[ WP ] : You , a historian , find something odd in your records . The same face , accompanied with variations of the same name , keeps emerging in paintings , drawings , woodcarvings and documents , from a span of several centuries . It looks suspiciously like your assistant .

“ At first, I thought it was the weed. So many times, I ’ ve battled with the perceptions of others ’: being a ‘ geeky historian ’ that doesn ’ t know how to ‘ let loose ’. And yes, I ’ ll admit it: I tried weed. It was actually really *fun*, ” I smiled briefly at the recollection. A party I had reluctantly gone to a month ago had procured the opportunity and I obliged as a way of showing that I ’ m not a stick-in-the-mud. 
 
 My face quickly dropped back into its serious position, as the severity of why I ’ m here set in again. “ But that ’ s where this started. So I was almost *certain* that it had rewired my brain. ” I sat up straight quite quickly on the cold, leather couch and looked over to Dr. Murphy. “ Um… Shouldn ’ t you be writing right now? ” 
 
 He smirked a little smirk that almost seemed to mock my suggestion. It was as if he already *knew* what I was dealing with. That could be the only thing that he was trying to convey, because I already *knew* that I ’ d mentally lost my shit. The only thing I was even still sitting here for was to find out whether he ’ d be prescribing an antipsychotic or asking for my straightjacket size. I ’ d request a large. I actually wear a medium in *sane*-people clothing, but I figured that the extra fabric space between the tight buckles might make it feel a bit less claustrophobic. I had it all planned out. I slumped back into the couch and sighed as I began to wonder if my new attire would come complete with a Hannibal Lecter facemask. I hadn ’ t even considered what size I would need in headgear. 
 
 “ I ’ ve had little coincidences happen before. But those were always *little*. Thinking of an ex and running into her moments later, knowing not to pick up the phone because my mother was sure to be on the other end… But this, this takes the cake. Not even just the cake; it takes the frosting, the packaging, the massive amount of candles, and the flaming inferno that blazes upon it at my age… She ’ s all I ever see. ” 
 
 “ Why do you call these coincidences? ” 
 
 I sat up again, twice as fast, jarred by the question. My eyes widened as I leaned in towards him, resting my elbows upon my knees. “ So you ’ re saying it *was* the weed?! ” 
 
 “ No, ” he replied with a slight chuckle that he failingly tried to cover with a cough. “ I ’ m suggesting that it may not be coincidence. ” 
 
 I stared at him, penetrating my gaze into his eyes that didn ’ t even flinch. I paid good money for this, and he ’ s giving me some asinine philosophical bullshit that I could have received for fifty cents inside of a fortune cookie? 
 
 I stood up and turned to grab my briefcase. My eyes caught onto Dr. Murphy ’ s bookshelf. Right at the top, between a current and an outdated version of the DSM manual, were three copies of ‘ The Psychology of Tao: Science Meets Spirit ’ by none other than my crackpot psychiatrist Dr. Murphy. I shook my head. Why hadn ’ t I taken the PPO health plan when I had the chance? “ Thanks. Thanks a lot. Where do I fill my prescription? ” 
 
 “ Prescription? No. But please tell me when you see her again. ” 
 
 “ Sure, Doc! ” I exclaimed sarcastically as I slammed his office door behind me. 
 
 Fuming all through the parking lot, I couldn ’ t help but recall the entire last month in my mind, lamenting over finding clues that would make an ounce of sense. I should be in a rubber room right now. Why aren ’ t I? 
 
 For the last month I have seen her everywhere. It started on a Monday, a few days after my night out, that I now begrudgingly regret. My assistant, Jasmine, handed me a stack of local artifacts to look over. She said they came from the estate of our Mayor ’ s grandmother who had passed. Apparently she was obsessed with history and kept meticulous documents that had only been seen by her and few others. Old ladies love documenting the past. It makes sense, really. I love pouring myself into the mysteries and beauty of history far more than pouring myself a beer at a dive bar with a bunch of cell-phone-cradling zombies. 
 
 Jasmine leaned on the table across from me and watched at I flipped through the first few pages, smiling. “ Good work. ” I said to her with a nod, assuming she was begging for a compliment. 
 
 “ Thanks, boss! ” she replied, but still not budging, face propped up with her little hands. Her perma-grin was not shifting. Her lips contorting her bare face into a humanized replica of the iconic “ Have a Good Day ” smiley. It ’ s quite creepy actually, even for such a pretty girl. 
 
 I glanced down at a letter dated 1901. “ Dear Jasmine ” it read ( which should have alarmed me right then ), “ I want to forewarn you about what is soon to happen… ” as I read on, it was quite a bland love-letter to a mistress that was basically being dumped in a very antiquated ‘ it ’ s not you, it ’ s me ’ sort of way. As I flipped to the next paper, a photo dropped to the table. It was a couple, in black and white, and the woman grinning ear to ear. I squinted to see an uncanny resemblance and laughed, throwing the stack to the table and shaking my head. 
 
 “ Funny, Jasmine! Okay, let ’ s get back to work. ” 
 
 “ What did you find?! ” she innocently exclaimed, snagging up the photo like a thief in the night. “ Who is it? Who are they? ” 
 
 “ I don ’ t know how you have the time for this shit, Jasmine. Perhaps you should take up a career in graphic design. You have a pretty good knack for that. Let ’ s call it a day, maybe tomorrow you ’ ll be ready to do some real work. ” 
 
 She merely shrugged and responded with a clueless, “ Um, sure boss! You want me to file those? ” 
 
 “ No. Go home. ” 
 
 As she left, I waded through her masterfully forged artifacts. Nearly a third of these documents, sitting in a 4-inch thick pile, were emblazoned with either her face or her name. All different people, over several decades, posing with that cartoonish smile on her girlishly cheerful face. “ What a fucking narcissist, ” I thought out loud and continued to admire her work. The further I got into the stack, I wondered how she *did* have the time to do all of this. And how could anyone so bubbly and sweet be such a psychopath? I turned to an old photograph of a local monument. It was a stone statue of our town ’ s founder, Arnold Knight. Even he had her face. “ Ridiculous. ” 
 
 While driving home that very night, stopping by that statue sounded like a good idea. It was actually an *enraged* idea. I was furious enough to fire her through text message at any moment like a passive aggressive lover with a short fuse. 
 
 As I approached the granite statue, her face was certainly on Arnold ’ s. I rubbed my eyes in disbelief. There was no way this was real. Arnold Knight was not a pretty young girl. He was a heavy-set, wrinkly old bastard. I drove away wondering what I had eaten, or if I had slept enough. Maybe this was just some lucid dream, or scarier- what if she had her own face carved into that old statue. Nope. 
 
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