"Ok, so what if I told you, that I'm just really good at photoshop, and planted these photos around the world just to mess with people."
The interrogator's face twists up, his eyes squinted, and his mouth into a slightly disgusted frown. If I didn't know any better, I would've said he was a baby trying a lemon for the first time. He does not look pleased. He clenches his fists, and it looks like he's restraining himself from flipping the table. I clear my throat, pounding my chest with my fist twice.
"You know, I'm not the best at reading faces, but I think I can say that I'm 80% positive that you don't like that explanation," I say, a forced smile awkwardly forming on my lips.
"You mean to tell me you photoshopped these?" He says with a tilt of his head as he points down at one of the photos spread across the table and slides it towards me.
"Uh." I try to remember good comebacks to questions like these from things I've seen on T.V. and in movies. It takes me a second to form my rebuttal, but I muster up my confidence. "You callin' me a liar?" I ask defensively, faking an anger that doesn't exist within me.
Julian, my interrogator, at this point, seems to reach peak exasperation. It seems my acting is not on par with that of on-screen actors and he easily sees through my ruse. I blink at him several times with a nervous smile as he leans back in his seat and rubs his temples. I want to tell him that for an interrogator, he seems way too invested and emotional about a bunch of photos, and re-package the lie that this was all just a harmless prank in a way that perhaps, he will receive. But I have a feeling that because he's so invested, he isn't going to let it fly.
"You know, it's not beyond belief that someone would do this. I've seen people do weirder, stupider things. But something this elaborate - no. I'm not buying it. Here you're seen in all of these pictures completely immersed in the environment. You're wearing the clothes of the time period. You're interacting with the people around you. Here!" He picks up a photo and shows it to me, holding it in front of my face.
"You're holding the gold medal for a go-kart race? Who photoshops that? For what possible reason could you have to insert yourself into history in such a way? And how do you explain the natural aging of these photos? The authenticity of the paper?"
I chuckle. "You - haha - you checked that stuff?"
"I'm an investigator. I do my homework," Julian replies, jutting out his chin and looking at me condescendingly.
"Ok but. Look at the girl in the picture. I mean, yes, she's been blessed with a face as beautiful as mine, but, that's not me. It's not possible."
Julian gives me a flat look. I meet his eyes with a hopeful gaze, but I know he's not going to stop. Goshdang. He's relentless.
"Ok so, like, even if the woman in these pictures was me, why would it matter? What would you even do about it? Run around the world and try to 'expose' me? Turn me in to some top secret government agency and have them abuse me as some kind of tool or well of info so they can do some corrupt messed up stuff? Why do you even care? If you just want to know because it's a mystery and you're curious, and not knowing is like having an itch you can't scratch, then maybe you ought to get a back scratcher instead of askin' me to scratch it for ya." I fold my arms and lean back in my seat, taking on a nonchalant posture.
Julian narrows his eyes at me again, his lips pursed into a frowny pout. "That analogy makes absolutely no sense."
I tap my head with my pointer finger and waggle my brows at him with a mischevious smile. "Just like how the photos don't make sense."
He continues to look at me with the same dumb, confused and clueless kind of stare. Somewhere behind his dark brown eyes is frustration, but it seems he's more interested in me as character than a culprit of something.
"So what you're saying is, that, though you're seen in countless different photos taken throughout history, that even if it was you, admitting to it would only put you in... danger? Of being known?"
"Of being kidnapped by crazy scientists!! Geez, don't you read any sci-fi? Or watch any movies? This stuff always happens."
"So you're saying you are the woman in the pictures."
I smirk, and shake my head. "Tsk, tsk, tsk. That's one ancient interrogation technique you pulled on me there. Tryin' to twist my words."
"But you have yet to directly deny that you're the person in the pictures," Julian says with a sly grin.
"Because I'm smart enough to be vague," I say with a goofy smile, my chin receding into my neck, and my voice going an octave lower. "I have to maintain my mysterious and aloof demeanour."
"You're not taking this seriously," Julian says with one brow raised.
"You notice this now?" I scoff loudly, and break out into three roaring "ha's."
Julian waits for my laughter to die down, staring me down now with one of his serious stares this time.
"I'm not going to turn you in to anybody," he says with a simultaneously sincere, but grim expression. "I'm not interested in making a name for myself for discovering... well, whoever you are. A time traveller, or whatever else could explain your existence throughout the ages. As you said, it's... an itch I can't scratch. I want to know who the hell you are, because I can't sleep at night without a reasonable explanation for this." He pauses just long enough for me to open my mouth to say something, but he cuts me off.
"And before you spout some quip playing off any of the words I just said, take a moment to consider that there really is no harm in telling me. I hold no ill will towards you. And I've done nothing to prove myself untrustworthy -"
"You dragged me in here to accuse me of existing in every time period at once," I interjected.
"- because talking about stuff is how you communicate and learn things, Miss Wilson. How else was I supposed to figure out who you were?"
I twirl my hair, tucking my feet up onto the chair. "Well you sure did a lot of googling on me before you decided to talk to me in person soooooo..."
Julian's eyes go from fully open to half-closed in frustration. It's odd, but I kind of pity him at this point. Not in the kind of pity you feel for a kid who dropped thier ice-cream cone kind of pity, but the kind when some kid can't figure out how to read a certain word and is literally pained over it because they want to know what it says and means. I let my twirled stream of hair fall onto my loose plaid button-up, and I sigh. I adjust myself in the chair until I'm sitting upright, like a normal person, before I lean my elbows forward on the table and hold my face in my hands.
"Julian, who would you tell?"
Julian looks down at me from his nose, his eyelashes fluttering against his brown skin as he blinks an unecessary amount of times. "I..."
"If you say your parents I'm going to be dissapointed."
Julian sighs in annoyance. "No one."
"So this whole thing - it's just for your own peace of mind?"
He nods. I purse my lips and hum to myself in thought.
"Ok then," I say suddenly, sitting back up straight, clapping my hands. "It's me! Congrats, Julian, YA GOT ME GOOD. I'm just a really good photo-shopper!"
you know, if it's more than just a harmless prank
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