Escape Africa (8)

 

8. I Become You:

I watched the water drain out the basin, its foamy slurry
of soap, dead skin and blood draining away to unknown. I knew this because he
knew this. Never wondering where that water went or did it ever reach the ocean
the splash of aftershave against my face wiped away the mere thought with the
light sting on my skin where tiny cuts were sought by the Old Spice. I felt
this because he felt this. My travel practices both odd and necessary as I
later discovered the impeccable grooming obsession I prided upon with near
forensic execution was to be my undoing. I felt it essential to leave no
discernible trace in an unfamiliar place because I had developed an irrational
concept of slowly washing away with each turn of a tap. I left no trace, a
ghost on the road moving from hotel to motel to air-bnb until I reached
Harrismith. The country lodge established as a self sustainable environment,
this was a problem. The water system recycled; from rain water storage to
wetland run-off, every drop of discard human DNA contained. I was screwed, he
was born. From the muddy earth of that wetland my Gollum crawled out of the
moonlit night. Fingers to hands, arms to torso this half human manifesting in
front of me assembled with my blood and skin and hair. I feared no one else
witnessed the rise of the monster, this other form Id dreamt into life and
washed away into existence. Standing outside my window was this other version
of me, only standing. In my panic I fled into the night, desperate to get away
from, from myself?

No matter where I travelled he would be there, absorbing
whatever I shed to discard down the drain to take full form. I feared shaving,
I feared showering, I feared washing my hands because I feared becoming less of
me and more of him. Thus my torment continued along my travels and in my
dreams. There he is speaking, whether speaking to me or not this wretched voice
from beyond the unknown consciousness repeated three words.

‘I become you.’

I would end it; I would take my own life face down in the
mud from where this thing sprung. I reached Harrismith on my return trip and
waited for nightfall. I knew my legs had been broken and I tasted mud on my
tongue. I was sure I jumped off the edge of something but now I couldn’t move,
shallow roots entangled my arms, reaching up from the deep earth to hold me down
while the bog itself swallowed me. Time passed as I slowly sank, the silence of
night confirmed to me I was awaiting death. I lifted my head back to keep clear
of the foul bog in vain, I watched him slowly walk towards me in complete and
identical appearance to me. He stopped, knelt down and gently pushed my face
into it. I heard him walk away; the darkness claimed me as my corpse vanished
beneath the bog.