Doppelganger

You back into the wall on shaky legs. You can tell that you're twisting your face into some horrible expression, trying not to cry, and that your bottom lip and chin are quivering. The figure before you sneers, his lip taking on an unpleasant curl. It's you. Your lip.

"I told you to stay away."

You voice sounds terrified rather than venomous, quavering the way it does. You can't tear your eyes from yourself, your Mr. Hyde, doppelganger, whatever the hell he is. He could be your identical twin, the both of you look exactly alike. The same blue eyes, the same hollow cheeks -- he even has the same birth mark on his left forefinger.

You run your thumb over yours. You can't feel it -- it isn't raised -- but you know it's there. You wonder if he can read your mind, if he knows that your heart is about to escape through your mouth.

He laughs, and it's your laugh, soft and quiet. A girl's laugh, your friends used to call it, just to get on your nerves. Suddenly, you hate that laugh. You hate it because you know that it means he is back, and he is going to have all the power he wants over you. A quickly-stifled sob escapes you as you slide downwards. Sitting on the floor with your back pressed against the wall, you bury your face in your arms and cry. You wonder how long it will take this time for people to realise that he's taken over you again.

"Does it still hurt?"

He giggles softly and makes you pull up the sleeve of your T-shirt. One glimpse of the long, ugly marks scarring your arm, and you cry harder. It was awful and it hurt so much, but he kept making you do it, again and again. "Just one more time, all right? One more time, just one more time..." You nearly went mad.

"Let's do it again!"

There is an excited, manic gleam in his eyes as you fall to the floor and start pleading with him. No, no, please don't, it still hurts. Please, please, pleasepleaseplease don't do this.

He giggles again, louder this time. His eyes are wide, and they never move from your own. He delights in your pleasure, the deranged fucker.

"Go get it," he whispers. You get to your feet immediately; he has complete control over you, your body, and you both know it. Your hands are shaking badly and you nearly cut yourself just picking the razor blade up. He's giggling non-stop now, beside himself with glee.

"I missed you, you know. Did you miss me?" He shuts his eyes and rocks back and forth, shaking with silent laughter. "Go on. Go on, do it. It won't hurt a bit." He throws back his head and giggles madly. His entire body shakes and convulses, but only a strangled, wheezy sort of laugh comes out. He sounds like he's choking and dying -- oh, how you wish. It dies down to a low, sinister chuckle as he creeps closer and closer.

"Get ready."

Obediently, your right hand jerks its way over to your left upper arm. You can only watch in horror as it positions the edge of the blade on a pale, unmarred strip of skin amongst all the scars. You look up desperately to find his face -- your face -- inches from your own. He leers at you and growls, "Do it."

You're still looking at him beseechingly when you feel the sharp bite of the blade. You gasp in pain, quickly biting your lip to keep from howling -- it starts to bleed too. The cut is deep, but not deep enough for stitches. You should know.

"I have an idea!" he cries, doing an odd little jig on the spot. "Let's cut out a chunk this time!" Bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet, he chants, "Cut out a chunk! Cut out a chunk!"

You start to wail, begging, pleading, crying. Please, no. Oh, God, no. Don't make me do this, please, please just go away.

His face is flushed with the anticipation of seeing you suffer even more. "You wail louder, I'll make you cut off your pinky, and then your ring finger, and then your middle finger, one by one. I'll leave your thumb and pointer finger because it means 'LOSER'!" he screams. His eyes are bulging now, his mouth set in a too-wide grin.

Please don't. No, no, no. Please don't make me, I don't wa--

You start to fucking scream as your hand saws the blade into your flesh. It is long and drawn-out as you feel the blade slice in deeper, deeper, deeper. You can actually feel the chunk of flesh loosening and then flap, flap, flapping along with each savage movement of the blade. Something in your throat feels like it is going to rip, and you can see him in front of you, laughing like it's the funniest thing he's ever seen.

Then a few things happen, almost simultaneously.

Your bedroom door flies open. He winks at you, disappears. The chunk of flesh breaks loose and falls to the floor. You grip slackens and the blade falls too. And your mother, who is standing in the doorway, gasps so loudly it could be a scream.

She dashes over to you, touches your forearm. She doesn't dare lift your arm as she examines it, afraid of causing more damage. "Jared," she chokes. "Jared, what have you done?" She blinks away tears and peers at the hole in your arm.

"He was here, Mom." You talk the best you can with wet, trembling lips. "He came back. He m-made me do this. Mom, it hurts. Mom, it hurts so bad."

She looks into your eyes.

"Tonight," she says, softly but firmly. "Now. I'm going to take you to the hospital for-- For your arm. And then when they're done, I am going to bring you to the psychiatric ward."

"Will they make him go away, leave me alone?" you whisper. You're afraid that maybe he could hear you. You don't want to lose this shred of hope.

"Yes," she whispers back. "I think they can."

"Then I'll g-go." You take a shuddery breath. "Now. I want to go now."