Me2: Chapter 10

As part of a huge - and much needed - marketing push, I'm going to be serializing a few of my all-time favorite books ... starting with the (ahem) rather infamous novel that I may or may not have actually written: Me2

"Absolutely brilliant!" says Lisabet Sarai, author of Incognito and Fire, about Lambda finalist M.Christian's controversial manlove horror/thriller. 

He looks just like you. He acts exactly like you. He takes away your job. He steals your friends. He seduces your male lover. None of them can tell the difference. Every day he becomes more and more like you, pushing you out of your own life, taking away what was yours … until there’s nothing left. Where did he come from? Robot? Alien? Clone? Doppelganger? Evil twin? Long lost brother? Then you discover there are still more "yous." Can you be sure you are the real you? And how do you fight to take your own life back? 

An absorbing new approach to the question of identity, Me2 is a groundbreaking gay chiller you’ll remember for a long time – no matter who you are, or who you think you may be. 

(Despite rumors that this book was written by an impostor - but, rest assured, this is the real 'M.Christian.' Accept no substitutes!)

Chapter X
Me10

"I know it happens.  It happens a lot.  You know it happens a lot because they say it does, and I know they don't say what they mean all the time but this time you know they ain't lying 'cause they aren't saying it enough for it to be a lie, you know?  If it wasn't really true then they'd be saying it a lot, but because they ain't saying it a lot but they are saying it, so you know it's gotta be true.  Right?  Right?  Right?

"If you use credit cards or those ATM card machine things they can get you.  They got tricks and shit like that so when you do it – use them I mean – they can get it all.  So you either got to not use it or not use it a lot.  But even if you use it just once they can get it.  They got tricks, you see?  You don't know half the shit they can do.  Like the chips.  You heard about the chips, right?  They put them in your head when you're in the hospital so that way the cops and the government know what you're up to and where you are and even what you're thinking sometimes.  There was this guy who used to hang out down by that big mall, you know the one with the Saks and the Nordstrom?  Not right in the head, if you know what I mean.  Funny up there.  Real funny, had all kinds of weird ideas about things.  Nothing you haven't heard before, but he could talk about it for hours if you let him.  But one day, see, he says something about the government, how he'd like to cut all their fucking throats – shit like that.  But what happens is that the next day he just ain't there.  Not that you want to find this guy or nothing.  But still, he just ain't around no more.  Thought he might have croaked, but then I thought about all the crazy shit he used to say and that he only once talked about the government, but that was the day he went gone.  You know what I'm saying?  You hearing me?

"But they can use that, too.  They can get all kinds of shit out of you that way or other ways, and once they get it, they can steal everything you got.  The numbers is what it's about.  All those numbers.  You forget about them sometimes, but they are there.  All the special numbers that you have around you.  Social Security, credit cards, shit like that, but other numbers you don't even know you have.  But they know it.  They know all about them.  You forget, but they know.  They get them and they can take everything about you.  Your money, your house, your wife, your kids, shit like that.  One second you got it all and then the next you got nothing.  Nothing at all, man.

"But what's really fucking weird is that I also heard that they can take more than just your money and your numbers and shit like that.  They're good, right?  Real fucking good.  So good they can take all your numbers and even everything else.  Used to be this guy who hung out down by the park.  Real fucked up asshole.  Mean as shit, especially if he got a bottle or shit like that.  Every once in a while you'd see him all fucked up, bruises and shit like that and you'd know that he'd fucked with the wrong asshole, but most of the time he'd be the one putting it out and not taking it.  Then he wasn't there no more, just gone, you know?  Not like that other guy, though, 'cause he shows up a week later but this time he's changed.  Clean, like he'd got himself a shower, even a fucking bed or some shit.  I see him, and he sees me, and he starts talking like he's my best fucking friend in the whole fucking world instead of the asshole who used to beat the fuck out of me for no good fucking reason.

"Then he starts talking about getting his act together, about finding Jesus.  Fucking Jesus, can't you fucking believe it?  I thought he was trying to hide, right?  Like he couldn't do anything because maybe the cops were nearby or something.  But then I figured that he was really fucked up.  But that didn't make sense either 'cause I've seen him really fucked up and he just gets a lot meaner, you know?

"I got the fuck out of there as quick as I could.  A day or so later I got it figured, though.  I'm not a smart motherfucker, sometimes it takes me some time, but I get there.  Someone took him, see?  They stole all his numbers and shit like that, but they didn't know how to add them up yet.  Got close, though.  Got fucking close.  But I knew him, see?  I knew what he was really fucking like.

"Sure as shit a week later I see the asshole and he beats the fucking crap out of me again, but even as he does it, I know that they got it right, that they took all his fucking numbers – even the ones he didn't know he had – and he was fucking gone.  Just took them some time, you know?  Just took them some fucking time to get them all and use them the right way.

"That's why I got rid of all mine.  Threw them the fuck away.  That's why I ain't got shit.  You got nothing, then you got nothing worth taking, you know?

"Nothing worth anything at all."

* * * *

Mothers with their children.  Children with other children.  Men uncomfortable with shopping.  Old women with other old women.

The mothers with their children headed towards Baby Gap, The Baby Outlet, and Osh Kosh b'Gosh.  Children with other children moved quickly towards Kaybee toys, EBgames, and the Disney Store.  Men uncomfortable with shopping held their wives' purses.  Old women with other old women eased toward Macy's, Nordstrom, and Bloomingdale's.

Next to the mothers with their children, I could have been a husband.  Children with other children.  I could have been a parent or guardian.  Men uncomfortable with shopping – I could have been one of them.  Old women with other old women – I could have been a son or an escort.

Among them all – here and there – a pair of men who were not husbands, parents, or guardians, not uncomfortable with shopping, or sons as escorts, but I stayed away from them, even though I would have vanished completely amid the Boys of Summer or the Tommy Hilfigers.  But they'd be looking for exactly that.

A sly grin.  I know I shouldn't, but I did: a curl of the mouth, a twist of the lip, a scrunch of the eye: so many husbands, so many parents or guardians, so many uncomfortable with shopping, so many sons and escorts – and so many who were also not parents or guardians, who were also not uncomfortable with shopping, who were also not sons as escorts.  Straight or gay, happy being in the mall or not, I might have looked like any of them, could be any of them, but I wasn't.  I was alone.  I was separate.  I was unique.

There was only one of me – and so I had to hide among the crowd stepping into the climate-controlled comfort of the mall.

* * * *

I wasn't hungry, but I headed toward food, because some of them headed towards food.  Orange Julius?  Hot Dog on a Stick?  Chick-fil-A?  Great Wraps?

Even though I was trying not to look like I'd just headed for food because they headed toward food, I still ended up standing at the entrance of the court for way too long.  Ping, zap, tinkle, twitter: my thoughts bounced from ear to ear, eye to eye, and if my mouth had been gaping open any more, I'm sure they'd have tripped over my teeth and clattered to the floor.  I should go with the shoppers, strollers, walkers, and shufflers – my thoughts went – because they are average, ordinary, run-of-the-mill, and I want people to think that I am also average, ordinary, run-of-the-mill, but I wasn't ordinary, run-of-the-mill – or no longer anything like average, ordinary, run-of-the-mill – and being no longer average, ordinary, run-of-the-mill by doing what the average, ordinary, run-of-the-mill, if doing average, ordinary, run-of-the-mill things, would I not stand out even more?  But by not following the average, ordinary, run-of-the-mill, wouldn’t I be clearly and obviously not average, ordinary, run-of-the-mill?

I ended up getting a hot dog on a stick.  The girl behind the counter wished me a nice day, but as it was something she said to everyone, it had no meaning.  Sitting on a plastic chair at a plastic table, I ate my plastic hot dog on its plastic stick and looked around the food court for any sign or pursuit or even interested examination.

After a few minutes of carefully, slowly twisting my head, I felt tightened muscles relax, my heart slow from its thudding in my chest, and my thoughts cool and slow from their spastic doubts.  Not that I was safe.  Not at all.  Not at all.  Not.  At.  All.  But at least for the moment I was just a guy – apparently an average, ordinary, run-of-the-mill guy – sitting on a plastic chair at a plastic table eating a plastic hot dog on a plastic stick.

And not what I really was: which was alone, separate, and unique.  There was a difficulty, though.  There was a price, however.  It was steeper than the cost of sitting on a plastic chair at a plastic table eating a plastic hot dog on a plastic stick.

How long do you sit I a plastic chair at a plastic table eating a plastic hot dog on a plastic stick?  Was I eating too fast, too slow?  Was I sitting in the wrong chair?  Suspiciously resting my elbows on the table?  My peace threatened to collapse, broken shards musically chiming to the floor, my aloneness, separateness, and uniqueness revealed to everyone in the mall food court.  I didn't remember what it'd been like to be one of them, to be able to walk invisibly through life.  Was my act poor?  My performance doubtful?

Calm, calm, calm.  Just sit in your plastic chair at your plastic table and eat your plastic hot dog on a plastic stick.  When you are finished with it, then you'll get up and move away from the food court.  Where?  I didn't know.  Trust in the flow of the tide, the camouflage of normalcy.  You were one of them – well, not quite one of them ... more like two of them ... (don't laugh to yourself, that's not something the tide or the normalcy would do, even though it was kind of funny, in a weird and twisted kind of way) ... so trust in how you used to act, how you used to not worry about standing out.  That's it.  Calm.  That's it.  Relax.  That's it.

For some reason I looked at what I was eating – never a good idea, especially something purchased from a wildly grinning girl in a stupid-looking hat – and caught the sight of red around the plastic hot dog on a plastic stick.  Heartbeat fast again.  I check out my fingers, holding them close to my chest and fanning them apart.  Had I missed something?

First finger, second finger, third finger, fourth finger, thumb – no, they were all cleanly pink, all cleanly common.  Calm.  That's it.  Relax.  That's it.

But then for some reason I looked up from what I was eating – also not a good idea, especially since I was eating where people had purchased their food from the likes of wildly grinning girls in stupid-looking hats – and caught sight of a newspaper flipped up, a front-page headline in LOUD type across the chatter and clatter of the food court.

They were calling it a hate crime. 

Funny.

* * * *

The plastic hot dog was gone, leaving behind just the stick.  A stick in the hand of an alone-appearing, separate-looking, and unique-seeming man sitting in a plastic chair at a plastic table.  I'd wanted to get up, to run, to get away from there as fast as possible when I saw the headline, but had kept enough of my calmness, relaxedness, to know that getting up, running, getting away from there as fast as possible was something that an alone-appearing, separate-looking, and unique-seeming man would do – something that would attract attention, make him stand out, make suspicions arise.  Not good.  Not good at all.

Instead I got up and moved away from my plastic chair, my plastic table, the plastic stick that was all that remained of my plastic hot dog and carefully, sedately, leisurely moved away.

Stores scrolled by my right side, my left side.  I didn't know where I was going, just as long as it was away from the food court and that LOUD headline.  The Gap came up on my right and I slowed to look in the window.  What I was looking at wasn't clear except that it was something someone would do while walking through the mall: a thing someone who was not alone, separate, and unique would do.

I knew I had to make plans, start to think about 'what next' but all I could do was stand in front of that window and look at innocuous colors that were part of innocuous patterns of innocuous clothes.

On innocuous manikins: I may not have noticed what they were wearing, but I did see that they were two of a kind, stamped out of the same mold, same make, same model, same manufacturer.

I didn't know who my manufacturer was, not specifically, being adopted and all.  No one I could ask, either, my adopted parents being dead and all.  So there was a chance that he and I had been two of a kind, stamped out of the same mold, same make, same model, same manufacturer.  Long lost twin, separated at birth – that kind of thing.

I would have pondered that, tried to understand it.  Researched the possible hows and whys.  But instead I simply stood in front of a Gap window and looked at a pair of identical manikins and thought about how wonderful it was to be alone, separate, and unique – and how scared I was about how it happened, and scared about what might happen next.

That's when I saw the cops.

* * * *

Don't look.  Whatever you do, don't look.  It was bad enough to have twitched, jerked, sweated, blinked, stiffened, when that shade of blue, that way of walking, that way of scanning the crowd tickled the edge of my vision.  Two of them.  Man and a woman.  The warbling squawk of a radio crackled through the bubbling conversation of the crowd, an announcement just in case I hadn't seen them.

The manikin's hair looked good: stylish without being flamboyant, cool without being too cool.  That was what a normal person would think.  That was what other people would think.  That was what anyone else would think.  They would not run, they would not bolt, they would not even turn and watch as the police walked up to, behind, and then past them.  They would look at the display in the Gap window and think about how good they might look in the clothes, think about how nice it would be look as nice as those manikins.

They would not breathe a sigh of relief when the police were far enough past them – but I couldn't help myself.  It was a soft sound, I hoped not loud enough for anyone to hear, especially not for that pair of police.

I stayed at that window for a bit longer, too long I suspected, but I didn't think I could turn, leave their calm looks behind, and become another one of the average, ordinary, average people walking through this oh-so-average, ordinary, average mall.  But then I had to go, staying frozen becoming more of a risk than trying to merge back with the crowd, and so I began to walk again.

"...suspect is currently sought." I didn't get far.  The Gap behind, Circuit City next.  In the window, a new pair of faces.  Exactly alike, just like the manikins of a few minutes before.  One was my ghostly reflection in the glass, the other my face as sketched by a police artist on an HD plasma TV.  Both of them the same man, both of them me.  But there was only one me.  Now.

* * * *

I hid in the bathroom.  Luck, that it was close by: a little blue man figure next to a little woman figure with arrows pointing away from the busyness of the mall down a wide corridor lit by unflattering fluorescent lights.  At the end of it were two doors, a little blue man figure on one, a little blue woman figure on the other.

In a stall, I closed a door and sat down on the john.  Walking in, I'd looked around to make sure I was alone or at least reasonably so.  I was.  Reasonably alone, that is: a few mall shoppers were at the counters washing their hands, pissing in urinals, or no doubt inside a few closed stalls.  But looking around, I'd caught a glance of myself in one of the mirrors, a flash of eyes like mine, a nose like mine, ears like mine, and hair like mine: picture of me, so very much like someone who used to look like me.  Someone now dead.

I had to get out.  Somewhere in the general direction of away, far away.  For now, though, I just sat on the toilet and shook like I was very, very cold.

People were looking for me, the police were looking for me, but one person wasn't looking for me – and even though people were looking for me, the police were looking for me, I still managed a crazy grin through my fear, through my shakes.

A grin that was a little strange for what they called a hate crime.  It was, and it wasn't.  Was: because I hated myself for what I'd done.  Wasn't: because I didn't hate myself for what I'd done.  Was: because I'd hated that other me.  Wasn't: because I was still here.

On the toilet in the mall: no idea where to go.  No idea what to do.  I didn't even know what to wear, how to talk, what to talk about.  I used to know all of that.  I used to be able to look at the people around me and know where I was, where I belonged, how to belong less or more.  I was ... who I was.  Now I was alone, separate, and unique.

Distantly, whispering across long miles of my mind, I thought about what might happen tomorrow, the day after, the day after that, the day after that, the day after that: a humid and hot hotel room, a tropical country, a pickup on the street, a pickup in a bar- I used to know what to look for, what would tug at my cock, but now ... what face would be looking at me before, during, and after an even hotter hotel-room kiss?

Lips to lips, he to me: a person that would never be perfectly what I wanted, because that man had been left on a sidewalk, a broken jigsaw, smashed-up pieces, or maybe a person who was perfectly what I wanted because he too had left a man on a sidewalk, a smear of blood on some other sidewalk?

Who would he be?  Who had I become?  Aside from a killer, that is.

* * * *

It was defense.  Self-defense.  Literally.  He wanted me – all of me – and he was winning.  He'd taken this, that, all of those, most of this, and when I even tried to change who I was, he was there to take even my new self.  I didn't have a choice.  Not at all.  It was him or me.

Now it was just me.

Angry neon, corpse-white fluorescents, screaming advertisements.  It could have been anywhere, but it wasn't: he walked out of that one liquor store, that particular liquor store, that specific liquor store.  At first I wasn't sure, doubt slowing my walk but not yet stopping it.  After all, he could be someone else, who just happened to be wearing what I wore, with hair styled and the same shade as mine, with my same walk, my same posture – coincidence, happenstance, a twist of fate.  Not him.  Not really him.

But it was him.

Bathroom to mall, mall to parking garage.  Quick but not too quick: no turns of heads, no notice, no knitted brows.  I was just another shopper who went straight from the bathroom to the parking garage.

It was cool.  It was dark.  A few late shoppers were on their way in, a few early shoppers were on their way out: to and from their cars.

I felt like I could breathe, so I did.  Ragged in, smoother out.  Cops were after me, sets glowed with my face, newspapers had me in black and white photos.  I could get arrested, I could get shot.  But for now I could breathe – so I did.

I thought that it'd be harder.  Is that premeditation?  I guess it is.  But if you think about killing yourself – even a second self – is that just contemplating suicide?

Beyond the liquor store, the space between him and me, had been dark.  Very dark: the kind of deep, fuzzy black weirdness you get in a lost corner of the city where streetlights, glowing signs, stoplights, or any other kind of brightness doesn't shine.  As black as it gets.

The street had become quiet, fewer and fewer cars streaming by.  Either that or I just didn't notice them anymore.  Beyond the liquor store, the space between him and me, was a vacant lot.  Very empty: the kind of deep, fuzzy, empty weirdness you get in a lost corner of the city where houses, buildings, stores, or any other kind of structure doesn't exist.  As vacant as it gets.

Just as light must have been there during the day, there were a few leftover bits, a here and there scattering of masonry from a previous house, building, store, or any other kind of structure.  Rocks, that is.  Bricks, that is.  Heavy and sharp.  Very heavy, very sharp: very perfect, very ideal – for the use I had put one of them to.

In the here and now, the darkness of the parking garage yawned open to the vaster darkness of the night.  Fewer people than before, most of them having already gone in or already left for home.  One remained, a shabby one, a dirty one, a smelly one, a raggedy one, a poor one, a fouled one – not a late or early shopper: he couldn't afford anything.

But he did pay attention to me.  I don't know why I paid attention to him.  Looking up from where he was digging through a trashcan, he met my eyes with obvious fear and even more obvious envy.  "You didn't see me," I said without thinking.  "Even if you think you saw me, you didn't see me, not even another me, because there's only one me.  That is, now, I mean.  No copies.  Just me, the one and only.  The original.  Got that?  Do you understand?  No copies, no duplicates, no fakes, no mirror-images.  If anyone asks you didn't see me.  The only me, I mean.  Understand?"

The bum nodded, I presume grasping my words, what they meant when assembled.

That's when he told me about identity theft.

* * * *

But that didn't matter.  Not anymore.  Whatever the cause, I'd finished it with the effect of a brick on a skull.  I'd been quick.  Running forward, I'd reached down and grabbed at jagged masonry.  I'd been too quick to even think about what I was doing.  Run, grab, run, lift, run, bring it down, bring it down, bring it down, bring it down.

I'd thought about it, yes.  But the details of reality were much more vivid than any fantasy.  Blood, lots of blood.  He went down, but with enough strength to try and push me away.  Through his flailing arms, past his flying hands, I brought it down ... did I say there was a lot of blood?  Well there was: his face soon glistening red, flashes of reflection in the freshness of the deep lacerations.  Another blow, this time less centered, and my jagged point sank in deep, the popping of his left eye – if there was a sound – lost to our screams.  Another blow, the crushing of his nose – if there was a sound – lost to our screams.  Another blow, the cracking of his teeth – if there was a sound – lost to my scream, his whimpering.  Another blow, the crunching of his skull – if there was a sound – lost to my screams.  Another blow, the wet sandbag of his head – if there was a sound – lost to my cries.

I was alone, just the corpse and I – the body that looked just like me, if I were dead.

Was I glad for what I'd done?  Was it better that it had been done?  Was it over?

I didn't know.  But I did know one thing: I was alone.  I was separate.  I was unique.

Sirens.  Coming closer.  In my past, memory of beating the other me to death; as well as the present when I stood outside the entrance to the parking garage.  In the past, I moved after the killing.  In the present, I moved away from the mall.

* * * *

Beyond the mall, the street was busy.  Retail overflowed, spilling from the climate-controlled comfort out into the real world chaos of weather.  I passed a Target, an Orchard Supply Hardware, a Smart & Final, a Babies R Us, and even an Ikea store.  All of them great beasts with long sidewalks broken only by a few entrances and exits, all of them flattened monoliths of colors carefully chosen by teams of marketing executives.

A tickle, a touch, a tap of doubt: I was alone on those long sidewalks, walking in front of those monoliths.  It was not a place to walk; it was a place to drive.  I was walking, not driving.

Best Buy.  Turning, I moved from street to store, following some late night shoppers in search of their electronic and entertainment fixes.  I didn't need either, of course, but I did need for everyone to think I was just out for a late night electronic and entertainment fix.

The light inside was blinding.  I had to pause just beyond the automatic doors for my eyes to shrink drown from dilated by trying to see at night.  Around me, addicts flowed, some even glancing back with disapproving looks.  It didn't take long for my eyes to compensate and soon I was walking with them, letting myself be pulled along into the dazzle, the buzz, the flash, the hum, the glow, and the flicker.

Then: two blue.  A pair, one next to the other.  Heart beating, breath gasping, I went the other way, putting as-calm-as possible distance between them and me.  I walked among DVD players, past home theatre systems, trying not to walk too fast, to appear as nothing but another shopper, one more electronic and entertainment addict entranced by the dazzle, the buzz, the flash, the hum, the glow, and the flicker.

Two.  Think two, count blue.  Hey, that's a good price for a ... whatever the hell it is: a box of dazzling design, buzzing technology, flashing lights, humming efficiency, glowing entertainment, flickering electronics.  A thing I should own.  A thing I must buy.  A thing that could make me happy.

Two.  Think blue, count two.  Two blue uniforms.  Hey, that's a great price for a whatever the hell it is: a cube of dazzling lights, buzzing design, flashing efficiency, humming entertainment, glowing electronics, flickering electronics.  A thing I should own.  A thing I must buy.  A thing that could make me happy.

Are they getting closer?  Are the two of them heading toward me?  I couldn't tell because I couldn't turn around and look – because if I did turn around and look at them, they'd know that I was trying to tell if they were heading toward me, which was as good as yelling as loud as I could that I had a reason for worrying that they were getting closer.  So instead I moved toward televisions.

I thought this as I did: my life has become paired, doubled, a paralleled, a duplicated, a copied, a replaced.  If something happens once, it has to happen again.  Uniforms and televisions – would I again be washing blood from my hands from a faucet behind a McDonald's?  Would I again be happy that I was alone, separate, and unique?  Again spent a few hours glad to be all of them, wanting nothing more than just to be the one, the only – but this time with the itching sting that it was a duplicate feeling.

I was wrong – and is that something, too, that I'd felt before?  A second time believing I thought I understood, only to discover I hadn't?

I was in televisions.  The police were coming closer, walking toward where I stood.  Pretending to be fascinated by the resolution of something that didn't interest me at all, I watched a sitcom: people laughing uproariously at something that would make any other human being fall to the ground in racking tears.  But for me, the humor of their world was too loud, the images of their comedy too bright.

A commercial came on, a fast-pattering pitch drilled into my skull with redundancy.  It was followed, naturally, by a second, almost identical in its primal message: buy this and you will be loved, buy this and you will be powerful, buy this and all your troubles will be over.

The police were close by.  A radio squawked, official gibberish as loud as the laughter that had preceded the commercials, and as loud as the commercials that had followed the comedy.

Next was the news.  The second broadcast I'd stood in front of that night.  That bears repeating: the second broadcast I'd stood in front of that night.

I expected a hand on my shoulder.  I expected to be thrown to the floor.  I expected my arms to be yanked back.  I expected cold steel to be locked around my wrists.  I expected "You have the right to remain silent–"

I'd say I was wrong, but that would make it more than twice – or has it already been more than twice?  If so, that would make so much more sense.

On the set was a face.  It was a face I knew very well from shaving, from primping, from miscellaneous reflections, from following me and being followed by me.  It was my face.

But it wasn't my face, and it wasn't his face.  "Suspect has been arrested in the brutal assault–" the newscaster was saying.

That was it.  I understood.  I'd been wrong again – how many, many, many times that'd been.

Not him: them.

Not me: us.

Me2: Chapter 9

As part of a huge - and much needed - marketing push, I'm going to be serializing a few of my all-time favorite books ... starting with the (ahem) rather infamous novel that I may or may not have actually written: Me2

"Absolutely brilliant!" says Lisabet Sarai, author of Incognito and Fire, about Lambda finalist M.Christian's controversial manlove horror/thriller. 

He looks just like you. He acts exactly like you. He takes away your job. He steals your friends. He seduces your male lover. None of them can tell the difference. Every day he becomes more and more like you, pushing you out of your own life, taking away what was yours … until there’s nothing left. Where did he come from? Robot? Alien? Clone? Doppelganger? Evil twin? Long lost brother? Then you discover there are still more "yous." Can you be sure you are the real you? And how do you fight to take your own life back? 

An absorbing new approach to the question of identity, Me2 is a groundbreaking gay chiller you’ll remember for a long time – no matter who you are, or who you think you may be. 

(Despite rumors that this book was written by an impostor - but, rest assured, this is the real 'M.Christian.' Accept no substitutes!)

Chapter IX

Me9

"The guys used to watch this show, you know?  Guys I used to work with.  A tire shop down on Main.  Where it goes into the highway.  You know the place?  No?  Whatever.  Anyway, when I used to work there, there were these guys ... and they used to watch this show.  Thought it was kind of weird, you know?

"Well, they were regular.  Just average kinds of guys.  Not kids.  Maybe as old as I am.  Even older.  Who knows?  Anyway, they were kind of rough.  One of them ... named Pico, I think ... he'd even been in jail.  Boosting cars, something like that.  So they weren't like art types, you know.  Nothing wrong with that, but they just weren't like that.  Rough, like I said.

"Anyway, I'd been there about four or five months.  Getting to know how things were, what was cool and what wasn't – that kind of thing.  Anyway, one day the boss wasn't around.  He was this really big guy.  I mean really big.  Kind of wheezed when he walked, took him forever to get from his car to his office in the morning.  Even longer when it was quitting time.

"One day he wasn't there.  Think he had a doctor's appointment or something.  Yeah, that was it, 'cause the next day he had this big bandage around his arm.  I remember that.  But like I said, he wasn't around.  So naturally the guys and I slacked off.  Not stupid, right?  Why work when the boss isn't around, right?

"So Pico and I and the other guy we just sat around for a while.  Just shooting the shit, you know.  The game, pussy, the fuckheads in the government – that kind of thing – then I guess we started to get bored.  The other guy – what the fuck was his name?  – he started rolling washers into the storm drain, like it was this game he made up or something.  Guess it wasn't a great one, 'cause he only did it for a few minutes.

"Then Pico, he looks at his watch.  Then he looks at the other guy.  Dick?  Was that his name?  Shit.  Whatever.  So Pico looks at him – the other guy, I mean – like they have this secret or something, you know?  Then Pico says to me, 'You wanna watch the tube?'

"I think, like, they're going to sneak into the boss's office and watch a game or something, and they do that – kinda, I mean.  We go into the boss's office, this little room he has in the back.  The only thing really in there is his big desk with this huge-ass chair behind it – for his huge ass, I guess – and some filing cabinets, a couple of old calendars, shit like that.  And this little black and white TV.  Little thing, you know.  Like 'so' big.  Kind of looks like a toaster or something with an antenna on it.

"So we go in there, right?  Make ourselves comfortable, or as much as we could, considering what a dump it was.  Then Pico, he starts fiddling with the dials and all.  No cable – he's that fucking cheap.  But after a few minutes he gets a picture.  Not a great picture, you know?  But you can still see what's going on.

"Like I said, I thought it'd be a game – something like that.  Or maybe a good flick.  Well, that's what I thought it'd be.  But it wasn't what they watched.  Not at all.

"After a few minutes of stupid fucking commercials, the show comes on, and it's a fucking soap opera.  I mean I can't believe it.  These guys watch this shit all the time.  Mostly record it at home, watch it after work.  But that day 'cause the boss was out they could watch it and not have to wait.

"I couldn't believe my fucking eyes, you know?  At first I thought it was a joke, just fucking with the new guy.  See what I'd do when these two rough customers put on the Young and the fucking Restless or something.  I almost laughed, thinking that was the joke, but then I saw how they were watching it – and they were really watching it, you know.  Dead fucking silence in the room, or talking when the commercials came back on, and then it was nothing but talking about the show.  I was fucking blown away.

"I watched – just because there was shit else to do and I sure as hell wasn't going to suggest watching anything else.  It was the stupidest thing I'd ever seen, and I'd seen a lot of stupid shit in my day.  Lots of people just standing around and talking, lots of women crying, stupid fucking music.  Christ, it was a piece of shit.

"One thing, though, I did see.  There was this guy – a doctor, lawyer, something like that.  Shit, I can't remember.  But then there was another one.  Same actor, I mean, but he wasn't playing the same guy, he was supposed to be the doctor or the lawyer's twin brother or something.  Stupid, right?  I mean really stupid.  I remember I wanted to laugh at it when it was on, but Pico and the other guy were just too fucking serious about this shit, so no way in hell would I do that.

"After the show was over we went back to work like nothing had happened.  But I kept thinking about that other mguy, the twin guy.  Thought about it all day.  Fuck, the rest of the damned week.  I mean, I don't have a brother or anything, so I don't know what that's like, but I thought it might be really weird to have someone just show up who looked like you, but wasn't you, you know?

"But that's not what freaked me out.  What really fucked me over was thinking that maybe Pico and this other guy had twins like I was thinking of – and maybe they were the ones that didn't like fucking soap operas.  But was my twin with them, always wishing he was watching that kind of shit?

"Spooky, you know?"

* * * *

I had a car.  I didn't have to walk.  But I did anyway.  My logic was simple, direct: he had a car.  Driving was something we had in common.  He had a car.  He drove.  I had a car.  He drove.

I walked.  That was mine.  Mine alone.

The shy was bright and cloudless blue.  The sun seemed to fill up a good quarter of it: so big, so bright, so hot.  I wished I had sunglasses.  Instead, I kept my eyes half-closed, seeing only the fractured sidewalk, tumbling trash, dead dirt in municipal planters, my shoes, and the shoes on the feet of other pedestrians.

I didn't know where I was going.  I just walked.

That I didn't have a direction was something else I had that he didn't.  I knew it was probably a mistake, that I should have stopped, thought about what had happened, what I should do, but I didn't.  Instead, I walked – just walked.

Four feet, instead of two.  Bare, instead of wearing shoes.  The dog that approached and then passed was an Average Yellow Dog.  Someone with expertise could have said what breed it was, what characteristics it had, but for me it was yellow and average.  Envy at its gold fur, its wobbling tongue, its kind brown eyes: beautiful and simple, direct and unexceptional.

We had something in common, something we shared, the dog and I: it wasn't thinking where it was going, either.  It was just walking.  Its dog brain was full of basic dog-things: eat that food, piss on that hydrant, hump that leg, wag that tail, lick that hand, bark that bark, chase that cat – instead of wildly crackling thoughts.

I wished I was even more like the dog.  When cornered it would at least have a few hundred thousand years of survival instinct to fall back on.  Me?  I had a few dozen James Bond and kung fu flicks – and watching wasn't doing.

It could have been one or two or even three hours – hard to say – but eventually my stomach started to complain loud enough for my dog-imitating brain to hear.  Stopping at the next red light, I lifted my head, noticing that the so-hot sun had fallen down a good hunk of the sky.  Breakfast and lunch had both passed me by.

On the same corner was a little cafe.  I didn't recognize it, but I knew its type: precious and upscale, a new menu to go along with a fresh coat of pastel colors over what used to be POPS or MAINSTREET GRILL or even just EATS.  Now, though, it was called CAFE 307.  The number wasn't the address, so I had no idea what it meant.

"One?" a waiter said when I walked in.  He was younger than I was, dressed in jeans and a yellow shirt.  I could immediately see him flecked with paint, pondering the subject of his art as well as how he was going to spend the fortune he was going to make selling it.

"Yeah, thanks," I told Arty.  He led me from the front door to a bare wooden table in the back.  His hair was close and broadly dyed blond.  A few years ago it would have been dark, long, and restrained into a ponytail.  Fashion had changed, and so had he.

"The specials are–" and then I didn't hear anything he said.  Words came through, sometimes very clearly, sometimes broken, disconnected from any meaning: "Chicken" "Ham" "Salsa" "Pine nuts" "Sardines" "Truffles" "Glazed" "Cheese" "Olives" "Sea Bass" "Oysters" "Steak" "Fries" "Macaroni" "Brazed" "Garlic" "Shrimp" "Polenta" and others.

"Thanks," I repeated, bringing up the menu he'd brought, cutting his stare from my face.

I think he asked if I wanted water.  I must have said I did because some was brought a few minutes later.

Like with the specials, the words on the menu didn't make sense.  They floated off the page, mixed into combinations I didn't remember – or at least didn't sound appetizing: "Five Spice Ice Cream" "Tomato Roll" "Flattened Eggs" "Whipped Scallops" "Boiled Mint" "Saffron Figs." In a box to the side were three words: The Ever Popular.

"Need some more time?" Arty said, appearing again by the table.  It seemed like he'd just left.  I repeated those three words, not knowing what I'd ordered.  For a drink I looked down, saw a glass with ice and said what it was: "Just water."

A bell rang, the announcement of another diner.  Turning in reflex, I saw a mother pushing a stroller.  She was in sweatpants, a sweatshirt, a sweatband, and running shoes.  Her face was hard, muscled and toned into a brown leather mask.  In the stroller, the infant also had a headband.  Girl or boy, the kid was jogging before it could walk.

Running Mom took a table nearby.  The menu concerned her, and it took a long time for her to order.  When she did, Arty's otherwise up and happy brow collapsed and his professional grin soured.  Outdoor, Running World, Pilates Fitness World, Fitness Magazine, or Working Mother must have had something about gluten.  Some Web site, e-mail, chat room, or forum must have mentioned something about peanut oil.  A friend, coworker, fellow parent, must have said something about sugar.

The Ever Popular clattered down in front of me.  Eggs, pancakes (blueberry), hash browns, and cantaloupe – gluten, peanut oil, and sugar in one commonly agreeable package.  I didn't like eggs, didn't care for pancakes (blueberry), didn't prefer hash browns, and I didn't care for cantaloupe.

I almost asked Arty for something else.  But then I picked up my knife and fork and started cutting – not really caring what I sliced or what ended up grouped together on my fork.  If I didn't like eggs, if I didn't care for pancakes (blueberry), if I didn't prefer hash browns, and if I didn't care for cantaloupe, then he wouldn't either.

I wasn't him.  He wasn't me.

I ate.  He might be eating – wherever he was.  But he sure wasn't eating eggs, pancakes (blueberry), hash browns, or cantaloupe.

Thinking of him – actively putting my mind to him – pushed away the last of the dog brain I'd been trying to run on.  Eggs, pancakes (blueberry), hash browns, and cantaloupe almost tumbled from my fork.

It didn't matter what I ate, or if I drove or not.  I knew that, but it was hard to admit it to myself.  Easier to think all it would take would be to stop driving, start eating a different breakfast, wear a different designer, watch different TV shows, try to be a different person.

The eggs were slimy, the pancakes (blueberry) were too sweet, the hash browns too oily, and the cantaloupe gave me gas.  But I ate them anyway.

Like I said, easier than accepting what I knew: he didn't want my life.

He wanted me.

* * * *

Out: full belly, a growl pacified.  Out: leaving behind a paid bill, a tip, a squalling baby, a worn-down (but toned) mother.

I could have stayed there all day.  It was a nice enough place, but the longer I sat, the more my mind began to circle the drain.  The more my mind circled the drain, the more my hands shook.  The more my hands shook, the more my heart raced.  The more my mind raced, the more my breath came up short.  The more my breath came up short, the more my eyes darted.  Better to get up, get out, change the scenery.

At the door, though – one foot in, one foot out – my brain went 'round and 'round, my hands began to shake, my heart palpitated, my breath wheezed, my eyes buzzed, all because a voice from behind me, from the clatter and hiss of the kitchen: "Nice to see you again."

I had never been in the place before.  A quick turn, to see the source.  Not the one I'd just tipped, but another waiter.  Wearing a smile that said more-than-familiarity, he waved.

Out: slamming into the half-closed door with a wood and glass bang I knew made everyone turn to stare.  Out: on the sidewalk, my legs molten, threatening to bring me down – hard – onto the cement.  Out: a quick brace against the hot door of a parked car.  Out: too-long-a-moment while my hands stopped shaking (just a bit), my heart stopped hammering (just a bit), my breath stopped rasping (just a bit), my eyes stopped twitching (just a bit).

Out and then away, walking as fast as I could without running.  Putting the cafe behind me, putting the waiter behind me, putting his stalking behind me.

At the corner, the rush and bustle of traffic drowned out my thoughts.  But not all of them.  The dog was gone, my previously primitive brain-state tamed instead into a neurotic, quivering mess.

He wants me, was all I could think.  Over and over, 'round and 'round the black center of the sink.  He wants me, he wants me, he wants me–

A car came down the street, just one of many.  But it wasn't like the others doing their rushing and bustling.  The one in front of it was dark gray, the one behind it was bright red.  It wasn't either.  It was white.  A white Volkswagen.  Just like mine.

Just like his.

I ran.  Away from the car, I ran.  Far away from the car I ran.  The alley was wide, a chain-link fence on the right, dumpsters and trash cans on the right.  Again, as I ran: He wants me.  Over and over, 'round and 'round the black center of the sink.  He wants me, he wants me, he wants me–

Another street, but this time with less rushing, less bustling.  Quiet industrial office buildings, silent parking lots, hushed small manufacturing firms.  Panting, chest squeezed by a vice, I braced myself against a fake-looking tree, a failed municipal attempt to make the area look less cold and empty.  I was glad it failed.  I didn't want human warmth.  Or at least one certain someone's warmth.  Human or not.

Human or not ... he wanted me.  He did.  That much was clear.  Not my life.  Not my job, my friends, my family, my 'things.' He wanted me.  He wanted to have me.  To take me.

I looked up at the sun, a blinding ball of yellow in a painfully blue sky.  Church was nothing but weird-shaped buildings and The Ten Commandments at Easter.  I knew Jesus, of course.  Knew about Jesus, of course, I should say.  But that's all he was when I got old enough to actually read what he and some of his followers were saying.  Especially about guys like me, who happened to think Chuck Heston would be fun in bed and the Son of God had the most delicious bedroom eyes...

But now ... was he?  Could he be?  Was it possible?  If God moved in mysterious ways could the devil move in even more mysterious ways?  A copy, a Satanic double, let out from a sulfur and brimstone condo to chase me down, take me, make me into – what?  What the hell did he want?

I shook my head, trying to chase away the colors the too-harsh daylight had burned into my eyes.  Closed, all I saw with them were blue and red washes and flares.

Open, I saw the small industrial park.  Open, I saw distant traffic on a busier artery.  Cars passing this way and that.  Red and dark gray, blue and green, dull silver and yellow, and white.  Of course white.  There are lots of white cars out there.  Lots of them.  Lots of Volkswagens, too.  Very popular manufacturer, Volkswagen.

I didn't run, but I did walk very fast.  Away, very fast.  Away, very fast from that busier street.  Deeper into the park.

He'd come close.  Too damned close.  The thought of how close made me stop my very fast walking and stand still in order to shiver from toes to nose.  Shit.  Fuck.  Shit.  Fuck.  Shit.  In the dark, his hands.  In the dark, my hands.  In the dark, our lips.  In the dark, our skin.

But that wasn't all he wanted.  If it was, he wouldn't be out there, wouldn't be taking more and more of me away.  Wouldn't be watching me.  Wouldn't be following me.  Wouldn't be driving around the city.  Wouldn't be ... out there.

No heaven, no hell.  If he had horns and a tail then they were very small.  Besides, in the dark, his hands; in the dark, my hands; in the dark, our lips; in the dark, our skin.  Flesh and blood all around.  I was – so was he.

So what did his flesh and blood want with my flesh and blood?

The sun was falling, the air cooling, night coming.  In my safe maze of uniformity, shadows cast by small manufacturing buildings began to lengthen.  Hours still, before complete darkness.  Hours still, before the sun completely set.

Without direction, I walked.  Without permission, my eyes tracked feverishly back and forth, then forth and back, looking for anything that wasn't stunted trees, gray buildings, slate-dark streets, sagging lengths of heavy chain across the mouths of empty parking lots, glass doors, glass walls, and signs dull with simple information and not the artistic allure of actually trying to coax shoppers off the streets.

I didn't know what he wanted.  But I knew who he was trying to be – who he had copied, imitated, duplicated, reproduced, stolen, faked.

I knew him rather well.  The original.  Me.  A stop in my thinking, a stop in my walking.  A heavy brick wall, all cinderblock and inarguable mortar cut across my world.  I'd reached the end of the park.  Above and beyond were the poles and wire of power and/or phone lines.  It was too tall to climb.  Turning right for no reason, I went back to walking, back to thinking.

Both were a mistake.

* * * *

Step the way you step, and so it would be the way he steps.  Think the way you think, and so it'd be the way he thinks.

I put myself into his shoes, which were also my shoes.  I put myself into his mind, which was also my mind: he was what you wanted.  No one else would do.  You watched him.  You studied him.  You learned all there was to know about him.  Then you began – slowly at first – to do what he did, to look the way he did: wore clothes like his, you cut your hair like his, you talked like him, you moved like him, you tried to think like him, you wanted to become him – totally and absolutely.

Then, when you were ready, you began to inch your way into his life, becoming him: friends, coworkers, strangers, maybe even relatives.  You fooled them all: they never suspected, they never doubted that you were him.

A dumpster, crammed with crushed cardboard boxes, hid most of the corner where another wall of bricks met the one I'd been following.  I met this angle and turned right: the only direction to go without going back.

It was all you wanted, everything you wanted: to become what he was, to become him – in mind as well as body.  Wherever he went, you were there before him.  When he changed, you changed.

Then, you were ready.  You picked the time, you chose the place.

But he rejected you.

Another cardboard box, more than likely dropped before getting to the dumpster.  Two feet tall, three feet long.  Could have held anything: a computer, a TV, a microwave oven, a shelving unit, a piece of mysterious industrial equipment, maybe even food or the things that, when cooked together, made food.  It didn't matter.

It was in my hands, picked up and held without a thought.  It wasn't heavy.  I wouldn't have noticed if it was.

Fingers curling, my nails cut into the paper, puncturing the stiff brown outside.  Distantly, I felt the corrugated interior of the cardboard crush.  I kept curling, kept clawing: the tearing was loud in my space between industrial building and cinder block wall.  The box became anything but square, the material of it ripped and shredded in my hands.

He rejected you!

No box, no paper, no corrugated material, no cardboard: my mind went away from what I was seeing, instead projecting on the inside of my forehead: flesh and blood.  Too much flesh, too much blood.

Fingers curling, I imagined my nails cutting into his skin, puncturing the soft pale outside.  I kept curling, kept clawing: the tearing was loud in my space between my ears.  His body became anything but whole, the material of him ripping and shredding in my hands.

The dog mind came back, a roaring white of fury: rip flesh, break bones, tear off fingers, burst eyes, smash teeth, crush ribs, pulp the insides, tug and rip away the outsides.  Horror movies, nightmares, traffic accidents: blood slick and copper, bones twig and branch breaking, marrow popping, organs spilling, skull splitting, brains splashing–

In my hands: no box, no paper, no corrugated material, no cardboard.  Instead scraps and pieces, bits and fragments.  Breathing hard, I let the remnants fall to the pavement.  Around me were shreds of brown, flecks of brown, crumples of brown–

Fading, ghosting away...  In my hands: no box, no paper, no corrugated material, no cardboard.  Instead scraps and pieces, bits and fragments.  Breathing hard, I let the remnants fall to the pavement.  Around me were shreds of flesh, flecks of blood, crumples of tissue – but then the dog mind went away, and it was just an alley behind an industrial building, and at my feet was just litter.

He wanted to be me, he wanted to have me, and I rejected him.

If he'd become me – totally and completely become me then he'd be thinking what I was thinking.

Leaving behind a destroyed box, I began to run once again, thinking of blood once again – but this time my blood on his hands.

* * * *

Turning right had been a mistake.  I said that, didn't I?  Can't remember.  If I didn't, then I should have.  If I did, then saying it again was not enough.

I knew what he wanted: me.  I knew what he'd do to me if he found me: my blood on his hands, because I'd rejected him.

The industrial park had ended, the wall I'd been following stopped.  In front of me was a busy street, cars moving right to left and left to right.  All very fast.  Night was more than threatening: the cars that moved from right to left and left to right were led by blinding headlights and followed by crimson streaks from taillights.  Across the street, streetlights had begun to flicker on, piss-yellow sodium glows mixing with the white and the red going from right to left and left to right.

Not just across the street.  Without a sound, the one above me winked on, throwing a sour, piss-colored glow all around me.

There was no way to tell a white car from a yellow one.  Lots of cars, many of them could be yellow, many of them might be white.  Might not be him.  Might be him.

Having arrived where turning right had led me, there was no choice but to keep going in that direction.  To the left was the dark industrial park, what had been a safely quiet spread of uniform gray buildings was now a haunted maze where a loud voice – or a scream – wouldn’t be heard.

Right it was, then.  Quickly, but only a trot, not a run.  My legs were stone, iron, lead, heavy elements polluting my body with painful radiations.  My chest was rasping phosphorus, churning aid, spasms of fists speed-bagging my heart.

Don’t hurt me.  Please don’t hurt me.  I’m sorry.  So sorry.  Please ... ‘round and ‘round in my head.  But as they did, I knew that if they were being said, and I was hearing them, they wouldn’t mean anything at all.  I wouldn’t listen, so he wouldn’t listen.

The liquor store was an island of bulletproof glass, irritably buzzing fluorescents, crossly droning neon, and squalling Muzak.  A bell announced me.  Behind the counter, a Working Stiff – flannel shirt, jeans, skin tan from outdoor work and cheap motor oil, face rough from outdoor work and cheap beer, eyes hard from outdoor work and cheap entertainment – looked up at me, checking for trouble.

"Hiya," the Working Stiff said in a light tone, clearly not seeing trouble in me.

I wasn't hungry.  I didn't have a car.  I didn't need a pine tree air freshener.  I didn't want a copy of Hustler.  I didn't need a lottery ticket.  I didn't need directions.  But I still came in, nodding to the Working Stiff, and began to walk up and down the narrow aisles like I was hungry, did need gas, did need a pine tree air freshener, did want a copy of Hustler, did need a lottery ticket, did need directions.

He was out there.  I knew that.  He was looking for me.  I knew that.  He wanted me.  I knew that.  He wanted to hurt me.  I knew that.

Somehow a bag of potato chips ended up in my hands.  French Onion.  Ridges.  I didn't like potato chips, even ridged French Onion ones, but I kept it in my hands as I walked up and down the aisles while the Working Stiff watched.

After a time – how much of it I had no idea – I felt that I had walked from the aisle of 'slow customer' to 'what the fuck?', baiting his eyes from casual examination to hard suspicion.

The added peppery burn of his look made my heart more than race.  Slipping out of my fingers, the French Onion ridged chips fell to the tiled floor.  "Shit," I said, a moment after they landed, my voice shrill and far too loud.  I bent down and the bag was in my arms again in a split second.  Take it easy, I told myself.  Take it easy.

"Rough night?" he said when I put the bag down on the counter.  Voice cool and relaxed, he made my heart slow to a walk.  Just a guy.  Just a Working Stiff.  Just a guy who was a Working Stiff doing his job.

"Yeah," I answered in small tones, face tilted down in submission.  I wanted him to like me.  I needed him – okay, anyone – to care about me, so I wouldn't be alone.

"Been there, man," Working Stiff said with a slight smile.

I didn't know how to answer that, so I just kept grinning.  A pair of headlights swung by the windows, their stern glares washing away the garish colors inside the store.  It was hard to see what color the car was.  It could have been white.

"Something bothering you?" the Working Stiff asked as he punched buttons on his register, the chimes of money sharp and clear.  I couldn't tell by the way he asked whether his question was kind concern or wary distrust.

Even though I shook my head I said: "Yeah, kinda." Even though I reached out for my unwanted purchase I said: "Not a big deal, really." Even though I grabbed the bag I said: "It's just that–"

"Yeah?"

"It's just that ... there's this guy out there.  Drives a white Volkswagen.  Kind of ... a problem, you know?  I don't really want to run into him."

The grin on his face was wide and toothy.  It was not a pleasant sight: obviously his employment didn't include dental.  "Know that story," he said, though obviously he couldn't have.  "Don't have to tell me twice."

The grin?  Must have been the grin.  He didn't know me, but he seemed nice enough, even remotely concerned.  Putting my bag down on the counter, I began by saying something like "You think you have it all figured out–"

I didn't tell him everything.  I couldn't do that.  But I asked him enough to keep the grin on his face, to keep the remote concern coming from him.  Casually, sideways, from a different direction, I asked him what he might think if he saw someone who looked, acted, exactly like him.

That's when he told me about soap operas and long-lost twins.

* * * *

I'd pushed it.  The grin was there but it had begun to slip.  It was good while it lasted though.  The world – at least for the last few minutes – had become warmer, kinder, average, ordinary: just two guys in the middle of the night having a warm, kind, average, ordinary conversation.  But all through it, tickling the back of neck, was the thought of another pair of headlights harshly white through the big glass windows of the liquor store.  A pair belonging to a white Volkswagen.  A white Volkswagen belonging to someone who looked, acted, exactly like me.

It was time to go.  Where I didn't know.  To do what, I didn't know.  To run?  To hide?  To find a way to make him run?  To make him hide?

"See ya," I told him, taking up my bag of French Onion ridged potato chips and moving toward the door.

"Later," was his answer.  It would have been fine and good if that was all he said.  It would have been warmer, kinder, average, ordinary if that was all he said.  But it wasn't, because that wasn't all he said: "Best of luck with the Volkswagen – and that blond guy, with the blue eyes."

I hadn't told him about him.  I hadn't told him who the owner of the white Volkswagen looked like.  I hadn't mentioned someone who looked, acted, exactly like me.

Which meant one thing: that someone else had.  Someone who'd been in the store, maybe even that night.  Someone who'd looked, acted, exactly like me.

* * * *

I'd dropped the bag of French Onion ridged potato chips.  Where, I didn't know.  Somewhere it was laying on a sidewalk, probably still puffed up with air.  Or maybe someone had stepped on it, bursting it, spraying salty snacks over their feet.

Feet like mine?

The liquor store was behind me, maybe fifty feet or so.

The street I was moving down was dark, revealed only by the amorphous yellow glow of sodium streetlights.  Traffic was light, but more than enough to make me want to scream: every car was a Volkswagen, every Volkswagen was white, every white Volkswagen was driven by a young man with blond hair and blue eyes, every blond haired and blue eyed driver was me – looking for me.

I saw the cars, I saw the sidewalk, I saw the urine-glow of the sodium streetlights, but I also saw blood: mine sprayed through the air, mine slick on the ground, mine from the impact of a quick and heavy bullet, mine from a rearing and cutting saw, mine from a flashing knife edge, mine from the pounding impacts of a hammer, mine from the rushing blur of a car, mine from ... how I didn't know, couldn't be sure.  But I did know, could be sure, that it would be from him.

Don't hurt me.  Please don't hurt me.  I'm sorry.  So sorry.  Please ... 'round and 'round in my head.  I knew that if the words were being said, and I was hearing them, they wouldn't mean anything at all.  I wouldn't listen, so he wouldn't listen.

He was out there.  I knew that.  He was looking for me.  I knew that.  He wanted me.  I knew that.  He wanted to hurt me.  I knew that.

A form, appearing and disappearing as it crossed from night into the yellow cones of streetlight illuminations.  A form ahead of me.  Moving away?  No, it was approaching.

Two arms, swinging at its side.  Two legs, scissoring as it walked.  A head, immobile.  A he.  A person.  A man.

I suspected before I knew.  The 'no' that burst in my head, deep in my mind, was an echo: a statement of the visually obvious.

A mirror had been held up to the world.  A reflection of myself.

He was coming at me.