I’m not supposed to be this old. I’m supposed to be in my mid-twenties. I’m supposed to be able to use the
bathroom without waiting for what feels like an eternity for something to happen. But I’m not. I’m not as young
as I should be and it’s all Terry’s fault.
I’m sat here in his house, in his body, on what used to be my birthday. I should be turning 26 today; instead
I’m stuck in the old and tired body of a 59 year old man. My hair has long since fallen out before I even
inhabited this body, and in its place is a shiny bald dome. My new facial features are sagging everywhere,
making my salt and pepper stubble incredibly difficult to shave. That’s not even the worst thing. I’ve learnt
that Terry worked in hard labour for most of his life through his large hands with thick fingers, calloused and
rough, a strange contrast when I touch my hairless head.
It’s not all that bad I suppose, being Terry O’Quinn has its benefits. I never have to work another day in my
life, thanks to the money he had saved from his role on the Lost TV series. Of course, I can’t enjoy all his
money stuck in his body.