Seeing Double

by Karen Runge

  Ada, are you cold enough?

  Ada, are you feeling yet?

  Ada, wake up.

  – FORTY-EIGHT –

  The next time it happened, she saw them.

  Painting in the calm of her studio, no music, her heartbeat whispering in her ears as her brushes swept colour, swirled water. Her palette knife cutting into jars of paint, scooping it out like gaudy pudding. Blues and greens, hints of grey and earthy browns.

  She was too focused at first to notice the buzzing in her head. It rose in a sharp, frantic hum, like a chainsaw somewhere in the distance, screaming through hard wood. Screaming through metal. Screaming at her.

  She put her brush down and wiped her hands off on her jeans, adding to the wet mix of watery colours she collected there. She shook her head. The sound wasn’t coming from the outside. It came from inside of her. Or if it came from the outside, it wasn’t a sound with physical cause, rather it was something beamed in. A vibration matched to some hidden resonance only she could hear. It crept through her like a nest of ants pouring up her brain stem and spilling out into her skull. Trampling neural pathways, burning, biting.

  She raised her hands and gripped the sides of her head. Her hair knotted between her fingers. She pulled. A zip-line of pain formed where her scalp stretched. Real pain, at least. Something she could fully feel. She stood and walked to the windows, looking down on the road that ran through the compound. And she saw them.

  Neven and Daniel were out there, alone in the early afternoon hush with their faces turned up to her window. They were both stamping their feet, waving their arms. Their faces a hectic red, their mouths moving in fury. Madmen ranting and raving at her. Instead of words, the buzzing rose, cracking through her skull in an explosion of heat. Not ants. Lava. So much fire and pain her breaths stopped in her chest and swelled there, aching in her lungs. She stumbled back from the windows, her hands still pulling at her hair. She fell against the sliding doors and sat down hard, her legs lashing out as she kicked at air, as if kicking them away.

  Her painting, her self-portrait, half-finished but fully formed, watched. Black eyed, green-faced, its teeth a sharp and perfect white, a razorblade smile set at jagged angles.

  – FORTY-NINE –

  “I want to make an appointment. I want an abortion. As soon as possible please. Please.”

  “Honey, maybe you should sit down.”

  “When’s the soonest I can do it? Please.”

  “Sit down, Miss…uh…Anna, right?”

  “Ada. My name’s Ada. How do you know me?”

  “Ada, take a seat okay? Would you like to talk to someone? I can find a counsellor for you. Just…sit for a minute. I’ll bring you some water.”

  “I don’t need water. I need an abortion, and I need one now. As soon as you can or I’ll do it myself.”

  “Honey, you already had your abortion, remember? You came in just last week. It went…fine. You’re fine.”

  * * *

  On the way back home from the clinic, she saw herself. Coming down the pavement in her direction, her head lowered, stepping fast. She was wearing the red jacket she’d thrown out in the autumn, after the strap with the buckle came off. The jacket she’d loved, that Daniel had loved. Calling her a dominatrix when she wore it with a low-cut shirt and a push-up bra. A look Neven loved too, pressing his face between her breasts, his arms closed around her, palms pressed to her back. Roving.

  It’s wrong, she remembered thinking, even in bliss. Knowing even then that she could never admit this doubt to Daniel, or to him.

  All these memories and impressions stumbled through her when she saw herself out there on the street, marching down the pavement toward her. Jacket, belt, dominatrix, Neven, his face, my chest, wrong. It’s wrong!

  Her other her was about to look up. She knew her own gestures. The hand coming out the pocket to sweep back her hair, a self-conscious movement she made before she looked around because in the back of her mind she was always afraid that someone was watching her, studying her.

  It’s me. I’m watching. It’s me that’s been watching me.

  But this was her not as she was now, in her red sash dress and tan boots, her clunky big day bag thrown over her shoulder. This was her as she’d been six months ago—thinner, sharp-chinned, scarlet lipstick, messy hair and too much eyeliner. Panda eyes, like she’d been crying.

  Because she’d cried a lot back then.

  Don’t look up. Don’t look at me. Don’t—

  But she did.

  The ground rippled, vertigo overtaking. For a moment she almost swooned. She put her hands over her head, ready to scream. Those black eyes stared back at her in shock, in surprise. The her that couldn’t be her was wearing eye shadow, disco blue. It sparkled in the light.

  My God. It’s real. She’s real. I’m really real—

  But instead of screaming, words clambered up her throat in frenzy and heat and fury. “You whore. You fucking whore. Stay away from me, you whore!”

  Startled pedestrians looked at her in alarm, their expressions switching from fright to concern at the hot tears rushing down her cheeks. She clutched her bag to her chest like it might protect her, something instinctive telling her to cover her heart. Her arms crossed over it, she sucked in lungfuls of icy, leather-scented air.

  She turned and ran. Desperate to widen the gap, to put distance between herself and this other her, this her that couldn’t be, believing the wider the space between them, the easier it would be to tell herself, It wasn’t you. She wasn’t real. You’re pregnant and it’s making you crazy, but she’s the one who killed the baby and she’s not real. It’ll pass. It’ll pass because it has to and everything is okay. Everything will be okay.

  – FIFTY –

  But you’re not really her.

  You’re not really here.

  – FIFTY-ONE –

  Daniel found the note before he saw the painting. It was sitting on the coffee table, scrawled on the back of a receipt.

  I’m leaving. Don’t follow me.

  Ada

  A buzzing filled his head in the place where his thoughts used to be. His heart surged and thundered in his chest, his knees begged to buckle, but he stood very stiff and very straight, the note trembling in his hand.

  Was it rage he felt, under the hiss of his heart? Shock? Disbelief? Beneath the stillness that swept through him, whatever it was seemed apart from him. Other. Excised.

  She was pregnant, of course. He didn’t know how he knew that, but he did. They’d planned their baby and changed their lives to make room for it, and now that it was on its way, she was leaving him. A part of him almost understood, or might later. Once the rage had made itself known, claimed him, then moved on. If it would. If it could.

  Walking through the rooms, he saw her scarves and jackets were gone from the stand, her shoes from the rack. She hadn’t taken everything of hers, but she’d taken most of it. Her wardrobe almost bare, her underwear drawers swept clean. The only sign of hurry was out in her studio. Those crummy old jeans she wore when she painted lay on the floor like she’d just stepped out of them. The crotch open between the circles left by the shape of her legs. As though she’d vanished where she stood. Her brushes and paints were strewn around in disarray, the jar of water still full, the colour muddy green like scum in pond water.

  He walked around to look at the painting on her easel. He saw green, black, red. The face blurred in front of his eyes, then slowly came clear.

  We should’ve known we weren’t supposed to change, he thought, staring at it. Not a couple like us. Or maybe it’s that we should never have been.

  The portrait was of Ada, of course. He’d know her face anywhere, even in abstract, even when mutilated like this. A monstrous thing with hellish eyes, features a stippled series of furious jabs. Green paint, red paint, grey. Like moss growing on skin. A monster. The evil in its expression clawed through every brushstroke, locked itself in every line.

  For a moment
he stopped breathing. The Ada in the painting stared back, somehow gleeful, somehow indifferent.

  “Get out of here, Ada,” he breathed. The words came without thought in his sudden terror, giving her permission she’d never hear. “Go.”

  His phone rang. For a moment he thought it might be Ada, but it couldn’t be. No. She wouldn’t call. Would she?

  He looked at the screen.

  It was Neven.

  Thank you, he thought when he saw the name, a wave of rich gratitude momentarily stunning him. Friends. At least he had a friend. One who knew more than any other, one who would understand everything. Thank you, Neven. You couldn’t have timed this better.

  He answered the call.

  – FIFTY-TWO –

  Neven didn’t greet him. His first words to Daniel were, “I’ve got her.”

  I’ve got her.

  Don’t worry. She came to me.

  Come.

  – FIFTY-THREE –

  You came to me.

  You met me outside my building and I took you upstairs. I was worried about the dirt, the mess, the state of the place, but you didn’t look at anything around you. As soon as I’d closed the door you took off your coat, pulled off your boots. Then you took your shirt off and the thermal vest underneath. For a moment I thought you wanted sex, thought maybe you’d been missing me and wanted one last time with me, you and me together alone, a frenzy of sweat. A desperate goodbye. But you stood back, and you faced me in your bra, your jeans. Your breasts swelled with every inward breath, fast and tight, and I saw it then, the adrenaline rushing through you. I almost heard it. Your heartbeat. I saw the pulse in your neck, the thin sheen of sweat on your forehead. Your pupils were pinpoints in brilliant blue.

  “I don’t want it,” you said. “I don’t know if I still have it but I know I don’t want it. They won’t help me, but you will. You can do this for me, Neven. I trust you to. I trust you. I do.”

  I had an idea of what you meant, but I needed you to say it. I stepped away from you, folded my arms. I sniffed. I tried to look nonchalant, bored. Annoyed. You always responded when I cut you off, when I shut you down. Something inside of you softened when I reacted like that. And it worked. Your eyes shone, then reddened. A thin film of tears appeared. You blinked and those tears rushed down your cheeks, pure and perfect. I wanted to step forward and kiss them off your cheeks. I wanted to put my arms around you. I had to be careful not to smile.

  I never thought I’d feel such joy, seeing you cry.

  “Please,” you said.

  “But I don’t know what you’re talking about, Ada. You sound pretty crazy to me. And you look it too, by the way. Are you on anything?”

  "Jesus Christ, Neven!” You buckled, you burst. You leant your hands on your knees and you ducked your head, breathing hard to fight away your tears. Your slim, pale shoulders shuddered. “I might be pregnant,” you said to the floor. “I don’t know. There’s this woman, this other me. She did something, I don’t know what. Or maybe I did something. I don’t remember. I don’t know. I’m not high. But I think I’m going crazy. And I can’t have a baby. Not this. Not this…thing.”

  Your hair had slipped over your shoulders, obscuring your face. I’d never seen such chaos in you. This wildness caught in you. It made you beautiful, your colour vivid, energy crackling across your skin. As if a truer shade of you was finally breaking free. You looked up at me, tossed your hair out of your face. You breathed.

  “Punch me,” you said. “Right here.” You pressed a hand over the soft stretch of your pelvis. The tender, boneless expanse between your hips.

  I shrugged. “All right. But take your clothes off first.”

  You stopped.

  “I mean it. At best they’re gonna be in the way, at worst you’re gonna mess them up. Take them off.”

  You stared at me, stupefied. I saw you thinking. Then you nodded. I leaned back against the wall and watched you undress, my arms folded, slowly chewing my lower lip. Bra, jeans, tights, panties. Off. Your bare skin was smooth as milk in the light.

  You stood delicately, with your feet crossed, as if you didn’t want me to look between your legs. At that place I already knew so well. “It’s cold in here,” you said, rubbing your arms.

  “No it’s not.” I took my jacket off, pausing to throw it toward the kitchen table. I missed, and it landed on the floor with a heavy thump. I stepped toward you.

  “Wait!” You held up your hand. “Listen to me. Don’t mess around. You need to punch me hard. Really hard. Do it as hard as you want. As hard as you can. I know you can hurt me. I want you to hurt me. No, I don’t want you to hurt me—“

  You stopped, breathing hard. I saw it in your eyes, the speed of your thoughts. Flashing by like liquid fire.

  “I want you to kill it. Hit me hard enough to kill it. If it’s there.”

  “Wait a minute,” I glowered at you. “You want me to kill your baby? You want me to kill a fucking baby?” I asked this just to see the crestfallen look on your face. To see your desperation build. Because it was beautiful. You were so beautiful, broken like this.

  “Goddammit!” You began crying again. “I want you to punch me! That’s what I want.”

  “Say it.”

  “Say what?”

  “Tell me you want me to hurt you. Tell me how much you want me to hurt you. Tell me that’s the reason why. Not some bullshit about some baby.”

  For a moment I thought you might smile. There was a glimmer of light in your face, a flash of happiness. The briefest. Then gone. But I knew it had been there. I’d seen that look before.

  “I want you to fuck me up.” You kept your eyes fixed on mine. “I want you to fuck me up. Like I want you to fuck me.”

  I almost smiled myself. “Tell me again. Tell me more.”

  “I want you to hurt me like you love me like you hate me. I want you to make me bleed. I want you to fuck me in the ass with a knife up my cunt—double-edged, cold—adding slits to my slits and putting holes in my holes. Sweetness and blood for you to feel, to taste. And even if you spit it out, the taste of me will stay. I want—“

  Obscene, this shit you were saying. You were still talking when I stepped toward you, into your space. You weren’t expecting it, lost in your dream, your eyes glazed over. Still talking. I clenched my fist. I punched you full force, pulling all the strength through my shoulder and down my arm. Into my hand. Into the soft of your belly.

  There was a thick, meaty whack. And you flew. You collapsed against the wall, gasping, your eyes rolling back. You slid to the floor like a ragdoll. Helpless, void of strength. Tears shimmered down your cheeks.

  “Breathe,” I told you.

  And you obeyed me. You fought for air, tearing it down into your lungs in tight, frantic gasps that lengthened into drawn, desperate choking sounds. I waited until your breaths evened out. I was still wearing my boots. You looked up at just that instant, as I stepped forward, and your eyes widened. You barely had time to say it—No—before I came at you again. This time I kicked you, the toe of my boot vanishing in your abdomen. A little too high. I heard a low cracking sound, like a twig wrapped in a wet towel, snapped. All the colour vanished from your face and your mouth opened. You gaped. You were probably trying to scream but didn’t have the air for it.

  I bent down beside you and put my hand between your legs. I pressed, slipped my fingers inside. There was a tremor in your thighs, like for a moment you tried to squeeze your legs together. Like you wanted to stop me but didn’t have the strength.

  “You’re wet.” I withdrew my hand. I inspected it. “But that’s not blood.”

  I sucked the taste of you off the tips of my fingers. You were breathing fast and your skin shone with a fresh burst of sweat. Pain. I knew the look. It consumed you. An intense blankness filled your wide-open eyes, as if you were struck staring at something I couldn’t see. Something beyond me, something beyond you. Revealed. I watched your face, fascinated.

  “It hur
ts? Relax. Find that place inside yourself. Enjoy it.”

  I settled down beside you. I lifted your head into my lap. After a minute or two you fell asleep, or passed out, I don’t know. A trace of saliva leaked past your lips. It might’ve been the light, but for a moment I thought the colour was a little electric. Maybe a little pink.

  – FIFTY-FOUR –

  “I’ve got her.”

  “What do you mean, you’ve got her? Who’s her?”

  “Ada, of course. I’ve got her. She came to me. Come round the back of my building tonight. There’s an old bicycle shed there. I’ll show you. She can’t leave. We won’t let her leave. Not until we fetch the key. Not until she’s ready.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about? She’s gone. She’s probably at the airport already, about to get on a plane to—”

  “No she’s not. She doesn’t have any money, remember? Or if she did, not enough. Where could she go? Who else would she go to?”

  “Neven—”

  “Just come by. It’ll be… Daniel, it’ll be wonderful. You’ll see.”

  – FIFTY-FIVE –

  They met at the side of the building. Neven waited for him just out of the circle of light cast by the last lamppost, leaning against the wall with his arms folded tight against the thick padding of his jacket. He breathed dense streams of condensation into the night winter cold. His hood was up, his head down. He stood tense, frozen, holding himself in. A statue cast black, free of light. When he saw Daniel approaching, he straightened up and went to him.

  They embraced in the darkness.

  “Is it her, Neven? Is it actually her?”