The DoppleGanger

Duality

Jackie stood staring at the clock mounted on the wall of her living room. A negligible part of her was intensely mindful of each tick of the minute hand. She thought about the previous year, how far she'd come, and what she still had to do. She knew the entire song now and was eager to sing it. A melody that would bestow her another life.

She dreamed about her new life, what it would be like to be Isabelle. A sheepish smile flashed across Jackie's face while she became absorbed in a daydream. What it would be like to have friends who appreciated her and felt she was worth knowing. She couldn't talk about who Jackie was. Of course not. That would be a bridge way too far. They'd never understand, and hopefully, never believe her either if she felt so inclined to share. She'd be prepared to pursue a fresh career, maybe something with some real earning potential, something proper. Anything was better than teaching.

Jackie thought of having to reintroduce herself to her former colleagues around the campus with a different face. She blushed in embarrassment at what they would say if they'd ever found out what she had accomplished. Would she be able to resist the impulse to boast? She'd never been one to brag about her accomplishments. But she'd never done anything like this before. Nobody had.

'Maybe someone had... maybe I'm not the only one.' Jackie pondered.

Jackie looked down at her own body and grimaced. She had never hated herself as often as she did now. Her mind was clouded so regularly with the plethora of symptoms to the point she forgot what it was like to have a 'good day' anymore. To herself, Jackie felt and looked like a corpse walking among the living. This artificially alive thing. Were it not for the rebirth on the horizon, she'd have preferred to perish long ago.

She closed her eyes. The world swirled around her as she struggled to stay awake. She thought about her doctor, who had called and left several messages to check in on her. Jackie had missed several appointments, and because of the expected progression of symptoms, they doubtlessly believed she'd already died. If anybody had let themselves into her house, they would have immediately accepted that somebody had.

The bedroom floor was strewn with heaps of dirty laundry and crumpled trash. In the living room, hundreds of used pens and pencils lay where they were discarded. Mail had stacked up, as did newspapers and boxes. The lighting intensified each element of filth as it cast striking shadows against each corner of every wall.

A stench lingered in the air that Jackie had long since blocked out of untended trash and decomposing food. In the kitchen, many dishes were left in and around the sink. Mold happily grew wherever the dish breached the low pool of sink water.

Jackie slowly shuffled to the fridge. She needed to maintain her strength. She opened the refrigerator, and an utterly new level of filth met her nose. This rot was potent enough that even Jackie faintly noticed it, but she couldn't care enough to locate the source. Everything she ate made her sick, so she wouldn't expect anything could make it worse. Not that she could taste much anymore. She picked something out of the fridge, placed it on the top plate from the sink, and microwaved it.

While she nibbled her dinner, she peeked around the sticky notes lining the walls. After she had settled at home full time, many of these notes were the only things keeping her going. To Jackie, each note from one of her outings brought back a vivid memory of someone she'd observed. Someone she pretended to be. Moments rehearsed a hundred occasions. Most of these memories revolved around Isabelle, but many were about wholly different people who caught Jackie's eye. Very few were from herself and even less were about herself.

Those notes that were about herself were from a Jacklyn that was graced with fleeting flashes of lucidity and clarity. A part of her was keenly cognizant of how things were developing. She'd shifted dramatically and silently suffered every step of the way. These hasty scrawlings were a futile attempt for that version of herself to avoid what was going to take place.