Peter was sitting glaring at the bedroom wall. His headphones were on and playing on repeat was I Know It’s Over by The Smiths. It was the song Peter always listened to when he was feeling sorry for himself. Tonight he felt a horrible sinking feeling within him, it was more severe than his depression had ever been.
He always imagined that he was above severe clinical depression, that he would never be someone who would be checked into a mental institution if people knew what was going on in his mind. Tonight was proving all his theories wrong.
The worst part was that there was nothing that triggered this depression. He hadn’t lost the love of his life nor was he wishing to find the love of his life. There was no person or event that was weighing on his mind, making it harder to wake up in the morning. Peter’s depression was mysterious and unexplainable. It just showed up one day holding him down like a cinderblock on the ankle of a body at the bottom of the ocean.
As he sat there in a meditative coma of depression, Peter begin listing off all the ways he could end his life. He could tie a noose on the tree in his backyard and jump off a stool. It was doubtful any of his neighbors would see him before it was too late.
There was always the rather weird way of offing yourself, slitting your wrists in the bathtub. There was something bizarre and artistic in the way people ended it this way. Peter wondered if they took the time to undress and wait for the water to fill as they contemplated if this was what they really wanted to do. Peter always imagined it would be best to just hurry up and get it over with but if you had a change of mind at the last minute you wouldn’t have time to change it.
Peter was certain tonight would be the night. He snapped out of his trance he was in and got to his feet. He looked over at the clock and saw that he had been staring off into space for almost an hour. As he made his way to the bathroom, he heard a rapid series of knocks at the door. His heart skipped a beat when this sudden knocking echoed throughout the house. He couldn’t think of a single person who would be knocking at such an hour.
He considering ignoring the knocking and just going to the bathroom, but the knocking grew louder. He could feel his blood beginning to boil at the intrusion. With his luck, it’d probably be Jehovah’s Witnesses who were now working the graveyard shift.
Peter opened the door and wasn’t surprised to see nobody there. He imagined a couple of middle schoolers with nothing better to do ringing random doorbells and running away, giggling like mad men who had just escaped a mental asylum. He longed for the days when he could experience happiness from something so trivial. He was about to close the door when a round object suddenly dropped from above the door.
He took a couple of steps back and was shocked to see a plastic mannequin head. What was even more frightening was that it wasn’t just any regular mannequin head. The head had medium length brown hair and brown eyes. It was made to resemble Peter.
Peter looked around outside for someone running away or eyes peeking from above the bushes, but no one was there. He stood motionless, attempting to hear any unfamiliar sound. All he heard were the familiar sounds of the night.
Peter stood on the front stoop wondering what to do next when he happened to glance at the glass marble eyes of the mannequin head and saw his reflection. He looked closer and saw a shadowy figure behind him. He quickly turned around and screamed.
He was currently face to face with an exact clone of himself. The confusion of seeing an exact copy of himself was making his brain spin endlessly for answers. What was the most horrifying was how this clone didn’t have Peter’s brown eyes, but the darkest shade of black, like cheap coffee in a rundown diner after midnight.
In slow motion Peter watched helplessly as his clone pulled out a machete and swung it at Peter’s throat. Just before the blade connected, Peter began to feel a sense of relief and ease he couldn’t recall feeling before.