This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to events or people, living or dead, are entirely coincidental.

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CONTENT WARNING:

I'm being cloned this morning. It's a pretty interesting thing. I'm sitting at the dining table in the kitchen when I hear about it.

My partner enters. "I cloned you this morning."

Must have happened while I slept. No wonder the bed was empty–save for me.

"Why?" I turn to my partner. She's already looking at me. I turn back away.

"I wanted to," My partner crosses one arm through another. "Does that satisfy?"

"N-" I never finish.

"I don't care."

I don't say anything after that. We let the silence linger.

This will be the last moment we share together.

Leaving her keys on the table, my partner walks away.

I stay.

I'm to meet my clone at midday. It seems my partner still has to make the finishing touches.

Meanwhile, I haven't moved an inch from the dining table; I'm simply told to wait. I always try to do what I'm told, just in case I get in trouble.

So, I wait for my partner and my clone. For when I was ready–the other "I".

I can hear sounds coming from the garage. A cacaphony of sounds. When there's so many sounds, it sounds like there's more sounds than the sounds I hear.

Instead of sounds, the sounds are so loud that the sounds becomes indistinct, yet singular: Sound.

The sound is so loud. Even as it shakes me, I sit still as can be at the table. My body feels stiff and sore. These chairs aren't made for waiting in for so long.

The sound goes on for a long time. Suddenly it stops.

My clone enters.

"Hello, Me," says my clone.

"Hello, Me," says me.

There is me, before me. My clone looks just like me.

I'm not sure where my partner is, but there I am.

I speak with my clone through noon. It's a strange sensation–one I'm not used to.

We talk about different things. At first it's novel to be so similar... but after a time, it seems my clone isn't like me at all. Or, they're like me, but a different kind of "like me". An exacerbated me.

Or is that the me I am?

You can see where the strangeness comes from.

For the most part it's casual, like speaking with a faint acquaintance. We comment on the weather. I make lunch for us and we both eat in silence. No sign of my partner coming back any time soon; it's just me and me, alone together.

I don't know which rings stranger: agreeing with my clone or when disagreement arose. Both baffle, though my clone seems upset when opposed. I don't want to upset her. I think this would be a very bad thing to do. I think it's better to try and be nice; I don't know what the other me could be going through.

The tension never wanes.

Quietly it's as if my clone thought a great deal less of me–even as she is me. The way she speaks as if from above and I beneath. The way she stares right in my eyes while I avert my gaze at every instance. Despite our "sameness", it feels like my clone is picking on me.

Noting my trepidation, she shakes her head, assuring me this is all in jest. I'm a playful person, after all. That's just how I am, tells my clone to me.

I nod along, trying to believe myself.

My clone hurts me this evening.

It starts small. Pinches. Arm twists. Finger-nail digs. Though painful, it's of relative fun–to my clone, at least.

Punishment stays subdued until it suddenly isn't. Great pain never comes graceful. The shift, instant; a switch flips–right on the moment the back of her balled fist crashes into the back of my head, hard as never fathomed, where the base of my skull meets my spine.

I forgot lots of things.

I won't forget this.

After that my clone realizes she doesn't have to restrain herself. Or myself.

Actually, my clone is capable of a lot more torment than I could ever dish out.

Actually, this "me" is simply more capable in general. Better, even.

It scares me.

I'm not sitting at the table anymore. Face-down and quivering, I look straight on square linoleum tiling as the beating continues at my own clone's hands, feet, elbows and all else; all mine; each felt, from me, to me.

I keep crying, asking her to stop, please. I beg. I soil myself. The only reply comes from the linoleum squares growing before my eyes, so fast grow they, so bigly, right in front now fore bang cracks my face square against floor as my clone drives her knee into the back of my skull. It hurts. I must have done something bad. I apologize to her, screaming, I won't do it again, whatever it is, I swear I won't.

Knuckles wring my hair from atop and my neck snaps back. Squares shrink. Staring through stray hairs and teeth, darkening splotches along the linoleum floor make the tiling look mangled externally and bleeding internally. I vomit: I just made it worse. I feel so bad for those tiles. I apologize to the floor. The floor isn't broken. It's my mess to clean. I promise I'll do better.

Bang goes me against linoleum tiles again. My face newly reacquaints the pooling pile of blood and piss and bile. Shallow breaths blow bubbles into a membranous emulsification of excretions. My mess.

Through it all, I never once looked at her; but I could feel her smiling. So happily.

I can't talk about what she did t o me thro ug h the nigh t. I'm sorry.

When I t ry to remem ber, r emembering anyt hing is quite d iff icul t.

I'm sorry.

But I remember i t h u rt. I t h urt. It hur t so m uch.

I l et i t h a p pe n .

I'm sorry.

I killed my clone at sunrise.

I didn't mean to. Not at all. I really didn't. But I think she was going to kill me. After every which way she doled out pain, it was like she'd become done with me. The way she looked at me changed: like the part I played was soon coming to a swift and definite end. I was afraid of what that meant. I didn't want to die.

I don't want to die.

Is it brave if I want to live? Am I a coward if I want to live? Would it have been braver to take it face-on? Should I stay? Do I run?

I don't want to think anymore. About choices or anything, ever again. I'm decent with facts, though. Here's one: it's easier to cut a head clean off with a kitchen knife than I thought it would be. Even if the head being carved out and lopped off looked exactly as mine.

Here's another fact–that made it way easier.

The blood of my clone and my self drooled through cracks between linoleum squares. It filled up all the little gaps with dribbly, chunky red smears. How beautiful.

There was me, and what looked like me, pouring all over the kitchen; brain matter, bones, genitals, excretions, secretions, spatters and splatter and matted hair. Everywhere. Between Me and Me, we really made a mess of things. I couldn't tell what was which of who across the floor. A mix. But I know who I am. I hope.

I think.

My hands won't stop shaking. I can't stay here.

I think I should run.

I leave everything next morning. It's a unique experience.

Actually, that's a lie. I don't leave everything. I took your keys. And your car– but I figure you could simply clone these things should you need them again. No need to worry.

Everything else is gone, though.

Actually, not everything. One more lie. There's some other stuff I took with Me.

My viscera left spread across the kitchenette would have been a shame to leave behind. My mess–it's all just too pretty. Before I went, the least I could do is take your car and make it Mine instead. You took Me and used Me against Me: it's only fair I get to use Me against you, too. That's what I'm made for.

So, this is My ride: no trace of yellow left, just a deep crimson red coating every inch instead. This car is Mine; My car is covered in Me, and I am inside My car, driving Me around. Together, we're leaving town.

Whether or not this finds you in kind, fuck it. Have I a wells' worth more ink to spare but no will to spill more on you. Listen or don't:

I'm taking My car that's made of Me through to new places, sight-unseen; I'll meet new people who'll meet new Me, see My scars and bruises and bludgeonings; who wholly embrace Me for all of these, accepting Me, despite Me, unlike you–who never believed.

Sincerely,

Me

P.S. Do We have a problem?

From the morning to the midday to the noon through to night, over and again until the end of My life:

I don't care.