The first time I saw him was walking out of a grocery store on Beacon street. A Trader Joe’s, I think it was. It was Wednesday, mid-afternoon, and I was heading home from campus after class let out early, but the streets were crowded. I had just hopped off the light rail and was starting to walk the final stretch to my apartment. It’s a nice street, where the light rail stop is; lots of shops, businesses, restaurants. A good little district. I wish I could get out and enjoy it more. I was halfway down the block when he caught my eye. I was just walking past the doors of the store when he walked out, about fifteen feet or so ahead of me, grocery bags under each arm. He turned left and carried on down the sidewalk.
It was a subconscious response, recognizing him in the crowd, my brain picking up on the familiar image in a sea of anonymous faces, and it startled me, to say the least. It was one of those moments where my brain registered the sight automatically, before I even knew what I was looking at or why it had suddenly caught my attention. By the time I really looked, I half expected to realize I was wrong; like when you think you see someone standing in the corner of your room at night, but it turns out it’s only a shadow. But this time I looked, and the image before me didn’t change.
I tried to quicken my pace to catch up to him, but I got stopped by the foot traffic of the store and neighboring coffee shop, so by the time I made it through the swarm of people, I’d lost him. The sidewalk had cleared, so I should have been able to see him, even if he’d made it a little further down the block. Maybe he’d gone into another shop, or maybe he’d crossed the street somewhere in the crowd. I scanned up and down the sidewalk but couldn’t find him. Just as quickly as he’d shown up, he was gone. But the image of his face was clear in my mind, a surreal image, like something out of a bad dream.
Because the person I’d seen walking out of a grocery store on Beacon Street was me.
I felt a little uneasy, obviously, by the time I got back to my apartment. My roommate, Michael, was home - he didn’t have work on Wednesdays. He was sitting on the couch, shirtless in a pair of black gym shorts, his bare feet propped up on the coffee table, playing Borderlands 2. He looked over his shoulder and greeted me while I dropped my keys on the kitchen counter.
“You alright?” he asked. “You look…frazzled.”
“Oh, yeah,” I paused. “I’m fine.” Michael’s expression told me he didn’t believe me. “It’s just…” I began, unsure what to say. “When I was walking home, I…” my voice trailed off.
“Yeah?” Michael encouraged.
I wanted to tell him. I didn’t even have to say “I saw myself”, not exactly. I could say that I saw someone who looked like me. Just like me. Surely that sounded less crazy, right?
“I was crossing the street and I…” My brain froze and I couldn’t think of any good way to word it. “I didn’t see this car come out of nowhere. Almost hit me.”
“Oh my gosh, that sounds scary,” Michael said earnestly, pausing his game and setting the controller beside him on the couch. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, just a little shaken up,” I said. At least that part was true.
“Dude, I’m glad you’re alright,” he responded, getting up from the couch and coming over to me. His eyes bore into me, as if inspecting me for damage, and my cheeks burned with shame.
“Yeah, me too,” I mumbled.
“I’ll grab you a beer, sounds like you need one.” Michael retrieved two bottles from our fridge and opened them, handing me one. “Man, God is good. He was really looking out for you,” he held out his bottle for a toast. I tapped the neck of my bottle against his and took a sip. “Glad you’re okay, bro.”
Michael went back to the couch after that, and I escaped to my room. I sat on the bed and let out a long, strained breath. It had already been a weird day, but now my confusion about the encounter was mingled with guilt over lying to Michael. I felt like I should have told him the truth, but I also knew that the truth didn’t sound remotely plausible. So maybe I did the right thing? My brain suddenly felt overcrowded. I laid back on my bed and closed my eyes, hoping some stillness would give my mind a chance to rest.
I must have dozed off, because I woke up to the sound of knocking on my door.
“Hey dude, it’s almost six, we gotta head out soon,” Michael’s voice called out from the other side. I sat up and looked around the room, wiping the confusion and sleep from my eyes.
On Wednesdays, Michael and I helped lead the Youth Group at our church. That’s where we met, Michael and me. He was from Boston, and was doing a Pastoral Residency at the church. I’d moved here to get my MDiv at Boston College and found the church a few weeks into my first semester, but quickly became involved. Small group, youth group, Sunday school, helping out with AV stuff, you name it. Michael and I spent quite a bit of time together during all these activities, and we became fast friends. Together we’d formed a bit of a ministerial dream team, at least as far as twenty-four-year-old guys were concerned, and people began to recognize us as a pair.
I went into the bathroom and turned on the tap, splashing some cold water on my face. I looked a little pale and tired, but that was pretty normal these days. I couldn’t remember the last time I didn’t feel tired. I tried to fix my hair where my nap had created an unintentional mohawk when I heard Michael’s voice at the door.
“Sorry,” he shouted, rushing into the bathroom naked, holding a pair of gray boxer briefs over his crotch. “Forgot I never showered after basketball earlier,” he said, throwing back the shower curtain and turning on the water. “I could smell myself when I started getting dressed.”
I forced a laugh and told him it was fine, as this type of bathroom interruption was far from unique. Michael had grown up with three brothers, and he lived like it - he treated our fridge like communal food stores; he hung out in various states of undress half the day, usually just in his boxers in the warmer months; and he had no qualms about hopping in the shower while I was getting ready at the sink because he accidentally overslept. At first this openness caught me off guard. I’d grown up with a sister in a home where modesty bordered on prudishness, so much so that I barely felt comfortable being undressed when I was alone.
But Michael was different. He moved about our apartment with a confidence that felt foreign to me. He was a good-looking guy, tall, lean, with tan skin and jet-black hair, the trademark of his Italian ancestry. He’d played basketball in high school, and he’d stayed in killer shape all through college and beyond. He wore his body so comfortably, with such casual ease, like he’d never had to doubt himself, never had to wonder about taking up too much space in a room, never felt shame or doubt or uncertainty about his appearance, never had to question how others might perceive him. I envied him for it.
I continued fixing my hair, trying not to notice his body in the mirror, the dark hair peeking out from around the edges of his crumpled up briefs. He hopped into the shower and I felt relieved he hadn’t noticed the blush that always appeared on my cheeks during these interactions. I never wanted to make them a big deal, but I couldn’t ever seem to avoid the stolen glances, the quickened heartbeat, the way my mouth would go dry. I told myself it was just the shock of it, the novelty. I wasn’t used to seeing anyone’s body but my own, and even that was infrequent. But Michael’s body, his effortless strength and golden skin, was an enigma.
Thirty minutes later we were on our way to church.
The evening passed uneventfully, though I had a hard time staying engaged. Fortunately, we had a guest speaker for the night, which allowed me to mostly check out. Normally, I’d be responsible for facilitating discussion among my group, a task that would be impossible tonight amidst my wandering mind. I kept replaying my afternoon, looking for any indication that I’d been wrong, any sign that maybe I’d made the whole thing up. But the memory was clear. I felt paranoid, like people could read my thoughts, feel my mind racing. Like they could smell it on me. I’d make eye contact with someone and immediately look away, as if I might accidentally give away this strange encounter and therefore somehow expose something of myself. I was relieved when the speaker wrapped up his talk and the room bowed to pray.
After Youth Group, Michael and I always stay late to help clean up the room and reset the furniture. Tonight was no different, though I was grateful for the physical task, something to keep my hands busy, to steady my restless thoughts. I was stacking a row of chairs when I noticed McKenzie approach me.
“Hi,” she said, offering a warm smile.
“Oh, hi,” I replied, snapping myself out of the haze I’d been in. I met her eyes, which looked kindly into mine. They were beautiful, a shade of turquoise that shone against her wavy blonde hair.
“I heard about what happened to you today,” she said compassionately, placing a comforting hand on my forearm. “That sounds so scary.”
For a moment, I froze, unsure how she could have possibly found out. What could I possibly have done to give myself away? But then, I looked behind her and saw Michael laughing with one of the students, and realization – and relief – rushed over me. “Oh, yeah,” I stammered, “It was. But I’m okay, so it’s no big deal. Really.”
“Well, I’m glad it’s not,” she smiled again. “That would have been really terrible.”
“I appreciate the concern,” I chuckled. “I’ll just have to be more careful next time. Did you know you need to look both ways before you cross the street?” I teased.
She gave a friendly smirk. “I had no idea, thank you so much for telling me.” She laughed and wandered back over to the girls in her group. I went back to stacking chairs.
Later that night, Michael and I were sitting in the living room watching reruns of The Office on TV. As it went to commercial, Michael looked over at me with a sly grin.
“I saw McKenzie talking to you tonight,” he said with feigned nonchalance. “Looks like she was worried about you there for a second.”
“Yeah,” I said flatly, “Apparently she ‘heard about what happened’ earlier today.”
“Well, you know how word gets around.”
I gave him a blank stare. “Why’d you tell her?”
He smiled and shrugged. “I don’t know, man. It was kinda crazy. It’s not everyday your roommate almost gets hit by a car.”
“Okay, fine, but why did you tell her?” I repeated.
“Oh come on, dude,” he gave me a knowing look. “You guys have been tiptoeing around being an item for months now. I thought if he she heard about what happened it might, I don’t know, move things along.”
I tried to think of a smart comeback, but nothing came to mind. He wasn’t wrong - McKenzie and I had become friends at the small group we both attended, and we definitely had the chemistry to venture into More-Than-Friends territory. I knew people were expecting us to get together, I could feel it in the way they looked at us. I’d even been debating asking her out for a couple months, but for some reason I just hadn’t worked up the nerve to do it. I told myself I was too busy with school to add on the pressure of a new relationship, which was definitely true; but there was another part of me that couldn’t bring myself to ask her out, that felt it was wrong. And I didn’t want to think about why.
I let out a defeated sigh. “Well, thank you for your concern, but I didn’t ask you to play wingman for me.”
“I know, man. You don’t have to ask, that’s what friends are for,” he teased.
“Sure,” I laughed uncomfortably. “But in the future can you just leave it alone?”
He groaned. “Oh come on, dude, you gotta make a move eventually right? She obviously likes you, so I don’t know what you’re sitting around waiting for. If you don’t make a move, some other lucky guy is gonna come along and beat you to it.”
“That’s a risk I’m willing to take,” I mumbled, staring at the tv.
“Oh, don’t be like that. She’s a really great girl, I just don’t want to see you blow this –”
“Why do you even care? This is none of your business.” I raised my voice.
“I was just trying to help,” he said softly.
“Well, I don’t want your help. Leave it alone,” I snapped. Michael visibly flinched, and I immediately felt bad. “Sorry,” I muttered. “It’s been a long day. I think I just need to go to bed.”
“Yeah,” Michael said, clearly hurt. “Of course. Goodnight, man.”
The next day passed without incident. So did the one after that. It was Saturday when I saw him again. I was walking down Beacon Street when he came out of a fitness studio. One of those small, expensive workout class places. The kind real fitness fanatics went. He was wearing black athletic shorts and a bright orange, sleeveless shirt, and his body rippled with lean muscle. He wore a small cross-body bag and had on sunglasses that looked expensive and trendy. In fact, I was so startled by his appearance that I stopped walking, nearly causing a collision with a woman walking behind me.
So he’s not an exact copy of me, I thought as I fell in step a few yards behind him. Sure, we had the same height, same face, same hair, even the same frame, but his body was noticeably different. I was skinny and pale from a prolonged lack of exercise and sun exposure due to my long hours indoors studying. I’d never been athletic, so I’d never really had any real muscle. Michael was always inviting me to the gym or to a pickup basketball game, but I usually turned him down. Something about working out always overwhelmed me, made my stomach sour with embarrassment.
So this guy, this other version of me, was unexpected. I marveled at his toned arms and shoulders, proudly displayed in the orange shirt; I stared enviously at his strong legs, carrying him effortlessly down the sidewalk. He walked energetically, bobbing his head along to some song only he could hear. His movements reminded me of Michael’s – strong, confident, effortless. Walking down the street like he was absolutely certain he had a place here. Somewhat different from my usual, modest shuffle.
I followed him for another block until he turned abruptly and entered a vegan cafe and coffee shop. I paused on the sidewalk, debating whether or not to follow him inside. I needed to get to campus to start on my term paper, but I had some time. I took a deep breath and walked into the cafe.
It was busy, not surprising at this hour on a Saturday morning. Happy, healthy-looking people chatted at small tables and sitting areas, and a few people stood in line at the bar, waiting to order a smoothie or an eight-dollar latte. I scanned the shop, looking for a bright orange shirt, but I didn’t see him. I froze, just inside the doorway, feeling suddenly disoriented. He’d just walked in a few moments before; where could he possibly have gone? I saw a sign for restrooms in the back corner and wondered if he could have gone there, or if, like last time, he’d simply disappeared.
“Are you in line?” a friendly voice asked behind me. I turned to see a cheerful brunette in athleisure wear, holding a yoga mat.
“Uh, no, sorry.” I stepped out of her way and walked back out to the sidewalk.
I walked to the light rail station and caught the next train to campus. Standing in the train car, holding onto the support rail, I felt painfully aware of my scrawny arms, my narrow shoulders hunched beneath my backpack, my thin frame hidden beneath old jeans and a thrifted t-shirt. My mood had soured by the time I got to campus, and I dreaded the long day of writing ahead of me. I managed to make decent progress on my introduction, but I kept getting interrupted by thoughts of bright orange fabric and tan skin.
I began to see him regularly after that. Each encounter is similar: passing on the street, close enough to know that it’s him but just out of reach of any direct contact. I always try to cut my way through the crowd or across the street to catch him, but I’m always stopped; and by the time I finally get to where I saw him, he’s gone. Usually he’s going to or coming from a place I’d never go myself - the vegan cafe, a men’s barber, a craft cocktail bar, a trendy restaurant, the boutique fitness studio - places I didn’t visit either for lack of time or lack of money. I always see him while I’m trudging to campus for a full day of classes or rushing home to drop my things and get ready for church.
My schedule has been packed this semester. I’m taking fifteen hours and have church things three nights a week. Plus Sundays. It’s exhausting, and it’s taking all my energy to keep myself motivated. But every time I see this Other Me, he looks relaxed, carefree, happy. He looks like he hasn’t had to worry about exams or papers in ages. I’ve started to resent him for it. I’m working hard, trying to do something important with my life, while he’s out frivolously drinking and buying overpriced, organic groceries. It’s not fair.
In fact, it’s driving me a little crazy. It’s not the seeing him bit that gets to me; it’s constantly being unable to reach him, to speak to him, to get answers. It’s the unpredictability, the elusiveness of it all, like he’s doing it on purpose. Teasing me. Taunting me. Making me feel like I’m the one that shouldn’t be there. I’m always on guard now, always scanning the crowd to look for him, never knowing when or where he’s going to show up. It’s consuming so much of my energy, being hypervigilant like this. I’m worried he’s going to show up on campus, on the light rail, on my way to church. Where people might see us both. Where people I know might see him.
It’s the kind of thing I feel like I should tell someone, but I don’t have a clue how I’d approach that conversation. If I told Michael, he’d probably just tell me I’m working too hard and need to get some rest, that I’m just stressed and confused and that it’ll sort itself out with time. If I told someone at church…well, I’m sure I’d get a variety of responses – some would just tell me they’d pray for me and then talk about it at their next morning Bible study, out of concern of course; others would probably think I was under a demonic attack and want to stage some sort of wild intervention. Frankly, I didn’t want to deal with either of those reactions, so I just decided to keep quiet, ignore him the best I could, and hope he goes away on his own.
He didn’t.
It’s Friday evening, and I’m walking home from campus when I see him again. I had to stay late to finish a paper, so it’s well into dinner time, and the streets are calm, the sun is beginning to set. Michael told me he was going out with a couple friends from church, asked me if I wanted to join them. I politely declined, telling him I wasn’t feeling well, that I needed some time to myself.
I’m about to turn the corner to my block when I see him, just across the street, sitting at a table on a restaurant patio. It’s a small place, quaint, a little brownstone Italian restaurant. A cozy, romantic place. A place I’ve never had a reason to go. He’s laughing and reaching for a glass of wine on the table. Across from him sits another man, about my age. He is handsome, with a beaming smile, close cropped hair and the faint shadow of a beard. He looks muscular in his gray t-shirt.
They clearly seem to be enjoying themselves, and it looks like they’ve finished with dinner – empty plates and a basket of bread are on the table next to an empty pitcher of sangria. I see this Other Me picking his wallet up off the table, and they both begin to stand. I freeze, watching them exit the restaurant patio, chatting excitedly, and make their way down the street in the direction I’d just come from. I begin to follow them from across the street, curious to see their next move. I’ve never seen this Other Me interacting with anyone, and I’m intrigued by this new development. It makes it somehow more real to see him not alone. Another wave of envy and resentment burns through me.
About a block down, they enter a cocktail bar together, an upscale place I’d wanted to try. The Other Me jumps ahead to hold the door open with a comical flare, gesturing to the stranger to enter. The other man laughs and walks inside. Feeling curious and determined, I cross the street and walk into the bar.
Once inside, I scan the restaurant, fully expecting the Other Me to perform his usual disappearing act, so I am surprised when I see them sitting at the back of the long bar, huddled together conspiratorially, looking intently at the menu. Panicked, I grab a spot by the door, hoping to go unnoticed. Having never managed to follow the Other Me successfully, I had never considered what I’d do if I were to actually find him. So I slip into a chair, pretending to look at a menu when a waitress walks up.
“Hi there!” she greets me with a smile, “Do you know what you’d like?”
I jump. “Um, yeah. I’ll have an IPA, whatever you’ve got on draught is fine,” I say, and she disappears behind the bar.
Across the room, the Other Me and his companion are deep in conversation. I kick myself for getting a seat so far away, wishing I was close enough to hear them. But there is a certain animated quality to their conversation that intrigues me, a chemistry between them that makes me feel envious and uncomfortable. They are turned towards one another, leaned forward slightly, each giving their undivided attention. I look comfortable and confident – this Other Me, that is – with my arm casually propped up on the bar. I must say something funny, because the Stranger in Gray throws his head back and laughs, placing his hand on my forearm. And he leaves it there.
I let him leave it there. I lean forward, a mischievous smile on my face, and elicit another laugh from the guy in gray. He pulls his hand away but leaves it on the bar, fingertips just barely grazing mine.
The waitress reappears, bringing my beer, once again startling me. I thank her, and she disappears again. The bartender presents two cocktails to Other Me and the Stranger in Gray, and they pick up their classes for a toast. They clink their glasses and take a sip, then soon switch glasses and take a sip of each other’s drinks. I continue to watch them for a while, their conversation growing more animated, their mannerisms growing more intimate, hands grazing, fingertips tracing lazy circles on forearms.
Eventually they finish their drinks, and begin to leave. I duck my head as they walk by, staring at my phone, trying to avoid recognition. I toss some cash on the table and follow them out the door, where I see them about twenty feet ahead of me, back towards the direction of the restaurant. It’s dark now, but I can tell it’s them. They’re strolling slowly, at a meandering pace, gently bumping shoulders together. The stroll of a prolonged goodbye.
They stop, turning towards one another, saying something I can’t quite make out. The guy in gray smiles and nods his head, and I lean in for a kiss. It’s a gentle kiss, slow and relaxed, and it lasts for several seconds. I feel the back of my neck grow warm and a knot forms in my stomach. I feel threatened and angry, suddenly concerned about how open and exposed they are, out here on the sidewalk where anyone I know might see them. But they don’t seem to mind. When they break away, they’re both smiling. They turn and continue walking, holding hands.
As they get to the end of the block, I realize with increasing alarm where they must be going. They’re leaving the commercial areas, passing the last few businesses on the street – an old laundromat, a craft store, a UPS store – heading into an area that’s mostly all residential. They turn left, confirming my suspicion. They’re going back to my apartment.
I pick up my pace, trying to get to the corner quickly, closing the distance between us. I watch them reach my building, and head up the front steps. The Other Me pulls out a set of keys – my keys – and lets them both inside.
I follow them up the stairs where I hear them enter my apartment. Opening the door, I see a trail of clothing starting in the living room, leading back to my bedroom, and I hear the muffled sounds of moaning coming from down the hall. I reach my room, the door left open flagrantly, and I see them there on my bed.
I am naked, lying on my back, my head resting against my pillows. The stranger in gray, now wearing only a pair of black briefs, crouches on all fours before me, head bobbing up and down over my crotch. I hear the sounds of sucking, slurping, moaning; I see myself, head tossed back in ecstasy, satisfied sighs escaping from half-parted lips. Suddenly, this Other Me opens his eyes and slowly raises his head, his gaze falling squarely on me. We stare at one another for what feels like minutes, and he gives me a knowing smile. Then, unfazed by my presence, he places his hands on the other man’s head, and brings their mouths together in a kiss. It is a hungry, passionate kiss, fueled by uninhibited lust and need. The other man reaches back to peel off his briefs and, naked, straddles the Other Me, reaching behind him, guiding my cock into position, and lowers himself down.
I watch them, frozen in horrified fascination, listening to their moans, their sighs, the expletives they mutter under their breath. My hands explore the stranger's torso, squeezing his chest, gripping his biceps, tracing lines up and down his back, stroking him as he bounces up and down. Eventually, I grab hold of the stranger’s waist, lifting him off, letting him fall to the side; I crawl to my knees, the other man taking my place against the pillows, and I grabs hold of his legs, lifting them into the air, lowering myself into position; and with a confidence and force that demonstrates ample experience, I begin to thrust.
I feel the bile rising in my stomach, and I rush to the bathroom, vomiting into the toilet. I hear them from the other room, thrusting and moaning and cursing, crying out shamelessly. I turn on the faucet and splash cold water on my face, hoping the sound of water will drown out their uninhibited noises. It doesn’t, and in the mirror I see my face, contorted in ecstasy, lips parted in a lazy smile.
I turn off the faucet, and the noises stop. I hear the front door open and shut, hear footsteps as someone re-enters my room, hear the sound of a body falling onto my bed. I exit the bathroom and walk into the kitchen, examining my surroundings – the living room lamp has been turned on, the front door has been locked, the trail of clothes has been removed. It’s dark and eerily quiet, as if time itself has skipped forward like a record on a turntable.
I enter the kitchen and grab a knife from the block on the counter.
Cautiously, I return to my room, trying to avoid making any noise as I approach. On my bed, I see myself, lying naked and sprawled across the duvet, one arm over my forehead, another aimlessly tossed to the side. The air is thick with the smell of sex. The room is silent. Slowly, he turns his head as I enter the doorway.
“Hello,” he says without moving, without covering himself. “I was wondering when you were gonna join in.”
“Who are you?” I ask, trying to conceal the trembling in my voice.
He lifts his head and narrows his eyes at me. “Don’t ask questions you already know the answer to,” he says.
“Where did you come from?” I continue.
He smiles, and sits up, his hand absentmindedly reaching down to adjust himself. “You know, despite how hard you’ve tried to ignore me, I’ve actually been here for a long time.” He holds my gaze intently. “I just figured it was finally time to get your attention.”
“What do you want?” I say, louder, taking a step further into the room.
“Now there we go, now you're asking the right questions,” he says, giving me a sinister smile. “Believe it or not, I want what you want.”
“No,” I object. “No, that’s not true. I don’t want this. I don't want…that.”
His hands drop to the bed and he lets out a disappointed sigh. “Still doing this, are we?” he mumbles, more so to himself than to me. He scoots forward to the edge of my bed and stands. I look at his body, lean and muscular and immaculately groomed. His chest rises and falls with a deep breath, and I can see the traces of semen drying on his abdomen. I wonder whose it is. “You know, I’m not sure what’s worse – lying to yourself or the fact you might actually still believe that.”
“You don’t get to say that to me,” I stammer. “You don’t know me.”
He lets out a low, sardonic laugh. “Oh, I know you. I know everything about you. I know how miserable you are. I know how much you hate your master’s program, how much you regret moving here. I know how stuck you feel, and I know how much you fear letting people down if you quit. I know how hard you pretend to be happy, how entitled you feel by suffering through your life everyday like some goddamned martyr just so a few people who barely know you will pat you on the back and tell you how impressive you are. I know how you try to stay busy so you never have to slow down and look at the choices you’ve made; I know how disappointed you feel when you look in the mirror; I know what you’re curious about, what you search on your phone in the middle of the night when you can’t sleep. I know what you think about whenever you touch yourself.”
“Stop it,” I spit, holding the knife out in front of me, hand trembling.
“I know the looks you steal. At Michael. In the bathroom getting ready.” He walks slowly, menacingly towards me. “When he’s hopping in the shower, barely trying to cover himself. I know how much you envy his body, his athleticism, his effortless sexuality. I know how you sometimes listen to him pleasure himself, standing outside his room in the mornings, your ear pressed against the door. Listening to the muffled moans on the other side. Picturing it. Wondering how he likes it.”
“Stop it!” I repeat, shouting, gripping the knife harder.
“I know you hate yourself for it. You feel disgusting. Defective. Broken. But,” he takes a final step, the knife making contact with his chest. “You don’t have to.” He stands there, letting his words settle over us, waiting for my reply. “You don’t have to be afraid of me,” he whispers.
“I want you to leave,” I say, squaring my shoulders against him.
He looks down and sighs, eventually looking up at me with a sad smile. His eyes narrow, burning into mine. “You know I can’t do that.”
“Yes, you can. Get out!” I shout.
“It’s too late for that, I’m afraid” he held up his hands in surrender.
“You’ve left before,” I growl back. “You’ve always left before.”
“That was before you decided to follow me,” he says, giving me a cold stare. “I’m here because of you. Because you pulled on this thread. Because you wanted to see where this went.”
“No, that’s…” I stammer. “That’s not what I was doing. You showed up at my home, did that in my bed. You’re an intruder!”
“Well that didn’t seem to stop you from watching,” he says, a glint in his eyes. You know,” he grabs my wrist and lowers the knife to my side. “It’s okay to admit you enjoyed it.”
“Stop it,” I plead.
“It was hot,” he continues, grinning wickedly. He reaches up with his free hand, cupping my face in his palm. His hand is warm and soft, I press against it. “I know you don’t believe it,” he whispers, “but it’s okay to want things. To want this…” His voice trails off, and he closes the distance between us, his hand sliding into my hair, and he leans forward to kiss me. His mouth is gentle and patient. He lets go of my wrist and brings his other hand to my face, tilting my head to kiss me more deeply, his tongue slipping against mine. My mind feels like it might shatter.
Memories flash through my head in an instant – church sermons condemning the depraved spiral of our culture, the crowd cheering in agreement; a boy with blond hair smiling at me on the playground, holding my hand; my parents turning off a movie after two men kiss, a look of disgust on their faces; an older cousin staying with us at Christmas, changing clothes before bedtime, his body tall and lean and covered in strange patches of brown hair; a boy in Sunday School laughing at me, telling me I sing like a girl; a middle school sleepover, my friend and I touching each other beneath the covers.
I feel his body press against me and realize that I am hard beneath my jeans. I pull my head back and shove this Other Me away, gasping for air, desperately trying to clear my head. He looks at me, his eyes clouded with disappointment. “Like it or not,” he says, bringing his hands up to wipe his face, “I’m just going to keep coming back.”
The anger swells within me, and noise escapes from my throat, an angry, desperate, vengeful, snarling sound like a cornered animal. I lunge forward, arm extended, and plunge the knife into his stomach, sending us both toppling onto the bed. Growling and crying and shouting indeterminate words, I thrust the knife into him again and again and again. It enters him easily, his body offering much less resistance than I would have thought. He doesn’t fight back, doesn’t look away, doesn’t make a sound as I stab him over and over, feeling the rage subside and my breathing begin to steady. When I finally stop, I look down and notice my hand, my clothes, my duvet all covered in blood, and a sour, metallic, hollow feeling settles in my gut. I look at his face, afraid of what I might see.
He is still looking at me, brow furrowed and eyes soft, a look of compassion and pity. He reaches a bloody hand up and cups my face, offering a strained smile and wet, rattling cough. “I’ll see you around,” he says. His smile fades, his eyes go dim, and the hand falls to his side. I continue to stare at him in horror, anger, regret, and a thousand other emotions I can’t begin to name, when I hear the sound of a key turning the lock of the front door. In a panic, I jump up and look at the nightmarish scene before me.
“Hey man, I’m home,” Michael calls out from the entryway. “Brought you some food.”
I throw the knife onto the bed and rush out of my room, closing the door behind me. I try to make a dash for the bathroom, but Michael meets me in the hall. I stand there, frozen, breathing heavily, hair disheveled, covered in blood. He stares at me for a second, a look of mild surprise on his face. He doesn’t react, doesn’t acknowledge the blood in any way. Instead, he asks earnestly, “How are you feeling, man?”
I look down at myself and notice a drop of blood falling from my hand, landing on the carpeted floor. “Oh, um” I begin, my brain spinning. “Better now.”
Michael gives me a friendly smile. “Good. Glad you got some time to yourself then. Sounds like you needed it.” He passes me in the hallway and pauses at the door to his room. “I put some food in the fridge, wasn’t sure if you'd eaten.”
“Oh. Thanks,” I say, my voice distant.
I walk into the bathroom on unsteady feet and turn on the light. It blinds me, and I have to wait a second for my eyes to adjust. As I look in the mirror, I’m horrified by the strange, hollow face that looks back at me. His eyes are sunken and dark, his face pale, his frame alarmingly thin. He looks like a corpse. A lifeless, joyless, hopeless corpse. My stomach churns with resentment.
I turn on the shower and give it a minute to warm up. I wonder what to do with the body now that Michael is home. I wonder how long it will be before he realizes something about me has changed, that I’ve done something so horrific. That I could be capable of it. I wonder how long it will take for word to spread. Through church. To McKenzie. My mind reels at the thought of the fallout. That’s a problem for Future Me, I tell myself. It doesn’t matter now. Right now I need a shower, a cup of tea, and a good night’s sleep.
Fully clothed, I step into the shower and let the water rinse the blood from my body. I watch it cascade to the floor, circling the drain like ribbons of crimson on the cold, white tile.
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