content warning for attempted sexual assault & incest
***
PHILIPPA TOYS WITH her food, idly stabbing her chicken and brussel sprouts. Hadley, unconsciously, mimics her, as he sticks his fork into the little mountain of mashed potato on his plate. Hadley's father swishes around wine in his glass, looking a little tipsy. Marzia wanders in and out of the kitchen, fidgeting with the strings of her apron.
When Hadley's mother finally joins them all, Hadley sits straight. Philippa stops slouching in her chair. Hadley's father sets his wine glass down. Marzia stops fidgeting.
"We have a guest," says Catherine Hadley. She turns her head ever so slightly towards the door. "Please come in."
The door creaks open. Hadley slumps back into his seat, now that his mother's attention is diverted. He crushes his mountain of mashed potato with the curved side of his spoon. He isn't particularly hungry. He can't remember what he had breakfast. Or lunch.
"Hello," says the guest. "I do hope you'll enjoy my company."
Hadley stops playing with his food. He stops moving. He goes so still, his blood might as well be slowing down in his veins. He knows that voice; he knows it better than any other voice.
It belongs to him.
The thing that is not Hadley seats itself next to him. It pulls out a seat, scraping the chair on the marbled floor, and it's such a harsh sound that Hadley winces. Hadley can't look at it. He can't look at himself.
"Pleasure to meet you," says the thing, and out of his peripheral vision, Hadley can see it holding out its hand for Hadley to shake. "I don't believe we've met."
He can hear the suggestion of bared teeth in its voice. Sharp and filed to a point. Something he's incapable of sounding like.
When Hadley looks at the thing, he looks at it for a long time.
Its face is blank. There are no features on the smooth plane of its head. But Hadley recognizes the slope of the things shoulders, the light shade of its hair, the body it wears—he doesn't need a face to know that all of these features are his own.
Hadley doesn't shake its hand. He turns his head away, and looks at his plate. He scoops up the mashed potato with the spoon and takes in a mouthful of it.
It tastes of nothing.
Hadley glances up to find that Philippa's no longer there. Instead, she's been replaced by a little boy with green eyes and the exact shade of golden-brown hair Hadley had when he was seven.
"Hello," says James, dangling his legs from his chair. "It's been too long since we've seen each other."
"This isn't real," Hadley says. "You're not real." He sets his spoon and fork down. "None of this is real."
"Whatever makes you feel better," says James. He daintily slices off a piece of chicken and puts it into his mouth with his fingers. He chews it, thoughtfully, apparently savoring its flavor. "This is excellent, wouldn't you say so, Hadley?"
It isn't Hadley who answers, but the thing sitting next to him. "I'd agree." It raises a fork and stabs itself in its thigh. The thing embeds the fork deeper into its flesh, and drags it down the length of its thigh, ripping through cloth and skin. It doesn't bleed. "It's excellent."
