09/15/24

It was really good at pretending to be them. But it wasn't, and I was always going to figure it out.

It was ultimately the little things that gave it away. Things nobody but me would notice.

Ultimately its downfall was nothing it could have controlled. There simply was no substitute for years of companionship, the deep kind of love that imprints the other on you.

It ultimately was a tic. Or, the lack thereof. My beloved had always done their hair a very specific way. They always put the hair band on their left hand, then gathered their hair and slipped it on.

This time they had done the right hand. They never did that. I knew better.

Of course, I'm not insane. I wouldn't go to the lengths I had if that was it.

But that was what triggered my suspicion, and suddenly the entire facade started to show hairline cracks, and the more I pressed them, the more it turned into a beautiful and terrible spiderweb of broken glass. Held together by the frame, but broken nonetheless, irreparable and impossible to overlook, as much as I wanted to.

I had quietly observed for a month. There were too many things to ignore. The place they put kitchen utensils, the order of their skincare routine.

The way they knew things, but not the deeper history. This... Thing. It knew our inside jokes and routines, but didn't know their origins. At first, I would patiently recount them. Then I started giving purposefully wrong accounts. And it didn't question what I told it. At all. That in itself was a sign. They always questioned what I said, sometimes even if I was wrong and they were right.

There were too many signs to ignore after even a week. I don't know how I made it to a month.

The worst part is, I think it loved them too. In some way. I don't know how, why this happened, but there was such a drive to be them. To be perfect. Even when the facade dropped completely. It never gave up. I think maybe it loved me too, in its own way. I think it loved us both.

In the end though, I knew what I had to do. It couldn't be forgiven, but perhaps it could be consummated.

In my love, I destroyed it and what remained of them. What remained of them? Hard to say. I don't know. I saw their eyes; I saw their fear in them. I heard their voice, but it was not their speech. Their hands, but not their actions. Their posture but not their movement.

Their blood, their screams, their rent flesh. But not their pain. Not their suffering. I made sure to make it quick anyways, just in case.

I was careful with disposal. I set to work, respectfully as I could, dissecting, organizing the body of my beloved. I handled them with such care, befitting their status as my lover, and my adoration for them. I worked diligently, so as not to let anything spoil.

I took them into me, at first, with perhaps too much vigor. My resolve was not truly established yet, I had hesitated, thought about it too long. They came back out. Unseemly chunks on the floor. They did not deserve such careless handling.

I would not let it go to waste. Steeling myself, I returned it to the inside of me. I made sure it stayed there.

I felt their essence becoming part of me. I felt at ease. I felt... right. I didn't hesitate anymore. I continued my important work of becoming one with them. Not a bit of them went to waste.

Not a bit of it either. I started to feel more and more empathy for it. I felt its love for us both. I felt what they had felt. I felt them. I felt who they were, who they became, and finally, who they are. Who we are.

A part of me wonders if that’s me giving in the same way. That part is quietly, gently but firmly silenced.

Of course, I knew full well this would happen. I know both of us are in here. I will make sure we are never separated again. I made sure we would be together forever. And now, in my moment of true clarity and resolve, I will end us all. I love you.

I love us.