Secret Santa (Patreon)

Good Lord that was over, Richard sighed as he closed his front door. Christmas parties are such dreadful events, where all departments of the company mix together. All the support staff just get pissed as they are nervous to sit with management, and the bar is open. Everyone else just kiss ass to further their careers. Add to that a secret Santa program where you typically don’t know the person you are gifting to, and you get a gift from someone below you that spend the next months hinting that he was the one giving you whatever crap they came up with. With his famous penchant for classic cocktails, up and coming Michelin restaurants and new world Shiraz, he would unfailingly get whiskey tumblers or champagne flutes. Regarding his own career the next promotion would be between himself and Mr. Holland. Mr. Roberts had made it extremely clear how that would be decided. Arrive on time, set a goal and meet it. Surely Mr. Holland knows that as well, so it was a bit of a surprise that he wasted time on this years Christmas party committee.

Richard gave the gift wrapped box a shake. Something shuffled inside the box. At least not another tumbler he thought, as he sat down in one of the living room armchairs. He unwrapped the box and found a plain looking cardboard box, the size of maybe three shoe boxes. He stared in disbelief as he removed the lid. Clothes. One stack of neatly folded clothes on the left side and a pair of sneakers to the right. Did he get someone from maintenance as Santa? Or the mail room? They wear this kind of rubbish when not in uniform, don’t they?

He unfolded a black adidas sweater, with a white logo and zipper in the front, from the top of the stack. Not even his size. Surely the point of a secret Santa is that you know who you are giving the gift to. Is this a mock gift from someone he knew? He threw the hooded sweatshirt in another armchair and unfolded matching trackies. Black with a blue Nike logo on one leg. He glanced at the trainers, again adidas, in a design he could only describe as obnoxious. While in good condition, they had clearly been used. He looked back at the trousers and realized that there were no tags on anything. He couldn’t tell if they had been used and washed, but clearly someone had tended to them after purchase.

What kind of joke was this? He threw away the trackies, the white, plain T-shirt beneath it, a pair of white socks and boxer shorts. He had never heard of the McKenzie brand before. Finally he found a small bottle with a label “Bedtime Brandy” tied to it with a string. Perhaps there was something worth salvaging after all. Though “Brandy” didn’t bode well. “Afternoon Armagnac” would have been better. Or “Curtain Close Cognac”. He opened the bottle and gave it a sniff. Surprisingly competent aroma. He poured himself all of it in a glass and started to get ready for bed.

✻✻✻

He was wide awake in an instant, in a way that he wasn’t accustomed to. Even before turning on the light he could tell that something was off. He fumbled to find the light switch. When he did find it he immediately saw that it wasn’t his arm. It wasn’t his body. He jumped out of bed, surprising himself at the agility, and rushed into the nearest bathroom. Instead of seeing Richard Davis, head of infrastructure investments, a slack jawed, mid teen boy with slender, lithe body looked back at him from the mirror.

The hair was short, with a buzzed fade on the sides. The face was neither handsome nor ugly, but had an annoying sneer of smug arrogance, accentuated by two slits shaved in the eyebrow. The body wasn’t muscular, but athletic with hints of abs. The skin was pale and mostly hairless. To the left on the chest was a large Monster energy drink logo tattoo. Richard hated everything he saw. He couldn’t stop staring into the mirror though. He was mesmerized by equal parts amazement and disgust. How could this have happened? How could it be undone?

*bee-bee-bee-beep* He snapped out of his trance by the phone ringing. He realized he had no idea what time it was. The alarm hasn’t buzzed yet. Or had he slept through it? *bee-bee-bee-beep* He looked at the phone. It was 10:08 already and Mr. Roberts calling, surely to query why he wasn’t present for the 10:00 meeting. *bee-bee-bee-beep* He pressed answer and shouted “Get it up ye rocket”. There was a brief silence, and then Mr. Roberts responded “Pardon me, wrong number it appears” and hung up.

That was wrong on so many levels. Maybe unsurprisingly that wasn’t his voice. But Scottish wasn’t his accent and he wouldn’t even know, let alone use that phrase a day ago. But most disturbingly, why did he tell Mr. Roberts off? It was like he was remote controlled or pre-programmed.

The phone chimed and showed a text message from Mr. Holland. “You were not in office, so I got the promotion. Better luck next time.”  Was this Hollands doing? He was about to reply when the phone chimed again. “Mr Roberts believes your phone is stolen by a hooligan. Police there in 10 min.” So it was him. He better leave to avoid having to try to explain an impossible situation, or worse, trigger some sort of involuntary response. He could come back later and figure out what to do. But he couldn’t leave naked.

He ran to the living room and froze. The clothes came in the same box as the “brandy”. What if this was another trap? But what choice did he have? He quickly stepped into the clothes. On his way out he pocketed his wallet, and to his surprise there was already something in his pocket. An ID card with his face on and the name Camdyn Reid. Well, that’s not going to happen, he thought as he left the apartment.