I Am You

A Tale of A Doppelganger

I will tell you a truth about you.

People - and by this I do mean you - believe in stories. And that is how they view their lives. You are the centre, everything builds around you, dramatic moments and stark revelations, the hero’s journey, and you, the victor.

Now, consider another story. A story for you, not of you.

At least not yet.

Do you know the tale of the ‘double’? Of course you do! The doppelganger of lore and fable. Another you. One that replaces you. Preposterous, you might say, but allow the conceit.

Good.

You think you would notice, don’t you?. That if something like this happened to you, you would understand what was happening immediately and deal with it.

Maybe you’ve already skipped ahead to the end in your mind, the moment you come face-to-face with your double. The final resolution. Dramatic, of course! Imagine it…the scream of a friend who sees you both at the same time, and then that last violent confrontation, where you defeat the imposter. You are the hero, after all. It would all be so obvious, so implausible to miss.

But it never happens that way to people. Not really.

The process is slow, deliberate, and, I assure you, inevitable. A series of shifts in their reality that is so gradual that by the time they might recognise it for what it is, to try to fight back, it is already too late.

It always starts with something small - something that can easily be dismissed as a trick of memory. They assume it is stress, some kind of cross-wired miscommunication, or even a prank. All reasonable excuses that allow them to ignore any sense of the wrongness they are starting to experience. They do not understand that every moment of doubt about what is happening is another step in the process.

And now here you draw a line. I can see it in your eyes, the tilt of your chin. It seems so impossible - to be replicated and replaced. This cannot happen, you say.

Perhaps not. It’s just a silly tale.

But perhaps that is just a matter of perspective? By that I mean that you may have the story the wrong way round? I hope the irony is not lost on you.

Indulge me a moment.

It begins with…no, it does not matter who it begins with…the names don’t matter. They never do.

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I am here. Do not concern yourself with why, all you need know is that I have been here for weeks. Watching. Waiting. Learning.

Absorbing.

I know the way he moves intimately, the pitch of his voice when irritated, how he holds his knife and fork, and most importantly, his presence - that is to say, who he is to others. Where he fits in, and where he does not.

I have studied him long enough now that I could be him.

And soon I will be. As only one of us may continue onwards in his life.

My life. As it must be.

The first time he notices something off, it is so minor that he almost forgets about it - but not entirely. The memory niggles, he can’t say why, but it replays in his mind: The barista in the local café hands him his coffee with a smile “Back again? You must really like our lattes” He hesitates, shakes his head and blinks, her words make sense yet they don’t. It takes him a moment. A moment to process his reality. He tells her this is his first coffee of the day.

And here is the first disjoint.

She makes a face and scrunches her brow for just a second before laughing it off, blaming her mistake on the early morning rush “I must be getting old, I really thought it was you”

Politeness wins, of course. And no more is said by either.

The second time it happens, it is more difficult for him to ignore. A colleague stops him outside his office, and ask him how his morning meeting went. He has no recollection of any such meeting. People make mistakes, nothing unusual there, but she has that note of expectation in her voice that sounds like a genuine follow up.

“I didn’t have a meeting this morning,” he says playfully correcting her “perhaps you meant the Tomlinson presentation yesterday?”

She raises an eyebrow, and pulls out her phone. “Really? Did it go that badly?” she says, a little in jest, a little not. “You texted me saying you were off out to a meeting just before lunch. See?” She turns the cracked screen towards him, showing him the text message.

He can see it is his number. The words as he would write them. His style, his tone. He nearly grabs her phone, but remembers himself. He reads them a few times, but he doesn’t remember typing them or sending the text.

He covers himself with a small laugh. A new office joke? But his colleague’s face is still.

“Hold on a mo” he says, and pats his pockets.

Of course he finds his phone. And, of course, the text has been sent from his phone.

“I...er…I…” he stumbles over his words.

“Stop winding me up, email me if there’s a problem, okay?”

That should have been the moment he acknowledged that something was wrong. When he should have turned to friends, when he should have asked more questions. Protected himself. But it wasn’t.

Because he tells himself he must have mistexted. That he was very busy, and this was just a simple mistake.

And because what is happening is not a pattern. Not yet.

But soon it will be.

The key doesn’t turn in the lock. He grimaces in frustration and tries again, twisting it harder as if that might help, but the lock doesn’t move. He checks the key, turning it over between thumb and forefinger, but he can’t see anything wrong with it.

He hears footsteps approaching, behind and to the right. A familiar voice follows a moment later. “Something wrong?”

He turns. The landlord is walking toward him, a large ring of keys already in hand. He nods at the door. “My key isn’t working,” he says.

The landlord exhales, already sorting through the keys. “Yeah, had the locks changed this morning. Janice said you picked your key up a few hours ago. You haven’t lost it already, have you? ”

“No I didn’t. When did I ask you to change them?” He asks, not fully processing what he is hearing.

“Blimey. Had a knock on the head? You came by the office on Tuesday, remember? Said you’d lost your spare key and was worried about being burgled.” The landlord slides a key off the ring, and presses it into his palm with a little force. “Here you go. Just don’t lose this one, eh? I’ll have to add it to your invoice, mind.”

He stares at it. “I didn’t come by Tuesday.” he says more to himself, but loud enough to be heard.

The landlord’s expression changes, flickering somewhere between confusion and annoyance. “Mate, I processed it myself. I don’t know what your game is but you’re not getting a refund and free upgrade, alright? You filled out the form, showed me your driver’s licence for I.D., and paid in cash, £190. Signed, sealed and bloody well filed.” The landlord pauses, remembering this tenant is one of the good ones “You feeling all right?”.

A nod. “Yeah, yeah. Sorry, too much work on. Sorry”

The landlord gives a shrug and walks off, getting back to his rounds.

I visited the landlord’s office three days ago.

I brought identification, I even had his wallet. The signature matched as I had practiced until it was indistinguishable from his. Mine. The landlord never questioned a thing. Why would he? I was him.

He hasn’t gone into the flat yet. He’s still looking at the door. At his new key, for the lock he didn’t remember asking to be changed. But I am waiting. Close by.

I know he will turn. This is part of the game. But first he must check his reality, ground himself, tell himself he is alright. Just some simple confusion. He looks left and right, and then finally he feels it - that sense of someone looking at him.

He turns, as I knew he must.

And now he sees me. Standing a little way down the street. He does not need to ask himself who I am. The answer is already starting to form, a terrible conclusion, a certainty he wants to reject, clawing its way into his mind.

I am wearing his coat, the one he was sure he left draped over his office chair this morning, but could not find, and reported to security. I am holding his new house key between my thumb and forefinger. I make no move towards him. I do not have to. And in that brief moment he makes no move either. The space between us has already shifted in a different way.

Then he calls out, or tries to, but the sound catches in his throat. The moment broken. His thoughts turn to confrontation. Not quite fight, not yet, perhaps some kind of argument, a demand for an explanation. “Who are you? What do you want?”

But I am walking away already and turn the corner of the street.

Now he gives chase. Anger. Heart pumping. He races around the corner but I am not there. The street empty. He looks around, fists balled, the fight still in his system. But there is no need for any of that, because I have already won, and deep down he is just starting to comprehend the truth of it.

Fight turns flight.

And so he runs. He will go to someone he trusts. A friend, a colleague, someone who he can tell what is happening without judging him. To unburden this impossible situation. Just to simply listen.

But I have already spoken to all of them. I have already passed all those tests of identity, and set my traps. They know me more than him.

Marcus opens the door with a weary expression. “Hey,” Marcus says, not quite meeting his eyes. “Come on in.”

He steps inside, words tumbling out before he can stop them. “Something’s happening. I think someone’s impersonating me.” The words come tumbling out “ My landlord said I came by his office on Tuesday about changing my locks, but I didn’t, and the other day at work someone sent a text from my phone… I never did, and—”

“Yeah, ok. Ok.” Marcus interrupts gently. “You told me. Remember?”

He stops. “What?”

Marcus sighs, gestures towards the sofa. “ Sit. Tuesday evening. You came by, said you were having some strange thoughts, and to not think you paranoid.”

He is about to interrupt but Marcus holds up a hand “ You were a bit rattled about losing your spare key, what with those recent break-ins, and some kind of mix up about a meeting you didn’t actually attend. These things happen. See? I remember. We talked for about an hour or so.” A pause. “It calmed you down, and you seemed okay when you left. Remember?”

“That wasn’t me.” The words hang in the air between them for a moment. “Marcus, you have to believe me, it wasn’t me…I..”

“Mate, seriously. Come on now. We talked about your mum’s health scare - and I’m glad she’s ok - and that bumped-up project deadline at work. Bloody Hell, you even told me about the dream you’d been having. You know, the one with the empty office building?”

He feels something cold settle deep within his chest. He did have that dream. I know because I have it too. These overlaps happen. The difference is he hasn’t told anyone about it, whereas I told my friend.

He says nothing and Marcus fills the silence.

“Sounds like an anxiety dream to me, but at least it wasn’t teeth falling out, eh?”

The humour falls flat and he just stands there.

“Ok, go home, get some rest. You look dreadful, sorry to say, mate. Have a chat with HR on Monday, if your company has a wellness policy, or talk to someone. Professional, I mean. They really can help with stress. Honest. But get some rest, and give me a call tomorrow if you want...”

“Yes, you’re right, of course, thank you” he says quietly in agreement. “I’ll go home. Rest”

He leaves. There are no further words to say, and no one else he can talk to. Not now. He can feel it in his bones. No friends or family. I have been with all of them.

In his heart he knows it is nearly over.

I am here.

He finds me in the apartment. In his mind it is still his apartment. But not for too much longer.

I have been expecting him and have had time to prepare. To set up this little tableau. I sit at his desk, my hands resting on the warm wood, his - my - latest post filling the screen of his laptop in front of me. I slowly spin it so he can see.

“Who are you?” he demands. His voice is hoarse, as if that might have some effect, some ability to exert dominance and take control of the situation, but he already knows the answer.

“I am you.”

His gaze flickers from me to the desk, to the other things I have placed on it - objects that he thinks of as his. His life, his identity. The phone, the keys, the wallet. But they are not his any longer. They were always meant to be mine. They are mine.

“I…I don’t understand,” he whispers at me, hands gripping the edge of the desk. But he does, they always do. He knew it the moment he first saw me.

I shake my head slowly, there is no need to explain anything, everything is as it is. I simply say “It’s over.”

He exhales hard, just once, one hard single pant - not quite a sob - the sound of something breaking deep within him, something that can never be repaired. That will never be repaired.

The door is still open behind him. He could run but he won’t. It is no longer an escape, but it is an exit. What is there no longer leads to the outside world.

His grip on my desk slackens, shoulders slumping as the very last drop of impotent resistance drains from him. It is not in fearful surrender, but in recognition of the truth. A final moment of understanding.

And now, and only now, does he fully accept what has happened. He looks through me, no final words, turns and steps forward through the door - not into the street. Not into the quotidian world he thought he knew. That route, that path of his existence is gone - but into the silently screaming void, the space that was always waiting for him.

And then he is gone.

I am here.

I am sitting in my chair, in my home, savouring the fabric of his existence that is now mine to inhabit. I have taken what I came for. And I am him.

Only now do I take a moment to acknowledge the end of our game. I stand, stretching my arms, and glance towards the door, and for the briefest of moments, just for an instant, I feel the last impression of him fade from this reality. And something unseen watching me back from the void. And then it is gone.

The air in the room is noticeably colder, the door is still open, but the world beyond its threshold is visible once more.

I do not linger in the apartment.

I close the door behind me, double locking it with my new key, and step forward into a life that is now mine.

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Do you understand now? This is my story, but it so easily could have been yours too.

And maybe it will be.

I am here.

The End