The Identity Thief

John.

He had been at it for so long that he wasn't sure exactly who he was anymore. He had taken on so many identities and had buried himself so deep into them that he ultimately lost track of where it was he had started from. It was an amnesia of sorts. Perhaps there was a finite capacity for his brain to contain identity and he had passed that limit many names ago.

But that's a bit of what theft is. You think you're getting something for free but what you get you purchase with bits of your soul.

He was done with the business. He had made more than enough to keep him from having to work for the rest of his life. He was tired of pretending. He was tired of stuffing the guilt down his gut - the pill got smaller and easier to swallow but he had his fill. He was tired of the fast talk, tired of being on his toes all the time. He just wanted to go back to his . . .

And that was the problem. There was no life to go back to because there was no life to remember. He also suspected that even if he had remembered, a part of him knew it would be a futile effort.