Identity Theft

It wasn’t something meant to be stolen, but it was gone. I’d been collecting for years, storing up more than just precious gems and rare works of artistic masterpieces. I had built a fortune in things, but the biggest thing I had built was a reputation. People called me—Haut Monde, and I reveled in the truth “that no self-respecting tycoon has less than two helicopters.” I enjoyed people knowing, counting and gossiping about who I was and what I had. Until now— because today I was robbed in one of the biggest heists of the century. It happened so fast it could only be seen in slow motion. From the left a swift silent hand cracked, scraping through the thin outer layer of ego. Then WHAP— a right blow came out of nowhere, tearing through the subcutaneous layer of successes and my carefully crafted stories perfectly designed to protect vulnerability and truth. Finally, fatality finished, as if a base jumper had been released and retracted, a blatant thief plunged deep to the core of personhood and brazenly heisted the treasure—my identity. In what seemed like moments the vault I had poured was blown open and nothing was left of ME.