by Laura
(Pennsylvania USA)

I look into the mirror, and I can see the reflection. I see the face, the smooth, fair, lightly tanned skin of the cheeks and chin and nose and forehead. The slight spray of freckles across the bridge of the nose. The light sunburn from forgetting to put on sunscreen before heading off to the beach.

I see the eyes. The dark pools of emerald, the pupil, small from the great amount of light seeping into the room via the large glass window. I see the hair, the long, shining locks of red, cascading down to the shoulders and even further to the mid-back. I see the mouth, two pink, full lips below a tiny, ski-slope nose.

The body. Thin, curved, dressed in a white sundress, the bottom of the dress stained with mud around the hem. The legs, tan and long, curved at the calf with muscles built from swimming practice after school on Tuesdays and Thursdays and hours swimming in the cool water of the lake.

This person. It's me, but I swear, it's not. It's my reflection, as I've looked for a full thirteen years, but it's not me in this body, though I can look and think and feel and I'm still myself, but I'm not myself.

I breath. The body's chest moves up with the burst of air into it's... my... lungs. I can almost hear the heartbeat in the silence of the room. This body, bursting with life. Alive. Living and breathing and moving and thinking and loving and caring. Alive.

A hand. My hand. Reaches up to the reflective glass of the mirror. The hand in the reflection moves with the body's, meeting it at the barrier, where the coolness of it meets my hand.

My hand. My hand. It?s been my hand for so long. It's still scarred from scraping it at the bottom of the pool, going into the woods and climbing trees with Will. There's still dirt and marker ink in my nails, which have grown uneven over the years from lack of remembrance to clip them.

It's my hand. It's my body, my heart, my mind, my brain, my everything... but not my soul.

Injury. And accident. Pain. They all come back to me at this moment. Memories. My memories. I'm sure I died. I swear it happened... I swear it did...

But why can't I remember it?

These are my memories. I should remember everything, from my first memory to a week ago to the accident to the actual, real, death! Why can't I remember it? Why?

They cloned me. They cloned my body, my heart, my mind, my brain, every strand of hair on my head, everything! Everything but my soul and the memory of my death!

Someone's gone into my mind. Someone's erased certain memories. Someone's messed with me and my life and my mind and my soul.

Someone has been playing God.

'Christie!' I hear from downstairs. It's Will. My best friend. I remember him. 'Do you wanna go out to the woods and climb some trees? We can bring the popsicles?

I remember him. I remember the woods and the trees and the popsicles, but I can't remember the one most important event in my life.

My death.

I bring my hand back from the glass. There is an unnaturally cold stare on my face as I raise my hand and ball it into a fist. Slowly. Slowly I bring it back-


A fist. Behind my head. I see it in the mirror. I raise it as far as I can and feel the power surge through my veins-

'Do you hear me'?

SMASH - 'Christie?'

The blood pools down from my skin. In large pools, staining my dress, leaving my veins. I fall. The lips that were once a lovely shade of pink are now slowly turning blue. My whole body is tingling. I catch one last bloody glimpse of myself in the mirror as my eyes roll back into my head and I hear three last words-

'Don't you remember?'

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