Work Text:
The first time it happens, you don't think much of it. Why would you? Your memory isn't infallible. You probably just ate an extra apple and then forgot about it. When did you start buying so many apples, anyway? It used to be that four would get you through the week just fine.
The second time it happens, you feel suspicious, and then you feel ridiculous. You've been rather stressed at work lately. Perhaps you simply ate an extra apple without thinking about it. Besides, you have other fruit on hand. You grab a banana and head to work.
On the train, you keep thinking about it. You bought six apples on Thursday. Why so many? And then you ate one for breakfast every day, and today is Monday, so there should have been three waiting for you, but instead there was only one. What happened to the other two?
Either you ate it, or you lost it somewhere between the store and your home, or someone else broke into your apartment and ate one apple and didn't touch anything else, which is so stupid that you decide, firmly, to stop thinking about it now. You feel a headache coming on, which is not what you need right now.
The third time, you wonder if you're having a premature midlife crisis. There must be a rational explanation. The receipt says seven apples, but maybe you only bought six and accidentally scanned one twice. Maybe one fell out of your bag on the bus. There's all sorts of possibilities.
But, being the way you are, you can't help but want more information. More data. More clues. So you find an empty notebook and start a detailed log of your apple purchases, which makes you feel insane as soon as you write the title, but you're commited. You may not have as strong a record as L, but you aren't one to turn down a case.
Monday evening: You buy four apples, very deliberately. You don't know how you let the apple inflation go on this long. You buy a bunch of bananas for the other days. When you get home, you open up a little pocket notebook and title it "Apple Journal."
Tuesday morning: There are four apples in your basket. You eat one. There are three apples remaining.
Tuesday night: There are still three apples.
Wednesday morning: There are still three apples. You eat one. Now there are two.
Wednesday night: There are two apples.
Thursday morning: There is one apple.
Either you are losing your mind, or someone broke into your house last night, ate an apple, and didn't touch anything else. There are no other signs that anything is amiss.
Your head hurts. You should go to bed early tonight. You swallow an Eve tablet along with your last apple and head to work once more.
You need more data. There must be a rational explanation for this. You decide to set up a stakeout of sorts. You go to the store after work and pick out four apples, but when you get to checkout you're scanning five. You must be more tired than you thought. You return home and set the apples in their bowl. Before you go to bed, you set up a camera pointing at it.
There's only four apples in the morning. It's like you never bought that fifth one at all. If it weren't for your log, you could maybe convince yourself that you only bought four to begin with, which is the correct amount of apples to buy anyway. Why would you ever buy more than that?
But the camera will show you the truth.
In the morning, the camera has been moved, and there's a note next to it. The handwriting on the note is stiff and large. It looks like a child who is still copying every character from the practice book. It helpfully suggests skipping forward to a specified timestamp.
You turn on the camera and find the most recent video. It is five hours long. You went to bed eight hours ago. Whoever left the note must have helpfully stopped the camera for you.
If it had been a burglar, surely they would have simply deleted the video. Something far more sinister is going on.
You open the video. You consider watching the whole thing, but after ten minutes of absolutely nothing you decide to listen to the note. You skip ahead to the provided timestamp.
You see yourself approaching the camera. Of course it's you. Who else would it be? Who else would have come into your home just to eat an apple?
But something feels not quite right. The way you're walking, the way you're moving. At first you think maybe you were sleepwalking, but your eyes are wide open. You see those eyes meet the lens of the camera, and watch your lips part to reveal a wide, wild grin.
It looks nothing like the polite smile you always give on camera.
You reach down and pick the camera up. You hold it very close to your face, and now you recoil — are your pores really that visible? — and then back at a reasonable distance.
You pick up an apple and give it a cursory rinse. Then you bite into it, chomp echoing throughout the room. You continue to munch and crunch and gnaw and the whole time, you're watching the camera. To your horror, you even eat the core, and then the stem. Apple obliterated, you wash your hands, clear your throat, and then begin to speak.
You only make it a few words in before hitting pause. It feels too jarring. It's your voice, but without its usual cadence. With the edges sanded off some words and glued onto others. Your tongue feels heavy in your mouth. Your headache is coming back again.
You need to know. You need to know what's going on.
Of course, it's simple. It wasn't you at all. It was me.
Took you long enough to notice the apples. I thought you were supposed to be some kinda genius, but you didn't even catch on till the fourth time or so. Thanks, by the way. You have a great eye for the ripe ones.
Dude, your life kinda sucks. If I had to work at your job every day I'd start killing people.
Just kidding.
No, I haven't killed anyone. Not yet, anyway.
You want to know everything, huh? Too bad, that's not how this works! But hey, why not take a day off to play Mario Golf? Maybe I'll tell you more then. Or maybe not! But you'd sleep a lot better if you stopped ignoring me all the time.
Okay, I'll be nice. I'll answer one question. You want to know who I am.
Well, that's easy. Look into my eyes!
I'm you!
Here, I held the camera very close to our eyes and then hit the stop button. Well, I tried to. It was my first time using a camera so I wasn't sure quite what to press. I actually put it back down and then I hit the stop button.
Your skull is crushing your brain, and you're starting to feel nauseous as well. You look up at the clock — you'd have to hope for a miracle to make it in on time.
You don't skip work unless you'd be a health hazard to those around you even with a mask on. But you have questions burning inside you and none of them will answer themselves. You take another Eve tablet, but you know it won't be enough.
You're shaking, now. You walk back to your room and power on your computer. Your hands hover above the keyboard. You're not sure what to look up. Are you haunted? Posessed? What is going on?
And there, beside your mouse, you notice your old Gameboy Color. You can't remember the last time you touched it, but there's not a speck of dust.
You turn it on. Of course, Mario Golf is ready for you.
You clear your throat — it sounds nearly the same as I did on the video — and dial your boss's number.