Two Way Mirror

Dear Lucy,

Please forgive this message’s method of delivery; I’m sure being handed a letter from a stranger who already knows your name is jarring at best. Unfortunately, the explanation for which isn’t any less so; but it’s one which you deserve, and this is the safest way for me to share it with you.

I am writing to inform you of an unseen truth, of which I am trusting you to maintain utmost confidentiality. Please—no matter how this may affect your emotions, please do not disrupt the process via its exposure. There are elements to this system that go deeper than even I have come to understand; the potential consequences of this information being revealed are incalculable. I hope that my personal bias is not misplacing my trust in you.

I’ve considered, a significant number of times, the best way to articulate this, but always seem to fall short in my efforts. At the core of it all, the point I want to make is that I know you, Lucy. I know you better than civilians are able to know one another—in a way that nobody else on this planet could.

My birth parents are members of a government-funded community, into which children are born to be involuntary participants in a virtual surveillance team. Each member of the team is assigned to whichever civilian child has a birth time closest to their own. You and I share a birthday—you were born just 26 minutes before I was. I’ve since learned that the inside of my crib was plastered wall-to-wall with monitors of you from various angles, equipped with speakers which picked up the slightest hints of audio from your environment. As I grew up, my crib was replaced with walls of the same design, and has been that way ever since, save a few upgrades. This is all to say that I have never known life outside of you. I’m probably watching you read this.

I was there for your first word. Records show it was “fish,” but I was obviously too little myself to remember firsthand. I fell asleep listening to the lullabies your dad sang, and danced along in my bedroom when you went to tap class. I remember your first heartbreak—I wanted to rip that guy’s throat out—and your first kiss. Admittedly, I wanted to rip that guy’s throat out, too. It was a weird feeling, jealousy—I hadn’t felt that sort of envy prior to that moment.

I spent a lot of time wondering what that feeling meant. I’m obviously familiar with love as a concept, but I’m not sure how it feels first-hand. If you were to ask me of my feelings for you, I’d have to say that I don’t know if I have enough experience to form a reference point. 

I haven’t interacted with many people, mostly just with members of my community. I still see my birth parents regularly, but parenthood is different here. There is no hugging, kissing, touching, the way there is in your world. 

Do you remember when you broke your arm, and you had to go to the emergency room? Remember the first nurse who came into your room? You were sobbing hysterically, absolutely petrified, and yet she couldn’t be bothered to make eye contact with you. Instead, she just scribbled your answers to her questions on a clipboard before making her exit, muttering something about having too many patients on her caseload on her way out. She reminded me of my mom, without the tray of food. I often wonder how many others she birthed.

You see, our system thrives off of the innate desire for connection, which nearly every human being possesses. Deprived of that—especially at an early enough age—members cling to the closest available source: our subjects. As clinical as the term may sound, understand that my perspective hardly went unbiased. You were, and have always been, the best friend I’ve known—the best friend who didn’t know they were. We’ve had one-way conversations in which you told me exactly what I needed to hear. When you put on your favorite shows, we laugh at all the same parts. 

Sometimes, I experience the strangest phenomenon in which things get dark when they aren’t supposed to. My face feels numb, my fingers begin to tingle and I can’t breathe. I become convinced that something horrible is going to happen, something I can’t quite put my finger on, and my mind races too fast to find the words. Nearly every time I’ve felt this way, you’ve just so happened to start to sing. Sometimes it’s when you’re doing chores, driving to work, in the shower—it once happened while you were performing at an open mic night. Every time, without fail, the sound of your voice brings me back to earth. It’s happened so many times that I’ve started to think it isn’t coincidental; that somehow, there’s a part of you that knows me, too.

The main flaw in our system is its inability to shield us from the way life is supposed to be. As I’ve learned from the shows that we’ve watched together, it is not uncommon for humans to feel other, or different. However, I am hauntingly aware of my life’s lack of normalcy. Everything which I have learned has been through the lens of your experience. I have been designed to lack identity so precisely that it’s merely an idea—a concept I’ve witnessed others experiencing through a screen, and I want it. I remember when you decided that you wanted to go to cosmetology school, you had to build a plan, save money, beg for your parents’ blessing—so you did. You knew what you wanted, and you fought for it. I want to know what I want—to know who I am—and I’m willing to fight to figure it out.

I’m not sure if escape is possible. I’ve never had the privacy to ask the others about those who have tried in the past, or dared ask a superior, lest I raise suspicion. However, I do have a plan in place which I think will give me the best chance of freedom.

As overwhelming as this may be for you to process, my time grows increasingly limited. Assuming all goes as planned, I’d be honored to meet you in person this Saturday night. I’ve enclosed the location details within the same envelope as this message; please burn both in a timely fashion, regardless of your decision. After we meet, you are welcome to stay with me for as long or as short a while as you’d prefer, and I would be more than willing to answer any questions you have. I sincerely hope to see you soon—for the first time, of your own volition.

Truly,

S