Whisper House Press

a sci fi / horror drabble

It worked. My eyes flutter, my lids heavy upon my waking.

Whoever said eyes are windows to souls never relayed down that great chain of sayings whether we’d recognize ourselves looking into the eyes of a perfect duplicate.

It’s me.

We only just diverged. I should know what he’s thinking.

Is that me, or am I? Does it matter?

Fear of death drove me to invention, compelled by what had we’d only imagined for millennia. And it worked.

The other’s eyes narrow.

I struggle into alertness, readying.

The other draws a scalpel from the silver tray. He knows I’m groggy.