The Duplicate

Chapter Eleven

"Trip?" My voice comes out in a needless whisper.

I can't help it. The room is so dark, so quiet, with only the dim, flashing light and dull murmurs of the TV as the news plays the same story over and over:

Two officers are in critical condition at Whithorn Hospital, both believed to have suffered multiple injuries. Luckily, the two officers were in walking distance of Whithorn Hospital after being attacked by a man who officials say may be a terrorist. They also warn that the man is, in fact, armed and extremely dangerous. If you have any information involving the gunman, do not approach the suspect. Please call your local law enforcement immediately.

They go on to give a description of Trip, stressing the one feature that stands out the most. His eyes. They mention nothing of me or the men who were killed in my home. And I am beginning to think maybe Trip is right. Maybe Government isn't out to help me.

Trip, who is sitting at the end of the bed, turns his head away from the screen to look at me over his shoulder. Even in this dim light, I can see the surprise flecked in his eyes. It alarms me.

"What?" My fingers curl around the edge of the blankets—the four lying across the bed—tugging them to my chin, trying to block out the cold. I tilt my head against the pillow to get a better look at him. "What is it?"

"You almost make it sound like a name." There is bitterness in his voice that I don't understand.

I bite my lip and shrug. "Well, that is your name, isn't it?"

"No. I don't have a name." His eyes shift to the television screen. "That's what they called me."

They.

Government.

The pictures of the two cops are shown again. The news station lingers more on the second cop's face. It is so swollen, almost deformed, I am sure his family doesn't even recognize him.

"What kind of nickname is Trip?" I ask. Aren't nicknames usually supposed to mean something? What in the world could Trip mean?

Trip turns again, this time looking irritated. "What did you want?"

My gaze momentarily lowers to the blankets. "What is in your file?"

Only silence comes from the end of the bed.

After a moment of waiting, I finally mutter, "Well, I think I have a right to know. Evidently, it's important enough to ruin my life."

A heavy sigh escapes Trip, and when he speaks now his voice is a whisper too. "Everything," he says. "Everything is in that file."

"Like what?"

"Who I am."

I stare at him, uncertainly, until I realize what he means. "Who your Original is."

His jaw clenches in response.

This sends my mind reeling for a second. I hadn't really thought of it until now. Somewhere there is another him. His Original—the person he was cloned from. My thumb and finger fidget with the edge of one of the blankets as I pause to think. "Is it that important to know? Is it that important to cause all of this?"

Trip's eyes harden. "I think I'm entitled to know."

I shake my head.

"What?"

"So, you think it is okay to just uproot someone else's life, kill, and steal—just because you feel entitled to something?"

"You are the last person who has a right to lecture me."

His emphasis on you makes me blink. My brow furrows. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I mean," he says, "you're just another fucking Ashford, deluded into thinking you're saving lives when in reality you have just as much blood on your hands as I do."

For a moment, I don't know what to say. My mouth opens and closes twice before I can finally spit out, "Excuse me?"

"You heard me."

"What are you talking about?" I sit up, anger building inside me, unable to believe what he is saying. Accusing me of killing? "I do save lives. I haven't killed anyone."

Trip's eyes set ablaze. They spark, like lightning. "You think it isn't killing just because they're duplicates?"

I shake my head, back and forth, back and forth. "Duplicates are put under in a humane way. A duplicate doesn't see or feel or hear—technically it's not even alive. It's not killing if it's not even alive! "

Suddenly, Trip is standing and moving towards me. Quickly I shrink back against the headboard of the bed, my heart stopping as he shoves his face in mine. "Does it look alive enough for you?" he growls with such force it causes me to cower even more. Every muscle is tensed like he's ready to lash out at me.

And I know with just one hit, he could do a lot of damage.

"I..." My eyes close. My breathing races. "I didn't mean you."

"It could have been me. Look at me." He seizes my jaw, his fingers hot, firm against my skin.

I open my eyes, staring up into electricity.

"It's that kind of thinking that has caused all of this." Trip's doesn't sound so furious anymore, but there's steel in his voice. He sounds dangerously calm. "It's that kind of thinking that has made me nothing but Government property. There is no difference between being used for spare parts and being used as a Government toy. Because of people like you, I am a number. That. Is. All. I. Am. There is nothing humane about that."

The room fills with silence. Only the soft sounds of the TV can be heard. That, and our breathing. Trip's, harsh and grating. Mine, shallow and pitiful.

Tears brim in my eyes. I blink at them, look away, and in a whisper barely audible, I say, "Let go of me." I don't look at him as he releases me and takes a step back. I still don't look at him as he turns away and heads for the TV. He hits the power button in one quick, loud smack.

The room goes black.

Slowly, I sink into the bed again, and though I turn away from him and pull the blankets to my ears, I can still hear him round the bed. He falls beside me with a heavy, drained sigh.

In only seconds, his heat is warming me under the blankets.

I hate it.

I hate him.

Hours pass... Or maybe only minutes, before Trip's breathing grows deeper beside me.

My spiraling thoughts lull. And within minutes, I am falling asleep, too, with tears drying on my cheeks.