Clone

by Jo Withers

I decide to clone you when I realise you’re going to leave me.

It’s a simple process, a few dark hairs collected from your pillow, some tissue particles from your discarded floss. I grow the new you in a petri dish in a gloomy corner of the shed next to the tools you use in summer to tend the roses, decapitating each aromatic head the second the petals wither. I have visions of you slicing my head off with the same sharp shears then popping a bright new girlfriend in my place.

The clone looks embryonic, pink and veiny with a bulbous head. I move it closer to the light, dribble Bollinger into its tiny mouth so it shares your pretentious tastes, leave it listening to the podcast you pretend to like about 18th-century art.

You are never here even when you are. You sit at the dining table with a book propped in front of you so I can’t see your eyes. You revel in cruelty now, showcasing your contempt. I try to talk to you, but you repeat parts of my sentences under your breath like erasure poetry –

“It’s your mother’s birthday next week, she’s thinking the same restaurant as last year” – “Next week’s the last”

“The subway was awful today. People just kept worming their way in, it was hell” – “People worming in hell”

I don’t cry like I used to. I collect the plates calmly, throw them into the sink to soak. Bits of bloody steak and boiled grey potato float up to the surface like fragmented brain matter.

I gather some leftover sirloin, red wine and a copy of Othello. I’m determined to raise the clone to believe that true love is life-sacrificing obsession – it’s the least I deserve. I push the back door open, slam it behind me. You won’t bother to wonder where I’ve gone.

I head to the shed, slide the latch and open the wooden door. Early evening light violates the space pushing its amber glow into every corner. The clone is one hundred times bigger, hunched against the wall, an almost fully grown man skulking like a naughty child. Scattered on the floor at its feet are the partial remains of over a dozen mice, a mess of tattered skin and blood-drenched tails heaped on the ground where the insides have been sucked out.

The clone spots the steak in my hand and its eyes burn greedily. It moves a little forward, still hunching down, its knuckles scraping the floor like an ape. When I don’t retreat, it moves closer and sits at my feet looking up at me like a dog begging its master for a reward.

It looks so much like you. Of course it does. But it looks like you when we first met; when you watched me longingly, your eyes soft only for me, long before loathing twisted your features. So, I hold the steak out to the clone and drink wine from the bottle as I watch it gnaw the meat. It chews slowly, holding my gaze and I read the tale of tragic love out loud and when the clone has devoured the steak and begins to chew my fingers, I let it even though it hurts. Eventually, I tug my hand away watching my own blood trickle down its chin. I throw the fat of the steak on the floor, soak it with the last of the wine and leave it lapping the remains.

As I walk back to the house, I sense immediately that something is different. The energetic hatred has diffused from the old stone walls; the house is empty. The thing that I’ve feared most has finally happened, you’ve left me.

I grab another bottle of wine from the kitchen and glug it as I move from room to room. You’ve taken a few paintings, a shelf of books and a quarter of your clothes. There’s no note. Seventeen years together vaporised.

All I have left is the clone.

There’s no fading evening sun to light the shed this time. As I push the door open the inside is black and treacherous as a raven’s eye. I take another slug of wine and step into the uninviting space. A rancid smell of urine and faeces mixes with the vinegary aroma of wine and blood. I’d never thought about the practicalities of keeping an adult man in the garden shed; the clone’s rapid growth cycle has far surpassed my expectations.

I’m aware that I’m breathing fast, keeping my movements minimal while I locate the clone. I scan the dark shed for signs of life, checking the ground. A noise to my right makes me jerk my head sideways and suddenly I’m face to face with the clone. It’s standing now, straight-backed and looming, looking far taller than your six foot three.

It moves to stand directly in front of me, so close I can feel our hearts beating together. I put my hand on its chest, feel every familiar groove of your torso. It has been so long, years, since we have been together like this. The clone bends its head to my neck. I feel its lips, your lips, softly pressed at my throat, remember the thousand times you’ve kissed me. Then the lips part and bite down hard. I feel the ragged edge of the incisor you chipped as your teeth rip hungrily into my flesh.

“I love you,” I try to say but the words bubble and gurgle from the hole in my throat. I reach up and stroke my fingers through your course hair as the clone feeds. At least this way we get to say goodbye.