Splitting up is hard to do

Peeling himself off the ground, cigarette butts and dirt fell from Martin's face. A few feet away was the usual pool of blood. His Other was gone, doing God knows what damage.

The trail of crimson bread crumbs, thankfully, petered out before reaching a public place. Emerging from the shade of the alley, the oppressive force of the July air blasted Martin. Taking a moment he slumped against a lamppost, trying to avoid inquisitive pedestrians with a case of Déjà vu.

Finding and disposing of his Other was the priority. He thought of the unpleasant episode in the supermarket. An indecision over beef and chicken, resulting in him taking a cleaver to the extra finger emerging from the side of his wrist. The image of the dirty sink, full of blood and last night's leftovers making him want to retch.

Without thinking he took off down the road towards Rebecca. A minute or so later, after almost colliding with an old lady, Martin realised Angela now meant nothing to him. Shouting a half-hearted apology at the startled woman, he sprinted off in the opposite direction.

With his t-shirt sticking to his back Martin turned onto Angela's street. His lungs ached and his mouth hurt as he bent over and tried to draw in air. This part of town was all but forgotten by the council, gangs of teenagers roamed the streets keeping their territory safe from gentrification. The reek from a backed up sewer forced Martin to breathe through his mouth.

According to his watch he had been running for eight minutes. To his body it felt like hours. He thought of the damage his Other could have done in that time, but the real question was what constituted damage? The whole sordid narrative of his affair, or the biological impossibility of his Other.

The door to Angela's stair was boarded up, the glass panels broken long before his first visit. Pressing his forehead against the flaking red paint Martin reached out and pressed the buzzer.

"Yes," her voice was hoarse and quiet. At first Martin thought he might have buzzed the wrong flat.

"Angela?"

She hissed "Fuck off," and hung up.

He stepped back from the door, craned his neck up, and spotted that she had left a window open. A single white curtain was being dragged out into the afternoon air. He didn't want to cause a scene or draw attention but she hadn't left him much choice. Martin had managed to talk her into bed, he could get her to open a door.

A man leaving the building almost collided with him. The two indulged in the usual socially awkward dance of strangers trying to pass one another. Eventually Martin slipped into the gloom of the stone hallway, grateful for the shade.

Slowly climbing the wet stairs, intoxicated by the smell of bleach, Martin scrambled frantically for something, anything to say. If only he knew what his Other had said, some kind of well-meaning attempt a confession no doubt. Telling Angela all about Rebecca, offering a clean slate, one that had invariably blown up in Martin's face.

He had met Angela by accident, while searching for some rare imported vinyl at a now defunct store. She worked behind the counter and made some comment about the record. He didn't think employees were allowed to mock customers' purchases, let alone with bitingly accurate satire. Martin and Rebecca had been going through a rough patch and he was feeling sorry for himself when one thing led to another.

Beneath a potted plant, which was somehow both alive and dead, Angela hid a spare key. Picking it up Martin began to panic, unsure whether to use it or just knock with his head hung in shame. The memories of their time together flooded his mind, a narrative that was suddenly devoid of emotion. The two lovers could have been anyone, the images well made forgeries, for all they meant to him.

The longer he stood idling the more his stomach began to cramp. Small jagged pains built to such intensity that Martin doubled over. A dull thud echoed out as his head collided with the wood.

"What?" A bleary-eyed Angela was watching him through a crack in the door.

The pain vanished and Martin rose sheepishly. All he could see was a makeup stained cheek and an expression full of hurt and hope. The scene was all too familiar, playing out each time he had tried to end things with Angela. Always picking her as she was less likely to cause problems. A wave of guilt washed over him, at the idea of cheating on Rebecca.

"Well," the words came out broken.

"I...I'm sorry..." Martin was smart enough not to end the sentence.

"You're sorry! You're sorry! What for dumping me? Again. Cheating on me? Again. Confessing to the whole blood thing?" anger had burned away anything she had felt for Martin. It was radiating off her. The reason Angela hadn't opened the door was not to keep him out but to keep her fury in.

Although Angela now meant nothing to him, he couldn't help but feel responsible for her pain. His face began to feel flush with shame, old declarations of love and promises of a future echoed inside his mind.

"I'm really sorry," he whispered again, before turning and running back down the stairs.

"Fuck you!" she roared down the stairwell.

A few moments later his leg muscles were screaming in pain as he forced them to run back across town. He needed to get to Rebecca before his Other. He truly loved her, why he had ever indulged his infatuation with Angela was beyond him.

Rebecca was an artist, she didn't tolerate fools and she genuinely seemed to care about him. Nursing him when he was sick or hung over, she even loaned him money when he was between jobs. He found her endlessly fascinating and was in awe of her talents. The smell of oil paint would forever remind him of making love.

Martin finally arrived at Rebecca's studio, narrowly avoiding being run down on two separate occasions. If there was a polar opposite to where Angela lived this was it. The street was lined with artisan bakeries, cycle shops and clothing boutiques. Having a window boarded up on this street for longer than an hour would result in a petition to have your business moved on.

The anxiety of losing the one person he truly loved, pushed his already overworked heart to the point of exhaustion. His Other now shouldering the burden of his feelings for Angela, made the intensity of his feelings for Rebecca that much more.

Through the large glass windows, Martin saw half finished paintings and a burning cigarette in a small dish but no sign of Rebecca or his Other. Looking up and down the street, he imagined his doppelganger searching store fronts hunting the woman Martin loved. He thought about heading into crowded streets in search of them but was held back by the possibility of Rebecca still being inside the studio.

Something began pushing against the fabric of his t-shirt, just above his ribs. Stretching its neck he could see a hand emerging from his chest. He tried and failed to wrestle the appendage back inside. It would have been easier to push his head down into his torso.

Moving back up the steps to the studio door, he felt his t-shirt settle back into shape. Trying the handle he found the place was locked but the "open" sign was still in place. Pressing his face against the glass Martin searched for some sign of life. The delicate plume of smoke coming off the cigarette, gave the impression Rebecca was making tea or had gone to the toilet.

Martin sat on the step and waited, the world slowly moving on around him. He was thirsty and his body was sore all over. As time went on he had moved through the entire emotional spectrum. One minute he was jealous at the thought of his Other making love to Rebecca, then heartbroken at the thought of it telling the truth and costing him the great love of his life.

Taking soft slow breaths, Martin began to cry. Tears rolled down his cheek and exploded on the stone beneath him. His actions suddenly having real consequences. The damage he had done, the pain he had caused. Angela's face haunting him almost as much as the uncertainty of his own romantic future.

Weeping had never been Rebecca's style, she got angry, she would never allow someone that much power over her. Somewhere there was a painting of him that was being cut to pieces or exposed to turpentine. He smiled imaging her breaking a canvas over his Other's head and pushing it out onto the street.

"I wondered where you had gotten to," his Other was standing at the bottom of the steps.

At some point during Martin's despair the street lights had come on. The Other's hoodie was pulled up over its head, the black fabric washed out in the glow of passing cars. Its face shrouded in shadows, but the voice was unmistakable. Standing up Martin wiped his eyes.

"What, you couldn't have Angela so I wasn't getting Rebecca?"

"Oh, fuck, I've never...I mean this has never happened before..." his Other took a step back, but Martin could feel it watching him from inside the hood.

"You love Rebecca don't you?"

"Yes," anger began to bubble up inside Martin, he was going to enjoy destroying this Other.

"Fuck," The other slid back his hood and came towards Martin.

"Our Other is already dead. I'm...well I'm here to destroy you. You see, there was a third solution to our problem. Rebecca, Angela or neither. I didn't realise it until I saw the two of you lying there on the ground."

"You mean I'm..."

"Yeah, the wrong choice."