"Forget-Me-Not" by Kelsey M. Graham

Forget-Me-Not

If ever a story was written of me, it would begin: There once was a girl with eyes the color of uncertainty… But there is no story about me. Who would write it?

I looked in the mirror, scanning for my features. Straight brown hair that managed to look messy no matter what I did to it, eyes that were a blue-green-gray no-color, a few random scars and some acne. It wasn’t a pretty face, no matter what my mother would like me to believe. I knew it was there, but the reflection showed… Nothing. Just the wall behind me. Thank goodness I didn’t wear makeup. That would be a real chore to put on.

I got up with a huff. Staring at a mirror… a weird habit for an ugly- sorry, ‘self-conscious’, kid. I stuck my tongue out at the mirror (which still stubbornly refused to show my image) and left.

School did not go well. I slept through pre-AP, zoned-out during biology and SS, doodled eyes and flowers all over my Algebra papers, and got hit in the head with a basketball during PE. Twice. Even Art was a chore. Piles and piles of homework- welcome to high school- would await me when I came home. At least I would have the weekend to finish it all. I was sitting on the bus, lost in my angst-ridden teenage musings on the unfairness of life, school, and curfew laws, when something caught my eye. I glanced out the window and saw- me? I frowned, blinking. Nope, nothing there. I settled back into my seat and ignored everything until we reached my stop. As I dragged myself up to my house, I noticed that the forget-me-nots were blooming. I idly picked a few, shredding the tiny petals.

Ah, books. How could we survive without them? I was curled up with a much loved (by which I mean torn, dog-eared, stained, held-together-with-duct-tape-and-prayer) novel in one hand and a cup of hot tea in the other. Life is good. A flicker of movement caught my attention and I looked up and squeaked. Myself was in the mirror on the opposite wall, but it wasn’t this myself. The other me was wearing different clothes and was soaking wet, looking none too pleased. I yelped again as hot tea sloshed over my fingers. Lovely. I ran to get towels, not bothering to look back at the mirror. I knew there would be nothing there again.

Later that weekend, I was sitting at the computer typing when I had a strong sense that someone was watching me. “Stop it.” I muttered “I refuse to turn around so you might as well go away.” The sensation went away, but came back later that evening.

By now I was irritated. Enough was enough, I was tired of being haunted by… That. I grabbed a few necessities- flashlight, an old, speckled mirror, and collapsible shovel- and stomped out to the creek, those annoying little flowers catching at my feet, leaving little seed burrs stuck to my jeans.

The creek is not a nice place. It used to be- all pretty, young trees that made graceful light patterns with their leaves, dividing to create a little island where teenagers camped sometimes, tiny minnows and tadpoles swimming lazily in the sun-warmed shallow water. Unfortunately, thanks to the development nearby, the trees were all torn out of the ground, the path of the creek changed to destroy the island haven, making the whole area a dirt-scape of mud, cement, rotted weeds, and trash. Dirty plastic bags were caught in the tangles of tall grass, rocks and discarded pieces of old piping stuck out of the muck like old bones. Everything was covered in a thin sort of mud that worked its way onto skin and jeans, smearing, caking, and refusing to come off. Disgusting. Worse, the creek was moving more rapidly because all the water from the storm drain poured in. It had rained yesterday. The water was brown with mud and moving scarily fast. Brings back memories, doesn’t it? I ignored the voice in my head that this might not be the best of ideas as I stepped into the stream. Listening to voices can get you into trouble, you know. Cold! Oh ick, and slimy too. Next time I came here I would bring waders. I barely caught my balance as I slipped on a waterweed. Ick, ick, double ick.

Presiding over it all was the storm drain, a kind of arch-like cement tunnel. It squatted over the creek, an alien imposition on the swamp of decaying green and yellow and brown. In most places, they are supposed to have grates, but Illinois has so many budget issues that things like ‘safety’ get pushed to the side. Besides, it’s common sense. Don’t play in the storm drain, kids. I ducked into the tunnel. The water was over my ankles, and tugging hard. I sat down, ignoring that water soaking my jeans. The tunnel was small enough that I would have to bend nearly double to stand up. Yet another instance where being tall is a nuisance. Click. The mirror fell out of my pocket and lay on the ground, water washing over it, reflecting the dark concrete ceiling. I didn’t know why I had brought it. I leaned over to pick it up and frowned. Strange… It seemed to be reflecting something else… I jerked my head back, but wasn’t fast enough. Something knocked me to the ground, sending the mirror off spinning. It pushed my head down into the water, hard. I was so startled I could hardly move, and only one thing kept repeating in my head. This is how- this is how- The other me pushed my head down harder, and I could feel my vision going black. No air left… This is how I… Suddenly the pressure released, and I jerked my head out of the water, gasping and coughing.

“W- why?” I wheezed, staring at the other me in shock.

“Because I’m better than you.” Her voice was exactly like my own, “Your nose is bleeding, you know.” I absently wiped at the blood, watching her carefully. Why hadn’t she killed me? It is extremely difficult to hold a struggling physical body underwater when you yourself are incorporeal (I should know), but that wasn’t a problem here, her resolve, her hate was strong enough. I’d given her more than enough reason. I stared blankly at her. Why on earth did she let me live?

“Because killing you wouldn’t get me my body back, Doppelgänger.” She sat down, knees to her chest, just like I always do. “Dead is dead, and neither of us can change that.” I still didn’t get it. What about revenge? She had a lot to be mad at me for. Murdering her and taking over her life being at the top of the list. Again, she read my mind.

“Revenge would be stupid. If I killed you, my family wouldn’t have their oldest daughter. How could I do something like that to them?” Now I got it. My- her parents didn’t know she was dead. If I died, it would be to them like their own daughter was dead. But…

“Still- why didn’t you kill me? Please don’t tell me you have some bizarre sense of mercy!”

She gave me a strange look. “I wouldn’t spit on mercy if I were you, Doppelgänger. You deserve death more than I ever did.” I shrugged. I am what I am. I’d come to terms with my own nature long ago. Her eyes softened, and a note of sadness crept into her voice “I always wondered, though- why did you choose me?”

I eyed her sarcastically. “What, would you prefer I had drowned someone else? An old drunkard, perhaps, whom no one would have missed?” She flushed.

“I- I, well…” she stammered, then trailed off. Yes, of course she would have.

“The truth is, you were there. You were unlucky. I was able to break through. If you wanted a better reason, I’m sorry.” She nodded, unsurprised, and stood up.

“I am leaving, Doppelgänger. You won’t see me, but I will be watching you. Hurt my family, even think it, and I will be back for you.” I nodded quickly. She smiled slightly. “But… Somehow I don’t think I’ll have to worry about that so much. They are yours too, after all.” She/me faded away, leaving only the rushing water and me with my own thoughts.

To be a Doppelgänger is to be an imperfect reflection of humanity. Certain aspects are magnified, while others seem to disappear. We are incomplete, and we hate ourselves for it. But rarely, oh, so rarely, our hatred finds a different target. Because we realize that the original is not perfect either, and think that perhaps we could do better. And even more rarely than that, our loathing allows us to shatter the glass that divides us. But there can never be two… I had no right to be alive. But then, perhaps no one really does. That’s mercy, I guess.

I reached over and retrieved the mirror from where it had spun off to when I was knocked down. Something was different. I blinked at the dark blur. My face? My reflection stared back at me for the first time, although it seemed to be smirking slightly. I’ll be watching you… I smiled back, putting the mirror away. I won’t forget.