He looks at me and laughs.
You know who I am, Sean.
The answer makes no sense, offers zero clarity.
I say, You look like me, but you are not me. We are completely different.
He leans forward, so close to me his nose touches mine.
He says, Only at this moment in time, homie.
He reaches into his pocket, takes out his phone. Starts dialling a number.
What are you doing? I say.
Mia? he says, looking right at me, smiling. Hi.
And then, I lose it. Because interfering with Akemi and Charles is one thing. But butting into Mia’s life? That’s a goddamn step too far.
I grab the phone, end the call and toss it away, and before he can react, before he can say anything, I’m on him, smashing my fist onto his face, over and over, I’m someone I don’t recognize, taken over by a rage, and Other Me, he doesn’t do anything, all he does is take it, a smile on his face as I pummel away, even when the blood starts to flow from his nose and his lips and his cut eye, even when the effort draws sweat from my brow, drip-drip-dripping, and his smile turns into a laugh, not a chuckle, not a cackle, but a deep laugh of contentment – this laugh, it tugs at something deep inside me, so raw I take my camera from my neck and bring it straight down onto his cheek, no playing, it feels like I’ve been at it for days, I’m tired, my arm is numb, and I stop to catch my breath.
I retreat to the other end of the sofa.
I look at him, his face now swollen, and red.
And in this perfect face gone ugly – my face – I see it all.
I see the split, the two sides of me, one side overpowered by the other until it has all but disappeared.
I see what that disappearance has done to me.
I see that I am a half-person.
I get up, start to leave, and he says, Hey, where you going? We’re not done yet.
Stay away from me, I say. Stay away from Charles and Akemi. Stay away from Mia.
And as I walk away, his laughter follows until I’m out of the flat and the door has closed shut behind me.
F
IFTY
-T
WO
For some reason, the goddamn door won’t open. The key won’t go into the keyhole.
I hold the little piece of metal up to my face, looking to see if maybe it’s changed shape or something, suddenly grown too wide to fit into its slot. I can’t really see it all that well though, on account of my shaking hand.
I grab my wrist with my other hand, will the key to go in and turn, and finally I am back in the safety of the penthouse.
After I’ve stumbled to the fridge, got me some water, chugged the whole lot down and sat down at the table, the kitchen is quiet.
The long pendant light illuminates the table. But around me, everything is dark.
I look at my camera on the table, the edge of its smooth, matt, chrome metal body blotched with dried blood.
His blood.
My blood.
My body feels like it’s vibrating at hyper-speeds.
Effectively, I have just beat the shit out of myself, and I don’t think I will ever be able to shake the terrible image of my own fucked-up face, for as long as I live.
To calm myself down I choose a bottle of Japanese single malt whisky from Charles’s collection, pour myself a glass, down it.
I feel the flush instantly, the pressure in my face, my heart beating even faster than it was before.
Bad idea, Sean.
Half an hour later, after some panicked deep breathing, I think I am maybe calming down.
I think about Other Me, and I understand now. I understand why he was so different to me.
Why he seemed to occupy the space he occupied so fully.
