Family Sticks Together

The 6-pack of beer sat on the coffee table, half the cans missing from their positions. The third can enjoyed a warm embrace in Ron’s hand, giving off a layer of condensation in return for the warmth.

KNOCK-KNOCK.

“Ergh…” Ron looked away from his 24-inch television screen, missing a penalty shot from his favourite football team.

KNOCK-KNOCK.

“LAPD! Open up immediately!”

Ron fumbled to his feet and swung open the front door in a daze.

“Mr. Whittaker, we have an arrest warrant for you. Can you identify yourself for us?”

Ron was shown a sketch of a profile that closely- no, precisely- resembled that of his own.

“Yes, that- wait, officer, what is this for? Please- I’ve been on my couch for eternity.”

“Do you identify?” The officer asked more sternly.

“Yes, Sir,” Ron replied, not wanting to dig himself into a deeper grave. He allowed himself to be fed towards the police car and climbed in, his now cuffed hands clinking against each other. Behind him, his beer can lay on the carpet, spilling its contents all over the faux, for it watched as its owner left with no look backwards.

“Mr. Ron Whittaker, you have been charged guilty of attempted manslaughter on more than seven separate counts.”

Ron gaped at the unfair trial. Words failed to reach his tongue as he hopelessly grabbed for anyone and everyone to understand him, to merely look him in the eyes and tell him they believed him. However, no one did, and he was felt at the mercy of security personnel. His new prison cell would be waiting.

Ron’s sister refused to see him or even listen to his numerous pleading voicemails.

Barely a week after the so-called trial, which by no means was just, Ron found himself packing his belongings into a small satchel to take on his indefinite trip to the city prison.

The ride to the holding society was long and filled with several stops. Through a small slit in the back of the vehicle, he looked at the passing city and sighed to himself. Words had failed him for the hundredth time this week. Numb to the pain, he rested his forehead against the small opening that separated him from justice and a world of silent agony.

The engine rumbled. The vehicle had stopped for petrol. The driver jumped out of his seat to fill the tank near the back of the vehicle. Ron opened his eyes and took a glance, only to be met with a horrifying sight-

Holding the nozzle to the vehicle's tank, a man stared straight into Ron’s eyes. Unblinking. Focused. A sinister smile formed on his face, and he let out what could only be called a combination of a hiccup and a giggle. He choked on air as he laughed but never broke eye contact. This man, who looked everything and nothing like Ron, placed the nozzle back in place and walked back to the driver’s seat. The door slammed with a thud, and the vehicle took off with a jerk, racing shakily ahead violently at 60 mph in a manic craze.

“He looked like me!” was all Ron could think. Feeling his heart beating in his chest, he leaned forward and retched. He had never felt fear like this before. The same sentence played over in his head until he abruptly fainted in his seat.

THUD.

“Wake up!” A splash of water in his nostrils brought a sudden, unwelcomed brightness into his awakened eyes. Ron jumped into a defensive stance immediately.

“Where is he?”

“Who!?”

“Me! Where is he? Where is me?”

The guards stared unbelievingly. They were not getting paid enough for this. Grabbing Ron by the arms, they heisted him forward into the prison facility. He kicked and screamed, demanding the guards to show him himself. Himself, who was not himself, was not an idea that was entertained well, and they made a beeline for the medical room, where he was pronounced mentally challenged.

That night, he slept in the cold clinic of the prison facility, shivering for reasons other than the dampness around him. Eventually, he fell into a fitful but merciful sleep.

Lights shone bright.

“What happened?” thought Ron as he woke up in a defensive state of mind again. A nurse was beside him, her back to him. She seemed to be preparing some form of medicine.

“Ma’am, please, is that a painkiller? I swear, my heart feels like it’s going to burst.”

The nurse chuckled lightly. When she turned around, she took hold of his hand and presented an injection syringe. Allowing her to help him, he sank back into his pillows and looked up to her.

Drums. Into his ears. No- his heart. Pounding in his ears.

She was- well, she was him.

He let out a high-pitched scream and yanked his arms away from her. Her features that resembled him so accurately were nothing short of cloning.

“HELP, HELP-”

Before he could finish constructing his pleas, the chemicals in the injection took over, and he was simply gone.

A soft scratching on his calf. A furry nudge to his knee. Ron’s cat sat upon his leg and watched him curiously with a tilted face.

“Ni-no? Nino?!” Ron sprang up and enveloped her tightly, looking around worriedly as he did so.

He was… back in his living room. Except something was different.

Ron stepped towards the kitchen. Papers were plastered on the fridge and walls. Plucking one down, he read from it: “We got you out. Show your gratitude. Come home, little one.”

He dropped it to the ground immediately. Surely, there must be some long joke running. Surely, it should be fine.

He put Nino down and shakily put some food into her bowl.

KNOCK-KNOCK.

This time, it came from the window.

Pulling the curtain to the side, Ron yelped as he was met with his face staring back at him. It held an identical sheet of paper to the one in the kitchen and smiled sinisterly at him. Moreover, blood stains covered the front of Ron’s other shirt. This was… This was not it.

Before Ron could shut the curtains, he slapped another sheet of paper on the window. Written in blood were the words: ‘WE KILLED THOSE SEVEN HUMANS; WE CAN DO IT TOGETHER.’