My Personal Demon

00:14

Charles Noble was making scrambled eggs in the kitchen. He expertly stirred them around, making sure that no part was overdone. Beside him, two crisp, browned pieces of toast pop up, ready to be plated. The coffee machine on the other side of him grumbles, slowly dripping rich, brown brew into the glass carafe.

On the stove, the sweet smell of oatmeal drifts over, bringing hints of honey and chocolate. Bacon sizzles on the cast iron pan next to the oatmeal pot, adding a savory aroma to the air.

My husband rarely cooked, but when he did, he knew how to put on a show. He flashes me a sleepy smile, finally noticing my presence in the kitchen.

It was the perfect picture of domesticity except for the fact that he was supposed to be dead.

I rubbed my eyes, half expecting the scene to disappear. When my resurrected husband and the hot breakfast stayed, a spike of anxiety lodged into my chest. I used to have visual hallucinations when I was younger, but none of them were this vivid.

He plants a kiss on my forehead, sending shivers through my body. Every fiber of me was screaming you are not supposed to be alive. But the part of me that still grieved over him was glad that he could kiss me one last time, regardless of whether or not he was real.

He sets our plates of food down on the table, inviting me to eat while he grabs our coffee. I take a seat, keeping my eyes on him as I dig in with my fork. The food tastes good, even better than when Charles used to make it.

The eggs were soft and the bacon crunched beneath my teeth. I spread some butter on the toast, disturbed by how flawless the meal was. It was as if the person cooking it had studied my tastebuds, knowing exactly which flavors would please me the most.

He sets the coffee in front of me on a coaster.

"Two sugars and one cream," he said. "Just the way you like it."

I take a sip. It tasted even better than when I made it for myself. For a moment, I thank my mentally ill brain for concocting such an exquisite illusion.

I was happy for the first time since his death.

Fake Charles opens the newspaper, skimming the headlines. My husband used to do that to find ideas for his next novel. He wanted his writing to be important and relevant, realistic enough so that he could feel a sense of pride in it. Inevitably, reading the news would give him anxiety so he would have a cigarette. The kitchen would be filled with his smoke which would bother me enough to open the window.

My husband's doppelganger didn't seem to have that motivation behind his behavior. He read the paper and lit his cigarette, but for none of the reasons that the man that I loved did it. He was putting on a performance, trying to see if he could replay the memory of my husband in the light of day.

The more I stared at him, the more unsettled I felt.

But I didn't want to break the illusion.

I get up from my seat, suddenly compelled to touch him. I rest one hand on his shoulder and tangle the other one in his hair. He feels so achingly real.

However, when I bend down to kiss him, the mirage shatters. His lips were soft like Charles's, but they moved against mine differently. They weren't gentle, forcefully claiming my mouth like he was a starving man.

I pull away, stunned.

"Who are you and why are you pretending to be my dead husband?"

I ask the question without thinking.

He smiles at me as if I were a silly child. "I'm not dead." He says it as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

The past few days I've spent crying in this house alone say otherwise. And I'm sure I didn't imagine the funeral where my mother-in-law was so inconsolable that she couldn't look me in the eye.