Chapter Text
September 19, 2014
There’s something wrong with Anthony. I know it’s true. Nobody believes me. I probably wouldn’t believe me if I were them either. I’ll start at the beginning. I suppose it really started when we started dating. Anthony started having these terrible migraines. He always said that they were nothing to worry about, probably just getting old. They’ve gotten progressively worse over the years, but I’ve always trusted that Anthony could deal with them on his own, and why shouldn’t I have?
It's not like I could predict that this would happen, whatever this is. Who could? But yes, I suppose it must have started with migraines; they were the first warning. But not the only one, oh, if only I realized I might not be dealing with it now.
Oh, Anthony, I am so sorry! I cannot even bring myself to kick that thing out; it acts so much like you at times that it hurts. The migraines were the first warning, then came the dreams; the nightmares that woke him up screaming at times and left him with a content smile at others. Yes, the dreams must have been the second sign. They seemed innocent enough at first, when he talked to me of dreaming of creating the stars, what astronomer doesn’t dream of creating the stars, and it was oh so sweet that he dreamed of sharing them with me.
Or so I thought at the time. Now I know that it wasn’t my sweet Anthony dreaming of the stars; it was that thing’s memories slipping through. As if it wasn’t enough that it parades around wearing his skin. It tries to convince me that it’s still partly Anthony, it just has more memories. As if Anthony wouldn’t wear black. Anthony wouldn’t treat his plants so cruelly. Anthony wouldn’t smile so sharply or with that many teeth. No, whatever came back is not Anthony! No matter if he remembers my coffee order perfectly, or can find me the perfect book as a gift, or knows that someone has to force me to eat when I’m sad or stressed, or can recall our first meeting perfectly. That thing is not my husband. No matter how perfectly it can pretend to be him. For a while, the dreams were pleasant; he told me of the beings with wings, and how he shaped the universe, he told me of the bright, luminous being who had such riveting new ideas for the space they were in.
Then there came the nightmare. I woke up to him screaming, calling for help. He kept repeating I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. Please forgive me, Mum. Don’t leave me here. When I shook him awake, his eyes, oh, his beautiful amber eyes, I swore had for just a minute turned a poisonous yellow with silted pupils.
Yes, the dreams were the second sign. I can’t believe I wrote the eyes off so easily as just sleep deprivation. If only I had fought harder for Anthony to see someone about the dreams. Then maybe Anthony would be here instead of this monster, this incomprehensible creature walking around in his skin.
Maybe I wouldn’t have noticed if it had happened gradually. If the monster had slowly consumed Anthony night after night, feeding Anthony its memories slowly. Maybe I wouldn’t have noticed Anthony getting a little more withdrawn, a little quicker to raise his temper; maybe his style would slowly grow darker, until I couldn’t remember when his wardrobe had been anything but black. Maybe I wouldn’t have noticed that anything was wrong until the day that thing finally removed its sunglasses, smirked at me, and instead of Anthony’s whiskey-colored eyes, I saw a poisonous yellow look back at me. Would it have been easier that way? To not know that it wasn’t the man I loved until it was too late. To see those yellow eyes and realize that I didn’t know when my husband disappeared, and this thing replaced it. Maybe at that point I wouldn’t care. Maybe at that point, this thing would be so entangled with my husband that I couldn’t tell where Anthony ended and it began. Maybe that’s how the monster meant it to happen. Maybe it got impatient.
Anyway, about a week ago, Anthony and I were coming home from the market, crossing the street, when a car almost hit me. My dear Anthony pushed me out of the way, and it hit him instead. Everyone thought he had died. The driver got out, looked scared, and offered a lot of money as compensation, as if any amount of money could replace Anthony. Then he got up, but he was wrong; his eyes were wrong. The virulent goldenrods glinted maliciously in the sunlight. The thing that used to be Anthony looked at the driver, smirked, and said, “Surprise, not dead.” Then it looked at me and smiled; it looked like Anthony’s, but too sharp, with far too many teeth. It was uncanny, then it spoke, “Take the money, Angel,” it said, “He already offered it, don’t let the offer go to waste.” I took the money, it was a lot, enough to get me all the first editions I could think of and still have some left over. I was overjoyed at the time, thought some miracle had brought Anthony back from the dead. Maybe it was, maybe I’m making a big deal out of nothing. But it never eats, just watches me from behind dark sunglasses.
Asa Z. Fell