1001 Love Stories Darker

doppelganger (4)

Word count: 3364

By the time I'd turned 15, I'd realised three things:

1) I'm very good looking.

2) I'm some guy named Matt's doppelganger.

3) Matt's a special breed of asshole.

Number one---I've known that I'm good looking since I was a young boy. People make a point to tell me. I'd grown up knowing I was good looking and my surprisingly wealthy parents had always gone out of their way to keep me gorgeous.

Number two---I say I'm his doppelganger because I'm always being mistaken for Matt. I don't know how often he's getting called Chris by strangers on the street, but I'm always being mistaken for him.

And three goes hand in hand with two. I know he's an asshole because I've never been mistaken for him in a 'oh, Matt how have you---oh, you're not Matt!' kind of way. Nope, I'll be minding my own business, then suddenly I'm slapped, punched, have coffee thrown on me - iced and hot- grabbed, and gutted. One guy even pulled a knife on me.

Then I have to show the aggressor my school ID to prove I'm not the twenty-seven year old they think I am. I usually get apology lunches.

I've made a lot of friends that way. Even though I'm a complete nerd and all the people Matt associates with are relatively unsavoury, when the few who realize I'm not the guy who owes them a few grand in coke and prostitutes, they let me know that if I need anything, I just need to ask. A few are actually pretty cool to hang out with.

When the assholes at my school decide to beat me up because their girlfriends, crushes, and sisters want to kiss my feet, it's good to have a few hardcore tattoo-covered drug dealers to come and make those guys regret even being enrolled in my school.

But then again, there's always someone Matt screws over and there'll be times when I forget about him only to have a chair thrown at my head for robbing some girl after a one night stand.

Now, even though I've never met Matt, I'm sure I would hate him if I did.

But things just went from bad to worse fifteen minutes ago.

I went for a jog this morning to clear my head, only to be stopped by a guy in a black Escalade. He got out, held up a picture to confirm that I was more than likely Matt, saw I had a close enough resemblance and suddenly I was grabbed and shoved into the back seat.

Now I'm sitting next to a dark guy with black hair, glasses and a damn gun two inches away from my face.

"You really know how to hide, Matt," the guy says, resting one hand on his knee, the other still pointing the gun at me.

"I'm not---"

"I didn't ask you to speak," he says and I feel tears welling up in my eyes.

"I had to come here. I was on vacation in Russia, hiding from the bitter cold between the legs of a very hot barely-twenty year old son of a diplomat who was about to learn very intimately that there's only ten inches between here and heaven. But no, Matt's stolen from us again and now I have to show you that there's only, what? Three inches between here and hell?" he says.

Strangely, though, there's something about his voice.

Something so familiar.

But that isn't important. Not now, anyway.

"But now, you'll never get away again," he chuckles, smirking.

I panic, instantly starting to bawl my eyes out. He looks slightly concerned by my child-like crying as I start to speak.