My Little Clone

Fiction

Remember how crisp the air was when you realized you’re my little clone? I raise my arm, you raise yours. I say I’m right, you teach others what I’ve taught you. I close the curtains during sunrise, you remain awake in the dark. But now you’ve grown. I overeat, you undereat. I stay home, you go out. I keep to myself, you broadcast your life. You barely speak to me. You saw an empty bottle and thought you were reliving your childhood. I got it under control. You worry about you and how much your hair sheds. How easily your skin bruises. How you can barely hold down food.

Your problem isn’t me. It’s within you. My little clone. Lift your chin when you raise your voice. Look at me. Repeat what you said. Such animosity toward the one who raised you. You were once nestled in my womb. You plopped out and cried and there I was. Holding you against my breasts. One day, you got bigger. You were heavier to lift. You knew more words. Where’d you learn the word “negligent”? Was it from your 2nd grade teacher, Mrs. Coleman, who pulled me aside during the parent-teacher conference to tell me you’re acting strange? That you don’t play with other kids and have an imaginary friend you dance with? “Your daughter told me you’re always asleep on the couch when she’s home,” she said.

I forgive you for many things. When you ran away. When you told your classmates I hit you. When you broke all my bottles, and I cut my foot on glass. You told me you hate me. I yanked out strands of your hair. You screamed. I stopped. You’ve never forgotten this. But see, my little clone, you can’t constantly be the victim. Let me be for once. Let me tell you how often my own father wounded me. Have you been held upside down, your head dumped into a cold bucket of water for being too loud and disturbing your father? Have you woken up in the middle of the night, strangled until your father had his way with you? And where was my mother? She could have been a statue. Nothing. She did absolutely nothing.

I’m the drops of blood from each person connected to me. So are you. You like to feel that you’re different. That you’re mature, patient, composed. Don’t you remember how easily you gripped my arms during an argument? You carry my anger but mask it well. These friends of yours. Do they know you like I do? Or do they just know your reflection? You’re pretty. Pretty eyes. Pretty clothes. You blush often, especially when you meet new people. You have a cute little laugh, the same as when you were young. My pretty little clone who has a darkness within her only I see. You’re too cowardly to open your eyes. It’s why I must open them for you. I’d shatter your head if it’d break you free from your fantasy. Life is not the daisies you’ve planted. They’ve died. They did a long time ago.

I do love you. I will help you hide a body if you need. I’ll be at fault. I always have. But know that your deep-rooted ache will spread across you onto the little clones you one day create. Eternal is not life. Eternal is pain. Even if I make it to the kingdom of heaven, I’ll witness your suffering. It won’t make me happy. But I will say, I told you so. You never listened to me when you were a teen. You followed trends, friends, strangers. Everyone but me was right. And cool. And loving. Don’t focus on your mother passing out or berating you. Focus on the fact you had everything you needed and a mother who would wake in the middle of a hangover to take you shopping for your school dance. I tried my best. Isn’t that all I had to do?

Nothing’s good enough for you. Not even yourself. I know you starve yourself. I know about the laxatives. Set up a buffet of all your faults before you criticize your own mother. Threaten that you’ll end it. Go ahead. It won’t release you from the string that’s tied to me that’s tied to the graves of your relatives. Laugh. It’s all we can do. Accept. Stop trying to run. You could be thousands of miles away from me, but you still won’t find enjoyment. You’ve gotten rid of your wicked mother. Now tell me, how will you get rid of this crippling anxiety you have every time you hear a loud noise? The depression that chews on your limbs and keeps you in bed for weeks. The reality that if you don’t get help soon, you’ll die from your eating disorder.

My little clone. It’s raining. I know how it calms you. Go outside. Dance. Cry. Talk to me. I’ll sing you a lullaby and cuddle you. You’ll forever be safe. Let’s find the key before we place you in your soundproof, windowless room. Now can you thank me? Or are you still ungrateful? Blame will scar only you. I’ve nothing left to feel. I’m old. Most of my family is dead. I’ve apologized to God. I’ve prayed for you. But I can’t rearrange your existence. It’s your turn. Show me the proper way to live. The proper way to parent. Be the version of me you wish I’d been. Then, I’ll do what I do best. Lie on the couch, half asleep, bottles stored underneath. I’ll simply watch you. My little clone. How much better can you be? Go ahead. Show me.