Mirror Image

“Dear God, we give thanks for the food we are about to eat and the company we share. Guide us to extend our love to all who walk this Earth,”

“And thank you for returning Adam to us!”

“Amen!”

“Grace.” My sister finished her prayer solemnly despite the interruption from my wife and my father, although I couldn’t help but smile as Emilia squeezed my hand and my father raised a glass in my name.

My father clapped me on the shoulder—the closest he could get to a hug while remaining seated at the dinner table. “It’s good to have you home, Son.”

“It’s good to be home,” I replied.

Six months ago, I was involved in a head-on collision with a drunk driver. I’d spent two weeks in a coma in the ICU before they were able to move me to the ward for recovery. I suffered a severe concussion, broke my neck, and had nearly lost my leg entirely. When my nurse announced that I would be able to come home for Christmas, I was overjoyed to be returning to a familiar environment. I still wore a neck brace and would likely never walk without a cane again, but I spent everyday grateful that I lived—no one else involved in the accident had survived.

At least, it was supposed to feel familiar.

“Have some mashed potatoes, Honey” my mom spoke as she dished them up on my plate. “I made them extra creamy this year, just for you.”

“So, would you say that this better than breakfast in bed?” my sister, Mary-Ann, asked.

“Hell yes,” I exclaimed as I scooped beans onto my plate. “If I never have to eat another meal lying down, it will be too soon.”

“Still, I wouldn’t mind being catered to every once in a while,” Mary-Ann sighed.

Across the table, my 4-year-old nephews, Luca and Noah, played with their food. They used the mashed potatoes and gravy to build volcanos on their plates and stuck asparagus straight up, mimicking trees.

Mary-Ann watched all this happen. All things considered, they weren’t making a terrible mess, and according to her, it made them more likely to finish all the food on their plate by the end of the meal. Beyond that, as a single mother, she had learned to pick her battles.

I laughed as the boys enthusiastically showed me their creative masterpiece, using my fork to bring food to my mouth, until… oh.

“Is something wrong, honey?” my mother asked.

“Something’s different about the mashed potatoes,” confusion showing on my face as I examined my plate.

“You think so?”

“I don’t know, maybe it’s just because I’ve been stuck on a hospital diet for so long,” I insisted, wanting to ensure I wouldn’t hurt her feelings. They tasted familiar, but also… sour. Perhaps she had used sour milk without realizing.

From that point on, I had an odd sensation that everyone paid particular attention to me during the remainder of the evening. It felt as though there was always someone watching me, even when I wasn’t the one speaking.

Uncomfortable, I leaned into Emilia’s side and whispered, “is it just me, or is everyone… watching me?” When she didn’t answer right away, I added, “do I have something on my face?”

“No dear, I’m sure it’s nothing. Everyone is just worried, that’s all. How is your neck feeling?”

“Sore, of course,” I caught myself rolling my eyes. Maybe they are just staring at the neck brace.

Still, Emilia wasn’t normally so quick to brush me off. Beyond that, I noticed other irregularities throughout the night. Luca, who normally hated asparagus, ate his without a complaint. Noah didn’t once try to steal food from his brother’s plate. Mary-Ann was more talkative than normal and was excited to share with us her current editing project despite normally detesting when people discussed work at the dinner table, and my dad, strangely, was wearing matching socks—I had never seen him wear matching socks on Christmas. None of these things were strange by themselves—odd, perhaps, although easily explainable—but together, they painted a picture of unfamiliarity.

I blamed it on being away from home for too long.  

After dinner, I stumbled upstairs to my old bedroom, craving a moment of rest. I collapsed onto my old bed, breathing in the scent of an old cologne teenager me used to think was cool. Cool breeze, it was called.

I smiled as I heard my nephews’ screaming downstairs. Surely, they were playing with one of the new toys they had gotten for Christmas. The adults gathered and laughed. I rolled onto my side and opened my phone to one new notification.   

Dude, what’s with this blog post you sent me? I texted Martin. Martin was my best friend since childhood, and an extreme conspiracy theorist. We loved talking about wild ideas; was King Charles a vampire? Atlantis definitely existed—but the post he sent me today read more like a ramble than a comprehensive theoretical breakdown.

Did you read it?

Yes, I read it. “Increased doppelganger reports: a cause for concern?”

Isn’t it wild?

What’s wild is the author’s complete disregard for grammar and syntax. I can hardly make out what this guy is trying to say.

He’s saying that doppelgangers might be working together. Y’know, slowly replacing one person at a time to study social relationships and become perfect copies of the people they replace. They could take your entire family, and you wouldn’t even know it until they came for you.

Yeah, right. Sorry, man, but this is one of your theories I don’t buy into.

Just you wait. The next time you see me, I might not be me anymore…

I laughed. Merry Christmas, Martin.

Merry Christmas, Adam. Stay safe!

I plugged my phone into the charger beside my bed and, feeling re-energized, rolled to get up. I reached for my cane but startled and knocked it down as I spotted my mirror image in the hallway. Had we always had a mirror there?

Startled, I hobbled over to inspect. As I came face to face with myself, I tilted my head inquisitively. A chill settled in my bones as I realized: my reflection stayed completely still.

And when I frowned, he smiled sinisterly back at me.