[ WP ] When someone is murdered , their name appears on the skin of the killer . You wake up with a name on your arm and no knowledge of how it got there .

`` Caesar.'' 
 
 You look up from your arm, wondering how long you've been sitting and staring at it. The clock says 9:15, but you do n't know exactly when you woke up. You've been here for the better part of an hour, at least. 
 You look back down at the name, grinding your thumb against it for the fortieth time, and tell yourself again that there must be a mistake. You never leave your house, not really. You resolve to investigate the matter online, and find if there have been others who were wrongly branded. 
 
 But first... 
 
 You pluck your phone from your bedside table, disconnecting the charging cable, and shakily look up the number for your local police station. You hit it, and put the phone to the side of your head, feeling like you're going to be sick. 
 
 It rings. You paw at your face, numbly aware that you're avoiding looking at the name. When you ca n't take it any more you spring to your feet, and with the dial tone still chirping in your ear, you shuffle over to the kitchen to get the kettle boiling and a coffee started. 
 
 Finally, a female voice answers on behalf of the police department and explains something, possibly about emergency calls, but your head is swimming and it all sounds like white noise to you. You continue stirring your coffee, clearing your throat, and then turn away from the bench, mug in hand. You walk over to the couch and sit. 
 
 `` Sir?'' 
 
 `` Yes, hello. Sorry.'' You bring the mug to your lips, stare down at it for a few seconds, then place it on the coffee table. You lean back, sweeping your hand through your hair, and summon what strength you can. `` I have a... a name.'' 
 
 There is a brief moment of silence, before the woman's tone of voice changes. `` On your skin?'' 
 
 `` Yes,'' you say breathlessly, before clearing your throat again. `` Caesar. I do n't know any Caesar, or how this could have happened. Could you send someone down?'' 
 
 `` Of course, sir. Thank you for coming forward. Your honesty may help our investigators to bring closure to a grieving family. Could I have your name and address, please?'' 
 
 You do n't remember finishing the call, or moving over to your computer, but for some reason you have facebook open and are scrolling through an endless stream of memes and selfies. You scold yourself, and open a new tab. 
 
'name on skin innocent' 
 
 The results are not encouraging. A drunk driver who hit and run, and did n't remember because he blacked out. A woman who suffered a psychotic episode and poisoned her children trying to protect them from the government. The very strange case of a man who urinated on a plane and after flushing, impaled someone on the ground with his frozen stream. 
 
 You close the tab, and just as you are about to get up from your computer, something catches your eye. Something that makes your blood run cold and your heart skip a beat. 
 
 One of the facebook posts in your stream reads: 
'Cath Jackson: omg they found caesar dead in his home. it looks like suicide.' 
 
 `` No, no, no, no...'' You navigate to Cath's page and search for the post, that damned post, hoping against hope that you would n't find what you knew was waiting for you. 
 
 But there it was. 11pm last night, Cath made a misinformed post about the transgender bathrooms issue. You corrected her, something you are compelled to do against all better judgement, and that started a heated argument between yourself and one of her friends. 
 
 A friend named Caesar. A friend who was very passionate about the issue, and who would n't listen to reason, and who you lowered yourself to making personal attacks against. Vicious, dispassionate, and brutal attacks, attacks that surprised even yourself. Your very last words hang on the page like an accusation against you. 
 
'The world would be better off without people like you. I hope someone kills you.' 
 
 There is a pounding in your head, and it is n't until there is an officer of the law standing over you, touching you on your shoulder, that you realise it was the sound of knocking on your door. You look up at the officer, white as a ghost, and gesture weakly at the screen. 
 
 `` I did it.'' 
 
 -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- - 
 
 It turned out that Caesar was born Dorotea, and that was why he was so passionate about the issue. You checked his sources, and sure enough, it was you who was misinformed. You've since dedicated all of your free time to fighting his battle, even starting a movement of folks with his name tattooed on their arms. But for every hard-won victory, there are a thousand new enemies, cussing and blustering and harassing the weak. You wonder how many of them will wake with a name on their arm, like you did, and how many of those will turn their life around. 
 
 Too many. Not enough. 
 
 You rub your thumb over the name for the ten-thousandth time, and this time, it gives you hope.
