There Can Only Be One
I had heard that journaling could help you process and understand your feelings so I started doing it a couple years ago. It does help. It might take some time to notice the effects, but it actually works. Lately, I’ve been trying this prompted journaling series called, “Envisioning Your Perfect Self.” I wasn’t sure how to begin, but once I started writing I just kept going. Different things that I wanted to change about myself kept popping into my head.
When I finished the last journal entry of that series, I had sculpted a full image of my perfect self. This version of me had none of the flaws I saw within myself, and all of the strengths I hoped to see within myself. After typing the final words, I hit “save” on the document that I knew I would never let anyone else read, and went to sleep.
My nose woke up before I did, then it aroused my stomach, which growled enough to awake the rest of my body. The appetizing aroma of eggs and bacon had tip-toed its way into my bedroom. My first thought was that my neighbors must be cooking breakfast and the scent had traveled through the vent. But the smell was too strong to be coming from a different apartment. I lived alone, which could only mean that Bobby Flay had broken in—and brought his own ingredients.
I got out of bed and walked down the short hallway to the living area and looked into the kitchen. I did a double take at what I saw, then realized I must have been dreaming. Standing at the kitchen sink, washing dishes, was…well, me. Physically, this person was a clone of me. He had the same red, wavy hair, blue eyes, and lean build. Something about him seemed different, though. There was sureness in his demeanor, confidence in every action. Finally, he sensed my presence, turned off the water, looked over at me, and smiled.
“Hey, look who it is,” he said. “Quiche?”
I rolled my eyes and cursed under my breath.
“I’m having a dream about myself making quiche? I gotta stop watching Adventure Time so late.”
The other me dried his hands and then draped the folded towel over his shoulder.
“Nope,” he said with a friendly shake of his head. “Not a dream, Max.”
He then turned to open the oven.
“Don’t say my name, that sounds super weird. But how is this not a dream?” I replied as he reached into the oven. “I’m staring at a clone of me that knows how to make—a perfect quiche. Holy shit.“
My point had been derailed by the sight of other me holding a dish containing the most delectable looking quiche I had ever seen.
The copy of me laughed, but not awkwardly like I would have.
“I thought you might be a little confused. That’s why I made food. I know you can put up with just about anything if there’s a free meal involved. I’ll explain everything.”
He set the quiche down on the counter and sliced it into quarters. He transferred one of the slices to a plate that had been set out earlier.
“How did you even make this?” I asked while he set the plate on the dining table. “All I have in my apartment is cereal and pasta, and I don’t think there’s such a thing as honey nut scooter angel hair quiche.”
We both sat down at the table.
“I bought the ingredients. Everything is fresh and locally grown, of course. None of the cheap, processed stuff you usually chance just to save a couple bucks.”
I realized I was judging him for putting in effort on something while I chewed the first bite.
“God damn, this is good. You’re definitely not a clone of me.”
I thought I noticed a flash of discomfort on other Max’s face, but it faded in an instant.
“You’re right, I'm not a clone of you. I’m something…more,” his voice had lost a little bit of its confidence. A trimming of guilt could be detected.
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“Well, I’m the perfect you.” He shrugged, as if he could think of no better way to say it.
I laughed.
“A perfect me? That doesn’t make any sense.”
“It’s true. You write, therefore I am.”
I looked at him skeptically. I had a suspicion of what he might have meant by that, but the rational side of my brain would not allow it.
“You mean like my journal things?” I ventured.
He spread out his arms.
“Here I am, the person you’ve always wished you were.”
I shook my head in doubt.
“The perfect me, huh? Prove it.”
He inhaled sharply and paused. I could sense him digging in heels in resistance to the challenge.
“I’m just you, except without the things you hate.”
“Tell me,” I demanded.
“Well, I don’t stutter.”
“I like my stutter,” I argued, appalled at the implication.
Perfect Max shrugged apologetically.
“You know what you wrote in those journals,” he said calmly.
“What else?”
“I can see the good inside of me.”
I waited silently, staring, my leg bouncing nervously.
He continued:
“I’m there for others when they need me, I’m capable of giving and receiving love, I’m—“ He cut himself off.
I could tell he really didn’t want to see me hurt. The perfect me cared about me.
“Say it,” I ordered.
He sighed.
“I’m happy,” he averted his eyes at first, then they darted back to assess the damage.
I blinked.
“I’m happy,” I pronounced with a questionable confidence.
Perfect Max didn’t fall for my bluff. He stared at me dubiously, forcing me to look at my cards.
“Sometimes,” I retreated, but not far enough apparently. “I might be someday. You’re gonna help me get there, right? That’s why you’re here?”
He looked at me with sorrowful, sympathetic eyes. Then he rose from his chair, walked towards me, and placed a gentle hand on my shoulder.
“I’m afraid it’s easier this way,” he said as he passed into the kitchen behind me. “I do hope you’ve enjoyed the quiche, though.”
I looked down at the small sliver of quiche that remained on my plate. Fear crept into my mind as I gathered his meaning.
“Wait!” I pleaded, turning around in my chair. “I wasn’t done yet. I could have done more, I could have made it better!” Panic shook every word.
He looked at me, perplexed.
“Could have made what better?”
I stared at him with blank eyes as I felt the poison taking effect, and I accepted my fate.
“You.”
The word barely escaped my mouth, along with my final breath.