If The Price Sounds Too Good To Be True, Then It Is Too Good To Be True. I Learned That The Hard Way.

I got up, in my underwear and t-shirt. No suit at three-in-the morning. I tried to shake the feeling off. The feeling like I was being watched or someone was stepping over my grave. I went to the kitchen and nuked a cup of milk and reached for my chocolate mix. I noticed the lights in the condo straight across the street flicker on. I glanced over, and saw a man closing his front door. I went back to what I was doing and focused on my hot chocolate.

I stirred my glass and started to take a slow and cautious sip as I approached my giant windows. I stared across the street and watched my neighbor come home late, oblivious to my attentions. I felt like Jimmy Stewart in a Hitchcock movie. Y’know, like a classy voyeur. I was just starting to convince myself I was okay when I got a good look at my neighbor across the way.

I nearly choked on my drink when the man came to his window and looked out. It was me. It wasn’t some guy who was the same sort of handsome, or really styled his hair and beard like mine. It was actually me. It was like looking in a mirror, but 40 yards away and I wasn’t wearing the same clothes. I also had a pretty disheveled head of hair and looked pretty grim.

I nearly shit a brick. I thought I was still asleep, at first. With all the creeping cold and anxiety, it made perfect sense I was having a lame nightmare. Just as I contemplated that theory, a splash of burning hot milk met the top of my foot. I jumped and spilled even more. I suppose the singeing pain was clue enough that this was all real.

I didn’t even care about the pain in my foot. I stood there in the small puddle of hot chocolate, pouring more from the tilted cup in my loose grip. My identical neighbor was imitating my window-watching habit, with his own depressing twist. It looked like I was crying, and I had been out in the rain, but there wasn’t a drop all day. Hell, there hadn’t been any rain for at least a week. He wore a wet, black leather coat. It looked nice. For just a moment, I wondered why I didn’t have that same coat. The wonderment faded quickly as my doppelganger pulled a shiny black pistol from his nice leather coat.

The other me started to heave with his intense sobs. He seemed to shout something directly at me, or maybe just at his reflection on the glass. He beat his fist against his chest as the sobbing got worse and his eyes bulged red. A word seemed to catch in his throat just as he pulled the gun up to his temple and squeezed the trigger. I watched my own brains get blown out all over the window across the street and 32 stories up. I couldn’t speak and could barely breathe. I grabbed my phone to call the police, but I had no idea what I was going to tell them. Just as I pulled the phone up to dial, I glanced back across the street. The window was dark and there was no light from within. I couldn’t tell if the blood was on the glass anymore, but it didn’t look like it.

I decided not to call the cops. At the very least, I’d sound mentally unwell. I’m not sure what to do, guys. I couldn’t fall asleep after seeing what I saw. So, I came here, because hell if I know what to do. The sun’s about to go down, and I’ve been glancing out of my windows every minute or two. Afraid I’ll see myself again, a big gaping hole in my head and shouting like a depraved loon.