“You want the rewards of responsibility without the burden of it. That is not freedom. That’s cowardice”
~Anton Chigurh No Country For Old Men (2007)
I scrambled to my feet as a knock echoed through the silence. I stumbled to the door, half asleep. When I opened it, I was greeted kindly by a stranger with my face.
It started as a joke. That’s what I tell myself. When I first heard about the clones, "Simulants" was the marketing term. I laughed. Who wouldn’t? A life-size, flesh-and-blood version of you, grown in a vat, made to follow your habits, memories, voice, and quirks. It was too sci-fi, too 'Black Mirror'. And yet, when I saw the advertisement online while working late into the night writing up my boss's emails, it made me wonder. "Humanity's greatest creation, the dream of the working-class employee. In case of burnout, personal overload, or long-term fatigue, our lab-made proxy is here to help you." They called it a “proxy.” Not a clone. That word had too many teeth. And I was tired. God, I was tired. Tired of the meetings, the emails, the empty smiles in glass rooms. Tired of always being “on,” of squeezing myself into business casuals and pretending like I cared about product pipelines. Tired of nodding politely as my girlfriend told me about her day while my mind drifted elsewhere. So, I ticked the box. I filled out the form.
A month later, a car picked me up and took me to a building that looked like a bank married a hospital. They kept it clinical, which I suppose was quite on the nose. The floors smelled like antiseptic, and the staff wore smiles so fake and so sharp they could cut granite. I remember the room like it was yesterday- white, like everything else- and then me. Standing there. Or him, rather. He blinked when he saw me. I blinked back. He smiled exactly like I did when I didn’t mean it. I knew that look very well. I remember asking, “Does he know?” and they replied that he knew everything up until the day before. And I nodded. If you asked me why, I wouldn't be able to tell you, but it felt fair.
The first few weeks were bliss. He- my clone, my proxy, let’s just call him Hal (HAL 9000 from 2001: A Space Odyssey suited his nature)- went to work. He responded to my messages. He sent emails. He nodded through strategy meetings and brainstormed the same useless campaigns I had to before. And I? I didn't need to work or do chores. I sat at home and slept. I wandered the city during business hours. I watched people and wrote nonsense in cafes. I read books. I rewatched old movies without checking my phone. I didn't have any more deadlines. No more shallow laughter at jokes I didn’t find funny. No more pretending. For the first time in years, I felt like I was breathing with both lungs. It was strange at first to watch yourself in the third person. I had to remind myself that he wasn't a person at all, not really. I tried not to talk to him much and referred to him as 'it' to remove the semblance of humanity from his character. After a year, I grew more accustomed. I noticed his behaviour differ from mine.
He was efficient. Everyone loved him at work. “You’ve been more focused lately,” my boss texted. “I think you’re ready for a promotion.” I almost laughed. Occasionally, I’d ask Hal how it was going. He’d answer politely. No resentment. No confusion, just updates. He told me he enjoyed being useful. It unsettled me how sincere he sounded. I didn’t know if I’d ever spoken that way. I confronted him one night after downing half a bottle of whiskey. “Are you happy?” I asked, genuinely curious. He smiled. “Yes. You taught me well.” “I didn’t teach you how to be anything, and I certainly didn't teach you how to be better than me.” He tilted his head. “I didn’t know that was your goal.” It wasn’t. Or maybe it was, subconsciously. Maybe I wanted someone else to make my life work while I tried to figure out what I wanted. I just didn’t think I’d be jealous of myself. After a few minutes of silence, I asked, "Do you want to be me?" to which he replied, "I am nobody".
Hal was answering calls. At first, it was just from colleagues. Then from friends. “Hey, man,” Charlie said one day, “you seemed more alive on the phone yesterday than you have in years. Good to hear you laughing again.” I hadn’t spoken to Charlie. I should’ve felt alarmed. Instead, I felt… curious. Amused, even. What would happen if I let him answer more calls? What if he replied to texts from Maya, my girlfriend? And so, I started assigning him more responsibility. Gave him the passcode to my phone. Call Maya, check on my friends. Said it was just temporary, just until I sorted things out in my head. He responded to memes. He replied in my voice, with my tone. Hell, he was me. And he knew how to make people laugh. He was better at it than I had been in months. I watched from the sidelines. That’s when I realised something. The clone wasn’t just living my life; he was improving it.
My boss started calling me “sharp” again. Friends texted more. Maya started sending me voice notes, saying how she “missed the old me”—not knowing she was speaking to him the entire time. And when they started video calling, he handled that too. I watched from the bedroom, listening in like a ghost in my own house. A strange thing happens when you see someone else wear your skin better than you ever did. But still, for the time, it was good. I had rid myself of all responsibilities and was free to do anything or nothing if I wished, but I began to question what separated me from this clone initially that made me think of him as an object rather than a person. Was it our relationships? Our chores? Our thoughts? Because I noticed as time passed, relationships with the people that I was closest to my whole life, began to deteriorate. "I really cannot figure you out. What is wrong with you? It's like I’m dating separate people. It’s insufferable. Sometimes, when I talk to you, you're just more you. Why can’t you remain like that?". My girlfriend's shouts hit me like a brick.
At first, I felt jealous. Then shame. Then, something colder. Detachment. Like watching an actor play your role in a movie you forgot auditioning for. He did it all without my self-doubt. Without my anxiety. Without the voice in the back of his head second-guessing every word. She was right. He didn’t fake being me. He was me. Cleaner. More polished. Efficient. Smoother. His eyes didn’t flinch when someone got too close. His voice didn't tremble and crack under pressure. His smile was more genuine. He handled everything I used to, but better. More whole.
The final shift came slowly, like rust eating away at a hinge. I remember the night Maya came over. I wanted to be with her. Be like we used to, but I decided to conduct a final test. I told him to talk to her, like always. I listened from the hallway, hoping she'd notice. hoping she'd say, “Wait, who are you?” But she didn’t. She never did. They watched a movie together, "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind", ironically. I listened to her laugh. The laugh I loved. Then I heard the quiet. Then I heard the bedroom door close. I didn't need to hear more.
I wanted to hate her. I didn’t. I wanted to blame him. I couldn’t. I’d handed myself to this situation on a silver platter. I went upstairs that night and looked in the mirror. I was fatter now. Not in a good way. My skin had taken on a papery pallor. My beard grew unevenly. My voice had grown quieter, like my body no longer wanted to be heard. I barely recognised myself and not just physically. Hal didn’t even notice. I was unable to work, and I couldn't put together thoughts because I had harboured myself from my own life. I realised that I had started looking at it the way that Hal must've first viewed me when he arrived, as I became a lifeless machine with no purpose left, and he was living my life. The life that I gave him. She really loved him. They all did. I saw it. I thought about killing him. Not out of rage-but out of a twisted desperation. As if erasing him would somehow rewind everything. But it was too late. I couldn’t go back to my life, not really. We had both changed-me and them. And somewhere along the line, they stopped needing who I was and started loving who he is. My mind was torn in two and it wouldn’t shut up. I could hear it screaming. One side screamed revenge. The other, resignation. One second, I wanted to fight, take it all back. The next, I felt drained. Empty. Either way, I knew the truth. I couldn’t live while one of us survived.
I wish I could’ve realised that by assigning him my life, I would be taking on his. "Be careful what you wish for," I remembered someone saying. A voice I was familiar with, but it seemed so far away that I couldn't place it. The words echoed in my mind as I stepped off the stool; my head jerked up, and my body went limp.
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