When A Reflection Returns

March 29th, 2022

Dear Diary, 

Let me catch you up, it has been a while. Three months ago, my sister died. Isabella used to be the house favourite, my parents saw her as the warm, loving child they were rightfully owed. She was heading to medical school, laughed at everyone's jokes. There wasn't a person who knew her who had anything but nice things to say. At the funeral, at least. So when my parents were trapped in the epicentre of their grief, rejecting stiff hugs from me and ignoring my brother, two people arrived at our door. 

Late at night, dressed sharply in black. They deposited a bouquet of black chrysanthemums into my arms and headed straight for my parents. My parents' anger at these uninvited guests didn't last. 

It was the dark-haired woman who spoke first, her voice the wet dream of advertisers. Smoothly, with the appropriate levels of sadness, she explained to my parents that the loss of their child was horrible. The man spoke next, adding a little more bait by informing my parents that Isabella's DNA was on record. Then, my desperate parents looked up and swallowed the hook whole. 

They agreed to it before the guests even pulled out their agreement, and signed it half in a daze. It didn't feel right. 

I promise you, Diary, I would have protested. But I wanted her back too. I loved Isabella, and I think she was the only thing in the house that loved me back. 

In one month, we received our first progress report. The DNA was well preserved, and almost 50 per cent of the body had been reconstructed. 

As we got closer, the debates in my house grew more and more heated. My mother, slightly spiritual as she was, feared that bringing Isabella back was something unholy. Unwanted. 

My father, ever the pragmatic one, scoffed at the idea. Isabella was what we made her, he insisted. They're just making her again. 

The mind-body problem. Being debated right there, in my drawing-room. 

Every time my parents came close to changing their minds, the well dressed female guest returned. She helped my mother clean Isabella's room, chat about sweet memories about Isabella. Or she showed my father some progress report or another. Numbers. 

I myself, wondered how much of Isabella was coded in her DNA. My sister had faced trauma, failure, seen a certain amount of TV. Her personality had been smoothed, broken, melted down, forged. 

What would this stranger, this blank state be? When I asked the guest, she smiled at me, her grin perfectly trained to be kind. 

"Now, a certain amount of memory does get encoded simply into the genes. So it is possible that she will retain some of her...previous personality." 

Diary, I don't like that idea. But days slipped by, and my parents became more and more confident that Isabella would return. I started slipping into a bit of a depression (hence the torn pages, sorry about that). 

And then the day came, around two weeks ago, that they brought my sister to our door. 

They'd managed to reconstruct the last outfit she was wearing, and I blinked, half horrified, half sobbing, watching my wincing, wobbling sister return to the driveway. 

For a moment, my mind flashed back to her bloodstained, ruined body in the cold morgue. Then I was running, and wrapping my arms around her. 

Warm. She was so warm. 

"I've missed you." I pressed in deeper, not having hugged anyone for two months. 

Isabella said absolutely nothing. 

I pulled away, a little confused. My sister, paler now, with smoother, unblemished skin, stared back at me. 

"Give her some time to adjust. It's not easy being returned." The guest told me. 

My parents similarly broke down at seeing Isabella again. 

She nodded, looking dazed and vaguely alarmed as they dragged her in. 

The guests had my parents sign some last minute paperwork before leaving. 

I watched Isabella, watched her stare at everything. 

"Do you remember anything?" My mother asked tearfully, clutching at Isabella's arm. 

The copy of my sister nodded slightly, and continued slowly treading through the house. We followed her at a safe distance, like David Attenborough's documentary team. Monitoring the behaviour of the mysterious, five-toed sister clone. 

"Well?" I asked, once Isabella had made one shaky round of the kitchen. 

"It's nice." Isabella shrugged, and I waited for more. Nothing. My sister was a natural-born debater. There wasn't a thing in the world that escaped her critical eye, or demands for improvement. 

I crossed my arms, glancing over at my parents. My heart was slowly, irreversibly sinking. 

Even her presence was scaring me. 

But my mom waved a hand at me while my father glared. 

"Really now, Cami, she just got back." My mother herded Isabella with her, up the stairs. My brother scampered out of their way, looking shocked and unsure. 

I watched them. The real Isabella would have grinned by now, and hugged him. She wouldn't be behaving like this cold, stony robot. 

"Can you behave?" My father asked, looking irritated. 

"There is something wrong with her," I whispered to my dad. 

"She'll be alright, we can re-teach her everything. Do you have any idea how few people get a second chance like this?" 

"Exactly." I pointed to the ceiling. "Why did we get a second chance, and not-"

CRASH! My mother screamed suddenly and my father and I sprinted for the stairs, racing towards Isabella's room. 

My mother was babbling incoherently, so I moved past her. 

My sister was rocking back and forth on the floor, having knocked over a mirror. She was muttering, and her hands were clenched in the hair she was so proud of. The real Isabella didn't let anyone touch it. 

I gently reached for her hand, feeling the naturally textured strands under my fingers. "Izzy, Izzy what's wrong?"

So much was wrong.

Isabella kept rambling, rocking back and forth and I picked up a long sliver of the shattered mirror.

I held it near her and my sister shook violently, eyes wildly staring at her own face.

"It's just you." I soothed, getting some weird comfort with this creature. Not quite my sister, but I remembered the way she used to comfort me after vaccinations, or when I saw spiders.

"It's not." My sister choked out, eyes fixed on the reflection.

My mother was still sobbing behind us, and I made to get up but Isabella grabbed my arm.

"Please don't leave."

I nodded stiffly, sitting back down next to her. Waving my hands, I silently urged my parents to leave.

We sat in silence.

Isabella started murmuring again, and I frowned trying to listen and figure out what she was saying.

"Not me. The car didn't stop. Not me. Not me." Isabella murmured, and I squeezed her hand.

"That's right, it's not you." I told her, and she looked at me, eyes wide. "You're fake, sorry. My actual sister, Isabella-"

No flicker of recognition in these dark, deadened eyes.

"-died. You're a clone." I continued lightly petting her hair.

"But I know this place. I know you." The fake said, murmuring.

"Do you love me, or just know me?" I asked, gritting my teeth.

"I don't love you." Isabella replied, her chin tucked into her arms.

"That's okay, you know? It took us years and years to know each other. We'll just have to do that again." I informed her.

And that brings us to today, Diary. Isabella 2.0, or Isnotbella, as I call her, has continued to reintegrate into our lives.

She's like a puppy, or a very confused grandmother. Everything is a little familiar, yet completely foreign.

And I'm trying, Diary, I'm trying to teach her and remind her. It's sad to watch my parents finally grapple with Isabella's death.

And the fact that she'll never return.