I Stalked Myself

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Although I was planning on truly “finding myself” this summer, this is not what I had in mind. 


 


There I was, perusing the aisles of the grocery store for a meal that would feed one lonely person, drawing strange looks from other shoppers (which I returned). I caught sight of her whilst buying microwave dinners. What was at first a glance at a fellow grocery shopper became a stone cold stare; I couldn’t believe my eyes. 


 


It is extremely rare to find another young woman who dresses like she frequents Pottery Barn; it is more unlikely to find a woman who does this with the same physical features as myself. I was stunned, dumbfounded, shocked. 


 


Before I could think of how to handle the situation, she quickly left the aisle, without looking in my direction. I soon followed, deciding not to approach her, but to merely follow (some would use the term “stalk”) my clone and view her activities. 


 


She grabbed a couple groceries off the shelves before she approached the checkout counter, bought her items, and left the store. I soon followed, leaving my groceries behind as to not lose her. 


 


I watched from afar as she entered her car, the same model and color of mine. I ran to my vehicle and stepped on the gas, soon tailing my clone’s red van. 


 


“This is truly impossible,” I thought. I pondered the chances that I was schizophrenic, and decided my story might end like an unimaginative hollywood-produced script. But as I pinched myself while repeatedly opening and closing my eyes, the van in front of me did not disappear. Distracted by my thoughts, I didn’t realize our destination until we arrived. 


 


My mouth hung open, as I was stricken with disbelief. 


 


“This is my house. This is my house. What is she doing at my house?” 


 


Then a thought came soaring into my head. This woman was attempting to steal my identity. She opened the door to her car. I mirrored her movements, but this time I called out to her.


 


“Hey! Hey! This is my house!” I yelled, increasing my pace to approach her.


 


“I’m sorry? I’ve lived here for 12 years... Oh my gosh, are you ok?”


 


I ignored the question and grabbed her by the collar, pushing her against her car. 


 


“You listen to me,” I shouted. “Do you honestly think that you can just steal my-,” I stop myself as I notice something on my wrist. A band, a hospital band. I look down at myself to discover I am not dressed in pottery barn attire, but am wearing a hospital gown. I look up at her, only to find I look nothing like her. Her car is not anything like my car. My car...


 


I look back to view my transportation, quickly realizing I had stolen some unfortunate soul’s vehicle. Releasing my grip on my “clone”, I back away slowly. 


 


“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” 


 


I slowly start a jog away from the home. I can’t remember why I left the mental hospital, but I’m not going back. 


 


I guess I am crazy. It’s a shame. I deserve a better ending, but then again, why don't I just create one for myself? 


 

Created: Aug 15, 2012

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