews, by the way.” Marley shook her hand. “I’m the director of the production.”
“Oh!” Marley said. “Maybe you confused me with my sister, Mirabel.”
“Oh! you must be Marley,” Jane said. Marley nodded. “Mirabel talks about you so much. Were you here to see her tonight?”
  “Yeah, I was.”
“It’s such a pleasure to work with her. She portrays Miranda beautifully.”
Always the favorite one. Marley swatted at the voice, wherever it was coming from.
Jane peered at her. “Are you all right?”
Marley swallowed and smiled. “I’m fine. Yeah, I’m so proud of her.”
Something over Marley’s shoulder caught Jane’s attention. She quietly excused herself from their conversation, leaving Marley to look around for Mirabel. Marley wrung her hands. Had she been trapped backstage?
“Marley?” She turned around. Mirabel was there behind her, a blanket around her shoulders, nearly hiding her costume. Marley rushed over to her.
“Hey!” Marley said as she hugged her sister.
“Thanks so much for coming,” said Mirabel. “Sorry the show got interrupted.” She gave Marley a soft smile.
“No worries,” Marley said, squeezing Mirabel’s arm. “You did great!” But she heard a maniacally gleeful laugh somewhere, not unlike the voice she heard only minutes ago.
A fireman started shouting instructions over the din of the crowd; Marley couldn’t hear any of them above the laughter.
The crowd milled about like merging schools of fish as they headed back to their cars. Marley turned to Mirabel and asked if she needed a ride.
“No, thanks,” said Mirabel. “Ryan offered to take me home.” She gave Marley a quick hug goodbye and left.
Marley fled the masses and walked to her car. She laughed as she glanced at the meter. Only had a few more minutes anyway.
She drove home and went to bed. She glanced at her dresser mirror before she slipped uncertainly into sleep.
Marley woke up at eleven o’clock that night with a cackle, like the one that had plagued her after the show. She dashed to her closet in the dark and pulled out a wig as black as her room. She ran to her mirror and settled it on her head. Lucasta Moreau stared back at her. She smiled and let out another cackle. “Now she’ll pay for all the pain...”
Lucasta plucked up her phone from her bedside table and punched in a number.
“Hi, Louie,” she said in a foreign accent. “Nice job at the theater tonight. Listen, I need you to do me a favor. Bring the goods over to Mirabel Lucas’s house, would ya, sweet pea? Thanks. You need the address?”
She set the phone down and pulled a can of lighter fluid out of her closet. She went out, got into her car, and zoomed down the street, cackling all the way.