[ WP ] One day , everyone mysteriously receives a document which contains the information about their past lives . Suddenly , you have a bounty on your head and many people are trying to hunt you down .

It's funny to think that I swore when the envelope materialized on my table. 
 
 I mean, it's understandable. When an object suddenly appears out of thin air, swearing's a natural reaction. And so is jumping, which is why my flailing hand knocked a full cup of coffee all over it. I picked up that envelope, dripping and unreadable, and tossed it in the bin. Only paper. I did n't know, back then, just how much damage paper can do. 
 
 My reminiscence is cut short by the distant screams. The envelope was unnecessary, in a way – when people see you, they just *know*. They see who you were. They know what you did. 
 
 I only wish someone would take the time to enlighten *me*. 
 
 They're hunting me, you see. Oh, the mob will pause to slice up any reincarnated evil they come across – the famous ones, at any rate – but that first scrape of a pitchfork against my back made it quite clear who they're after. 
 
 It's bleeding a little. Leaving a trail. I've scrambled up to a rooftop, and I know it's not the best hiding place in the world, but I'm tired of running. There's the emptiness of the cold stars above, and there's my blood trickling down to pool against the chimney, and there's the howls of the mob, growing closer. None of them matter to me. 
 
 `` Who was I?'' I whisper. Hitler? Stalin? A murderer, a torturer, a thief? The possibilities are endless. It's strange, though; I try to be good. Always, I try to be good. 
 
 The screams and yells are so close now. They must be just outside the building, below me, only separated from me by a few metres of air. I catch the scent of smoke, of burnt flesh, and huddle lower on the roof. 
 
 Strange things often happen to me. Not like this, though. Never like this. I want to sit every single one of them down with a cup of tea and hear why they're so angry, so afraid. I want them to tell me who I was. 
 
 `` He's on the roof!'' a voice yells, thick with fury. 
 
 With no options left, I stand. Stars above. Blood down my back. Upturned faces all focused on me, like I'm some kind of bizarre superstar about to break into song. 
 
 `` Quiet,'' I tell them. Miraculously, they quiet. Their faces are still contorted, though – some mixture of fear and rage, some sort of disillusionment. What did I do to them, before I was born? 
 
 I search the crowd for a leader. There is none. Men and women, children and wizened old bodies – they all stand alike against me. Suits and rags. Every colour and creed. Strange that it took hatred to unite them. 
 
 `` Well?'' I ask. `` Who am I?'' 
 
 They look at each other, shuffling their feet. Nobody seems to want to be the one to say it. 
 
 A man steps forward. He's fresh-faced, young, scrubbed clean. `` You're an imposter!'' he yells. `` You're someone who's *not* dead. Who'll never be dead. You're a fraud.'' 
 
 Someone else raises a fist. `` You never existed!'' 
 
 The words come all at once then, as though these accusations have released a dam and given every person their leave to speak. They scream their explanations, red-faced, and though they're out for blood, I ca n't find it in myself to be angry. Their protests are like the yells of infants denied some long-awaited treat. Only children. Prone to mistakes. Not harmless, no, but with a sort of innocence. It's touching that they found me so important. 
 
 `` Oh,'' I say. `` I think... Yes, maybe I do know who I am.'' Nobody hears me in the fray. 
 
 Shrieks. Chaos. They swarm onto the roof and grab hold of my arms. 
 
 Somebody shoves me, hard. It's the fresh-faced boy from before, the first to speak. His eyes are wet with tears. 
 
 `` If you really think you're –'' He stops, stumbling over the name. `` If you think you are – who you think you are, then maybe we should give you a fitting ending, huh? Find some wood.'' He gestures wildly at the crowd and they scatter, searching for something, heads low like bloodhounds. `` Find me some damn wood.'' 
 
 `` I do n't think I'm anything,'' I tell him, my voice low and quiet. `` You're the one making claims on who I used to be.'' 
 
 `` You were n't,'' he says, and tries to shove me again, but ends up clinging to my shirt like a baby monkey, chest heaving in shuddering sobs. `` You *weren't*. He's not dead.'' 
 
 I try to pat his shoulder, but the crowd have brought him his wood and he pulls away from me, suddenly a man again. Chest out. Tears wiped on his shoulder – just sweat, do n't mind me, boys. Chin up. Taking the wood from them. Taking off his belt, using it to clumsily bind the two pieces together... 
 
 It's not a great job. *He's* no carpenter. It will suffice, though – I can see that much. There's no getting away. 
 
 A little girl runs up with a fistful of nails, proffers them to the boy with a smile and a nod of her head. Someone else has already got hold of a hammer. 
 
 `` Jesus Christ,'' I whisper. 
 
 He turns on me then, eyes blazing, and for the first time I notice the lump of a cross beneath his shirt. 
 
 `` Do n't say it,'' he snarls, `` Imposter – do n't you say it...'' 
 
 And the crowd roars and the stars shine on, and they put metal through my hands and metal in my feet. And some of them do it because they wanted me to exist and I do n't. And some of them do it because they did n't want me to exist and I do. But their anger unites them and there is nothing I can do – I'm just a man, a man who spilled coffee on an envelope and did n't know enough to run away. The past is gone. There is no magic in my fingertips. 
 
 But the last thing I see is the desperate snarl of the fresh-faced boy and I whisper a blessing, just in case. 
 
 
 
 *** 
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