I Saw Myself Today

It's starting to get dark outside. The small bits of sunlight breaking through the closed blinds cast lines on the wall that continue to grow in length until they will eventually disappear. As I stare blankly at the front door, the glass of cheap, blended whiskey in my left hand tremors. The nervous movement flings droplets of condensation from my glass to the shotgun resting diagonally across my lap. It also stares at the door.

I fear the darkness, but I know it won't last. Everything will be fine, I've convinced myself. Everything will be perfectly fine. Tomorrow morning, the sun will rise and I will be sober again, though not comfortably so. The impending hangover will be my own fault, but it's a punishment I'm willing to accept if it will help me forget the events that transpired today. I only hope that if he bursts through that door tonight, my liquor-soaked brain will be able to react effectively and the shotgun will find its target.

Today didn't seem like it would go so poorly; at least, I had no reason to think it would when I rolled out of bed this morning a few minutes before noon. It was Saturday, my favorite day of the week, and the only thing better than a Saturday is a Saturday without plans and no intention to make any. Things seemed pretty routine for a lazy weekend morning. I brushed my teeth, took a shower, and went into the kitchen to make breakfast. I grabbed a box of Count Chocula from the top of the fridge. Yeah, I'm aware that it's July and the cereal is probably stale, but I'm an adult and I'll eat whatever god damn cereal I want, especially when I spent almost four dollars on it last year.

I poured a bowl of the chocolate vampire cereal and picked out a piece to test it for freshness. It was definitely very stale, but nothing a little milk couldn't mask. I opened the refrigerator and immediately noticed that the gallon container of milk was nearly empty. Furthermore, the little bit remaining in the plastic jug seemed resistant to movement and the expiration date suggested that I haven't had cereal since Easter.

"That dog don't hunt," I muttered to myself as I threw the jug in the direction of the trashcan and prepared myself for a trip to the grocery store. After strapping on my sandals and tossing on my favorite t-shirt, I stuffed my keys into my pocket and strolled outside to greet the unbearable summer weather.

My car was where I parked it, which is always a blessing, though sometimes I wish someone would take it away and force my hand into buying something better. I guess I shouldn't complain, though. My old Chrysler may not be the fastest car, or the safest, or the least-dented, or the safest, but what it lacked in reliability and unbroken windows, it made up for in heart. I hopped in and suffered with what I imagined dignity to be as the "leather" seat burned every part of my body it touched. Once fully adjusted to the heat, I put my key into the ignition and turned it. Nothing happened. I then turned it a few more times, yelled for a bit, punched the steering wheel, and at some point managed to get the car started.

The drive to the grocery store was pretty unexciting. At one point, I thought I was being pulled over for having plates that expired three years ago, but I realized the police officer was just turning on his lights to blow through a red light. I can't say I blame him; I would never stop at a red light if I were a cop. Probably wouldn't follow any laws, for that matter. I tried to signal to him that I approve of his devil-may-care policing style as he whipped by, but I think he was too busy texting someone on his phone to see my thumbs-up.

At the store, I found the milk without any problems. I decided to be realistic and only buy a half gallon container of two percent. That will give me less to have to throw away in three months. I also picked up a few other essentials at the store, such as a block of sharp cheddar, a bag of gummy bears, a USB car charger for my phone on the ride home, and a tabloid magazine that I convinced the cashier I was buying for my non-existent wife. In the parking lot, I walked by a very attractive young woman who appeared to be heading into the store. Ever the hopeless romantic, I started walking in the direction of the nicest car in the parking lot, taking care to loudly exclaim how great it is to be rich. She continued toward the store, paying me no mind.

"Can't win 'em all," I told myself as I shifted course to my real car. When I got in, the process of being burned by the seat started anew, but at least the car started with no issues. It, too, was ready to get home and continue this lazy Saturday. I pulled the car out of the parking lot and started on my way home.

This is where my story gets strange.

It's happened to me on more than one occasion where I would see a car similar to mine when driving around. Every time, I would think to myself, "Is that my car?" before realizing that I was, in fact, driving my own car at that moment. I can't help but feel a little embarrassed when it happens, but I'm sure it happens to other people too and it is kind of funny mistake to make.

This time was no mistake. I passed by a similar Chrysler to mine, although much cleaner and heading in the opposite direction. After making the assumption that it was my car and immediately correcting myself, I decided to look into the car to see who the lucky devil behind the wheel was. I couldn't believe what I was seeing.

It was me.

I wish I was joking. I'm trying to convince myself now that I let the heat get to me, but deep down I know what I saw. Behind the wheel of that 1996 Chrysler Sebring was a person who looked in every way like the man I see in the mirror every morning. I was in shock. After what seemed like an eternity of staring at him, he turned his head slightly to the left and our eyes met. He was looking at me.

In that moment, I half-expected his face to also turn to one of terror at the sight of himself, but it didn't. Quite the opposite, his face turned to a smile and he removed his right hand from the steering wheel to wave at me, like one would when passing a friend or a neighbor on the road. I just stared in disbelief as he returned his hand to the steering wheel and turned his head back while still keeping his eyes focused toward me. In the moment before he fully took his vision off me and returned it to the road, I swear to all that is holy that he winked at me with his left eye.

By that point, I was so unnerved that I felt myself shaking. I pulled into a Long John Silver's parking lot to calm down and try to make some sense of what I'd seen. Who was that? What car was that? Why did he not only recognize me, but also seem so enthusiastic to see me? Where was he going?

I had to get home. I rushed out of the parking lot as quickly as my car would allow and, channeling my inner cop, blasted through every red light I came across until I recklessly skid into my apartment parking space. Frantically, I rushed from the car to my apartment door, leaving my milk and other assorted goods behind to suffer in the sunlight. It felt like it took an eternity to stop my hands from shaking long enough to get my key inserted into the door knob. When I turned the key, I noticed a lack of internal movement within the lock and realized that I never locked the apartment door before leaving earlier. I threw the door open with the keys still hanging on and nearly gasped at the sight of my apartment. It was spotless, sterile even.

Don't get me wrong; I don't live in squalor or anything, but my apartment does typically maintain a consistent messiness to it. I like to describe it as being in a "lived-in" condition. This was nowhere near that. The apartment appeared vacuumed, everything was put away, including the dishes, and the milk jug I'd thrown away earlier was gone along with the rest of the trash. I'd be proud of the work put into this level of cleanliness if I'd done it, but it wasn't me. Someone else thoroughly cleaned my apartment.
Suddenly aware of my exposure to the outside world, I stepped the rest of the way into my apartment, slammed the door, and took care to lock the doorknob and the deadbolt. It was then that the smell of the outside world faded away and that of the apartment took over. I could faintly smell bleach, which I attributed to the cleaning, but I could also smell a certain mustiness. I lack the appropriate vocabulary to describe the scent itself in great detail, but I can say that it bore a strong resemblance to what one would find in a funeral home.

I began drinking. I didn't know what else I could do. The police wouldn't believe a word of it. They would tell me I was seeing things in the heat and then they would compliment me on how well I wiped down the baseboards. Not a lot of twenty-somethings would put in that level of care, they'd remark. My family wouldn't buy it either and neither would any of my friends who lived nearby. I thought about leaving, but as terrified as I was of my apartment, I shuddered at the thought of running into me in public with my back exposed. There is only one entrance to this apartment that he could use and I wanted to be ready and waiting for him if he decided to come back. I grabbed the shotgun out of my closet that I purchased a few months ago after the antique store three blocks away got robbed and inspected it. It would do. I loaded it with a few slugs, poured a glass of whiskey, and sat on the edge of my couch. I was ready for him.

A few hours and drinks have passed and my story has come around to its beginning. While I sit here waiting for the opportunity to kill myself, I can't help but wonder if maybe I am going crazy. What if I forgot all about cleaning my apartment? I've gotten into fits of cleaning before, so it's not entirely impossible. But what about the funeral home smell? I can't explain where it's coming from and the musty stench grows more and more sinister to me as the night draws nearer. I'm about to call it a night. I've come to terms with my craziness at this point. We all make mistakes and even if he is real, the door to my apartment is locked. The level of noise he would need to make to get it open would alert me in time to grab the shotgun and meet him as he enters. Everything will be fine.

I start getting up from the couch when the door knob begins to rattle. All doubt flushes from my mind as I quickly shoot up and point the shotgun at the door. The door knob rattles for a few more seconds and then stops. I'm left staring at the door, my heart pounding to the point of explosion. Everything is silent now. Did he give up? Why did he only rattle the door knob a bit and then decide to leave?

Another question passes through my mind and the realization it brings leaves me so overwhelmed with feelings of horror that I drop the shotgun and begin trembling uncontrollably.

Where did I leave my keys?