You were gone for two months when I noticed her. I didn't see it at first, because her hair was lightened and she wore it up. She didn’t wear glasses or makeup like you. Perhaps I didn’t want to admit the similarities, but once I did, I realized I had a second chance.
She wasn’t cautious like you, so she didn’t notice the woman who was observing her, following her home. When she found her missing purse, she wasn’t concerned that her apartment key was the only thing gone. You would have felt the presence of another woman in our house, noting our every move. You would have insisted we change the locks. She didn’t, and so I watched.
Every night, she poured herself a glass of wine before taking a shower, leaving it on the counter to breathe, never suspecting anyone would drug her. She wasn’t suspicious of the bitter taste. She wasn’t worried when she felt herself quickly fading out of consciousness.
As her pulse slowed, I filled the tub with water that was a little too hot, the way you liked it. I poured in rose oil and watched it swirl as the scented steam filled the room. I don’t know if you used any that night. They didn’t let me in.
I dyed her hair to match yours before undressing her and moving her into the tub. She looked relaxed, peaceful. Is that how you looked? Your lipstick colored her lips, and your foundation matched her tone perfectly. I took your glasses and put them on her.
Suddenly, you were in the room with me again.
I held your hand in mine and stared at you, pushing the damp hair that had fallen across your face behind your ear. You were beautiful. I turned your wrist toward me and pressed the blade against the top of your forearm, gently slicing deeper. What did it feel like? Did you hesitate at that moment as I did now, or was it one long, clean cut? They didn’t let me see you.
Was there a moment before you cut your other arm when you stopped? Is that when you called for help instead of calling me? Maybe you cut through both arms first. Maybe you only called them, so I didn’t have to find you. I wish I did.
I’ll never know if you thought of me the first time, but I was here with you now. I could finally hold your hand and cry for you. I could hold you in my arms, willing you to come back as you slipped further away. I cried for you many times, but now that you were here again, I didn’t have to do it alone.
I had a second chance.
Bio:
M.S. Douglas uses writing as their way to “rage against the machine.” Living in the real world is hard, so they try their best to put on an absurd spin on the experiences we all face, doing our best to survive. Their goal is to leave readers thinking, “That probably wouldn’t happen, but if it did, it would happen like this.”