Musings of a Doppelgänger

“Changelings,” she would call them. Ghastly little things, they were fairies or trolls depending on her mood at the time, but the stories she told with them always followed the same premise. Infants snatched out of their cribs in the night with naught but a whimper, parents nursing a leech in the shape of their loved one, and a tearful realization far too late. When I was young, I thought it was our little secret, a pocket of history forgotten, but with age, I discovered how few things haven't been neatly filed into the shelves of human understanding. Even still, it never faltered in being the favorite of my grandma’s stories; as a child, part of me even believed they were out there somewhere. Perhaps it was a strange comfort, but I always felt a kinship with the little devils

According to the stories, it would take years for parents to realize they were nurturing a monster, but it only took a few days for mine to notice the imperfections, skin that was a little too dark and hair that grew into waves of ash rather than the curls of flame which danced upon my sister's scalp. As soon as I could form enough thoughts for self-awareness, the separation between my family and myself was obvious, and by the time I reached middle school, I could tell my sister blamed me for her father’s absence in our life. She never told me directly, but I could see it in the way she looked at me, forced smiles and choked laughter.

I didn’t mind it, however. Her silence is already more than she owes me, I would think, after all, I’m lucky they didn’t just throw me out with the rest of the doppelgangers. At the time, the existence of faeries seemed far more probable than the truth.

Despite or because of that, my grandmother still told me her stories, and I still listened for as long as I could. Even as she had trouble recalling the specifics or addressed me by the wrong name, I remained by her side. Her last year of life was spent in a daze; my sister told me she finally got caught up in the waves within her mind, the writhing waves of static. They warped everything they touched, cruelly recognizable but just outside of reach. It was almost a guilty release when we got the news.

My mother didn’t want me to come to the funeral, yet even then, I understood. If I did love her, I would stay away. I’d spoil the mood. I spent her entire life wishing that I could be more like her, more like my family. What a coincidence that the one thing I inherited from her was that which took her away. I recognized the signs quickly, but I wouldn’t have acted on them if my sister hadn’t noticed. It was a relatively small mistake on my part, I can’t even remember the specifics, but it was enough to catch her attention. I hated the face she gave me, twisted and pale; I told myself it had to be pity. 

It didn’t take a week for her to sign me up for the Program. During my grandmother’s own childhood, the prospect was scarcely more believable than her stories of witches and monsters, but human innovation continues its march. A “miracle” is what the representatives called it as they led me through their office. They wore tight suits and tighter smiles. 

“A way to artificially extend your life through a proxy body,” they chirped in cheerful tones. The smell of mildew and cheap cologne followed our procession through a maze of cubicles and down an elevator. That's where they showed me said proxy, where they showed me my corpse. 

Raven black hair frames his face and softly drapes over his shoulders. Poreless skin was wrapped around synthetic muscle and a steel skeleton; he was only visible behind the glass window of his capsule-shaped pod. A faerie wearing my face, or perhaps it was the other way around? The representatives assured me that he wasn’t complete yet. He would be shaped to follow my body closer, proportions fixed, filled out with artificial fat, and color added to his plastic skin. 

“Does he have to look like me?.” At this slightest expression of desire, their gazes seemed to shift; they looked me up and down, identifying their selling point.

 “Of course not! Your new body can be shaped to your preferences. Would you want to be taller? More muscular? Perhaps you would like to have a sharper chin or smaller nose?”

“I want to change his hair color,” I can barely hear myself over the faint sound of pen on paper. They assured me that they would let the engineers know as soon as I signed the papers. 

Unfortunately for them, those papers weren’t signed that day. I know why I turned them down, but I felt an intense pain in my gut when I did so. To their credit, their smiles didn’t falter, and they simply sat me down for a second offer. Next week, I would meet with another of their customers; someone who had successfully undergone the Program. After doing so, I would have another week to finalize my decision. Despite my best instincts, I accepted the terms.

I chose to walk home after the interview rather than take the bus. The crimson glow of dusk stained the sky, but the harsh lights of streetlamps flooded the street in blue. I only realized that I had wandered past my apartment when my sister pulled up beside me. She gave me that repulsive look again as I crawled into the passenger seat. It's not what you think. I wondered if she realized the magnitude of the choice she had hoisted upon my shoulders. How painful that decision would be either way.

I don’t blame her for it, whether she realizes the Program’s true function or not. I don’t fully recall how I even knew about it. Most likely, I had looked into it after the symptoms began to grow more prevalent. Whether that was out of curiosity or genuine concern is one of the details that escapes me. 

What I had discovered was that the Program isn’t an upload or even a miracle; it is closer to an assisted suicide. A murder of the self to create a copy of my mind which would be subsequently forced into the body in the basement. It would carry on in life and do what I never accomplished, but there is little logic behind the direct “transfer” of consciousness. At least that’s what I believed. There were those who disagreed; many people claimed the new bodies seemed almost too “human” to be machines. Perhaps I don’t give enough credence to the soul, but the thought did little to ease my worries. If I got into that chair, I would never get up again. I would be replaced. The idea should’ve kept me up, yet that night I dreamed.

I wandered through an endless void. Nothing broke the expanse until I happened upon a simple mirror suspended in the air. It was covered in a dark cloth, rippling in a nonexistent wind. I ran my hand over its velvety surface, admiring and delaying the inevitable act of removing it. Slowly, and with trembling hands, I began pulling the veil off its hidden face. 

Together, we finished the action with a final wrench of our arm, revealing each other for the first time. Stretching out behind him, rolling hills were dotted with trees and flowers of impossible colors, a world far removed from the empty space around me. We raised my hand in synchronicity and approached the mirror's surface with trembling footsteps. A paragon and a leech separated by an infinitely small space. What a cruel irony that I recalled that dream more clearly than my own memories.

The shadow of my dreams and their implications still clung to me into the next week. As promised, the Program’s representative was waiting at a nearby cafe. I got there a few minutes late, and he was already perched at a table as I walked through the door. The soft chime of bells echoed in my ears when I first saw him. He was undeniably inhuman, yet perfect in his strangeness. One foot in front of the other, he seemed to dance towards me, each movement more fluid than water. 

He guided me to his corner seat, but the contents of our conversation were a blur. I couldn’t tear my eyes from his form; every time I thought I caught a flaw about him, he seemed to shift. A scar above his left eye turned smooth as porcelain in the instant I blinked. A squeaky laugh would be softened over by his next chuckle. Everything, up to his behavior, would mutate into what I deemed most appropriate. Once, he went to the counter to get us coffee, and by the time he returned, his previously short hair now fell upon his shoulders. He was a painting whose palette never dried, constantly morphing into new and increasingly beautiful landscapes. 

The details evade me, but at some point, he caught on to my hesitation.

“You must believe those who talk about the Program’s… theoretical issues. Look, I won’t attempt to convince you that you are guaranteed to come out the other side, but I have a feeling that it doesn't bother you.” He was right. How was he so right? “If you truly thought the process would kill you and still showed up, you aren’t doing this for yourself. Besides, where’s your hope?” 

We parted ways not long after that, and I made my way home where I found my sister waiting for me. She had cooked a meal for us, my favorite. We made small talk for a while as we sat around my table, but she eventually broached the subject which hung about like a thick fog. The Program.

“You don’t have to worry about it. You and the… man managed to convince me.” That was the only possible ending - it couldn’t have gone another way. My hesitation had always been more ornamental than functional, and when I walked out of that cafe, I had realized how truly selfish it was to even entertain it. The best-case scenario for refusing the process was living out the rest of my days with a swiftly decaying mind. With the Program though, I could leave behind more than memories for those who survive me. I realized how fragile those could be.

I had expected that comment to put an end to the conversation, yet when I raised my head from my plate, my sister wore a familiar expression.

“You don’t get it, do you? It’s not about convincing you; it never has been. I want you, my brother, to make a decision. YOU! For once in your life, think for yourself! I don’t want to lose you, but it’s YOUR choice.” Even as she looked at me then, her face was distorted, but for the first time, I realized it wasn’t pity. 

She was scared. Scared for me and for herself. Scared of losing a sibling. Before that moment, I hadn’t truly considered why she had insisted on keeping contact with the child that ruined her life. How foolish I was. I never met my father, and I can’t recall the last time I saw my mother. Whether that was a fault of my mind or hers, I still don’t know. And yet, there my sister sat. She was unfaltering despite her self-loathing heap of a brother. She deserved better than what she got in this life, and of that, I am solid in my thoughts.

That’s why I sit in this chair now, the cold steel biting at my exposed flesh. In the end, I never gave her an answer that night. I couldn’t. I am broken in more than just my mind, and I could never trust myself to give that answer. That simple answer: “I want to live.”

Even as I fall apart, I want to appreciate the little things. There is so much I haven’t done because I feared hurting others. I want to spend more time with my sister. I want to meet my birth father. I want to learn how to paint.

They are strapping the headgear on now. It hurts more than I would’ve expected. In less than a minute, it will be over - one way or the other. Either I’ll be someone worthy of my sister’s care, or perhaps I’ll finally get to hear more of grandma’s stories. Funny. I never considered the idea of an afterlife before.

Despite my rational mind, there is a part of me who wants to have hope that this isn’t the end, that I will wake up in a few minutes better than ever. If I can do anything in my life for myself, let it be this thought. This wish.

I hear the machine hum to life. The hair on my arms stands up under the static. My sister, I had almost forgotten her name. It was Sofí. That’s a nice name, a fitting name.

There is a slight sting like needles in my scalp.

Then it’s over