Zed

“Zed. There is something I should confess.” “Yes?” “When we first married -” I paused, the wind holding a secret to my lips. “I had done so in envy of the estate. You know… how much I love the house, the Island.” Silence followed the confession. Zed did not reply. “Over the years, I have come to feel differently. My heart feels differently. You’re all I’ve ever known, living on this island for years by myself. You were both no one and everyone to me. Now, you are only everyone, everything. I say this, my dear, to strengthen the heart, rather than pierce it.” Zed sighed. A sigh between love and contempt. Regret ensued. I expected a violent retort. “Thank you for telling me.” Zed replied. “I’m glad we are able to tell each other such things. I’m glad our marriage has grown to that… strength. In the meantime, I have a surprise for you. Rather than return next week, I will be returning home tomorrow.” “...Tomorrow?” I gasped, half excitedly, half dreadingly. It had been three years since Zed had set foot on Woe’s End. “Tomorrow, after sunset my dear.” “I cannot wait,” I answered, my voice affected. “I’ll make shrimp scampi for your return… your favorite dish.” And as the call ended, I stared into the dark sea. Gentle waves crashed against the shore of my sanctuary, my home. My precious island of Woe’s End. ******************************************************************************** As I recalled the last conversation with my husband, I awaited his arrival atop my lighthouse. The sea was ablaze with the dying hues of the sun, sinking beneath the waves. A beautiful sight, as it had been every day and night. My perch atop the lighthouse was my soul’s resting place. Never was I more at peace, leaning over the railing, holding a cigarette daintily between my fingers. For three years, The island of Woe’s End - its lovely cottage, and lighthouse - had been mine, and only mine. My confession to Zed holds true; the only thing I love more than that man is the island he inherited. An island old as the sea itself, handed down through fathers and grandfathers, until it fell into his hands - and then to my own. Emptying a pack of cigarettes into my metal carrier, I pulled a small photograph of Zed from within. What a handsome man I had married. Only his family’s island was more beautiful. He had slicked brown hair, a chiseled jaw, and a smile whiter than the blaring sun. Zed’s photograph resided in my cigarette case. Every time I smoked, I would see his smile. In doing so, I tricked myself into loving him. Forcing myself to look at that smile every time I sustained my cravings. The sorcery had worked - it only took eight years of routine association. Zed was a psychiatrist, though not of the ordinary sort. His private practice was feared and studied throughout the world. His psychic methods of manipulating the mind were brutally effective. Laying within the arms of such a man was uncomforting. After ten years of marriage, how much of my mind remained my own? My late father always warned me, never trust one who can bend the mind like molten metal. But that profound psychic ability could exorcize the mind’s indomitable demons. Powerful figures from secretive reaches of the world would call on my husband for healing. Zed sailed out to sea three years ago, to foster the convalescence of a powerful politician at the other end of the planet. Sometimes, I feared he would never return. But as I grew lonely, savoring melancholy and isolation, I feared that one day, he would return. The sun vanished, and darkness tainted the sea. The seaside breeze smelled of orange peel and sea salt. Woe’s end floated at the perfect latitude, cultivating warmer winters, and cooler summers. The Island, less than two acres in size, was paradise incarnate. As I soaked in my final moments of blissful solitude, a small dot appeared on the horizon, a shadowed traveler. A small, orange blur across the sea, crawling toward Woe’s End. Lit by a lantern, the humble speedboat made its way to the shore, wading to the island’s small wooden dock. A dark figure stood atop the boat, his facial features obscured by the night. The shoulders and posture were all too familiar. It was my husband Zed who stepped from the boat. I sighed, a long, regretful sigh that sought to travel back in time. Stamping out my cigarette, I climbed down the lighthouse ladder to greet my husband. Hours passed, encompassing mundane trivialities and conversations about our time apart. I accompanied Zed into the Island’s cottage, the white walls and red roof in perfect taste. After his luggage had been settled, we sipped red wine as I cooked shrimp scampi. “Shrimp Scampi? That’s a surprise.” He said, sitting at the antique wooden table. “I told you on our last call that I would cook it for you.” I replied blandly. Stirring the food, I admired my kitchen, ignorant of Zed’s presence behind me. Ignorant of the anxiety lingering between us. There is a peculiarity that accompanies longtime reunions. As if the man you once knew had metamorphosed, or had been replaced by an imposter. Perhaps it is the new marks of aging - forehead wrinkles, crows feet. Something about Zed was different in only subtle, wrong ways. The other end of the planet had sent a ghost back to me. We sat silently, awkwardly, eating our dinner. Supper was all too quiet for what should have been a jovial reunion. My words from last night hid in the corner of the room like a bashful child, sapping our energies. “Zed, about what I said yesterday.” I began with seriousness, prepared to issue a sincere apology. “Yesterday?” He was in the middle of chewing food. “What did you say?” Dubiously, I rolled my eyes. “When we first got married? How I felt about you? About the house?” Zed looked plainly at me. A genuine lack of knowledge was apparent. I glared at him petulantly, imploring him to abandon the farce. “Were you drinking?” My voice became peevish, annoyed. “I don’t know. I seriously don’t remember what you said.” Zed returned to his food without a second thought to spare. My fork felt light within my fingers. Frustrated, I wanted to slap my cheek, to slap his in turn. I wished for the top of the lighthouse, a cigarette in hand. I wished I would wake up to an empty bed, and the crashing of waves upon the shores of Woe’s End. Annoyed, slightly confused, I dropped the topic. My confession would eventually cause an argument. It would return to damage our relationship like a boomerang. Feeling the veins throb in my head, I thought of happier times. Peaceful occurrences. “Marshal and Lisa just got back from their honeymoon.” I said, a pitiful attempt at small talk. “Marshal and Lisa are married now?” Zed replied apathetically, his mouth full of pasta. I raised no reproach. Weeks prior, I had told him about Lisa's wedding, and the extravagant ceremonies that followed. I had told him of their impending honeymoon, and how Lisa had wanted to have a baby. But Zed acted as if he knew nothing of it. Curiously, I barraged him with questions, each one a probe scraping his mind - seeing how much of our phone calls he remembered. His memory seemed to be selective, remembering fragments, but forgetting much of our phone conversations. I did not know whether Zed had suffered from amnesia, or if he was fooling me. We were both still young. Reminiscence was not yet beyond our ability. I looked deeply into Zed’s eyes. The wrinkles were there, both old and newfound. But there was something strange about his pupils, something staining them. His eyes were a different color. I was absolutely sure of it. His nose was oddly shaped, hooked in certain areas rather than straight. Everything, from the corners of his lips to his hairline were both undyingly familiar and foreign. I could not shake the certainty that the man before me was certainly my husband. But I could not deny that a stranger hid within his skin. I escaped to the top of the lighthouse at 2 AM. Zed was fast asleep. Or so, I had hoped. Pulling my metal cigarette carton from my nightgown, I obtained a fresh cigarette. With it came the photograph of Zed. Theories speculated that the sun, and certain environments could brighten the pupil’s hue. But how had his eyes transformed from their comforting brown, to an alien green? Holding Zed’s picture in front of me, the ocean calm in the background, I studied his crisp brown eyes. My heart leaped canyons, and I backed away from the lighthouse’s railing from fear of fainting. That man in the photograph was not the man sleeping in my bed. The eyes, the forehead, the nose - all of it different, all of it wrong. Suddenly Woe’s End was an enclosed trap, the cottage a hostile dungeon. Looking at the bedroom window, I obtained my cellphone from my nightgown. There were dire questions to be asked - but I could not face whoever lay in my bed. I dialed Zed’s number, and held the phone to my ear. One ring, followed by two, three… “Hello?” he answered, his voice tangible, devoid of drowsiness. “Zed? Where are you?” I asked hushedly. A dreadful pause followed. “I’m still in Luaria.” His voice was calm, assuring. “Is everything alright? You sound scared.” I broke into tears and nervous whimpers, holding my hand over my mouth. “There’s someone in our house-” I whispered over the phone. “Someone, he looks like you, he smells like you. He’s pretending to be you-” Another poisonous pause. “Listen to me -” Urgency hacked his voice, taking control. He breathed rapidly. “Call the police. If you still have the pistol, get it. Hide until they send someone to the island. Do not try to confront him. Do you hear me? Do not try to confro-” “Yes, yes,” My sobs were uncontrollable. My hand shook violently. The pistol was hidden in the nightstand - within reach of the intruder. The intruder who had eaten my cooking like I was its wife. “Zed?” I raised the phone to my ear. Static responded; silence. Zed was no longer on the line. My feet wobbled, and my mind scrambled over potential hiding places. But beneath it all was an obvious thought, one which rose to the surface like a hollow bullet atop the waves. Last night - The Zed I had spoken to on the phone - had said he would come home the following night. And a man resembling Zed arrived. Why then, had Zed told me he was still across the sea on the same cellphone? I had called his number both nights, the only number belonging to Zed. My head throbbed as the weight of unsolved conundrums pounded me. But something caught the corner of my eye - Movement from the bedroom window. My feet, solidified by concrete fear, garnered no reaction. The silence of the night, the crashing of the waves were interrupted by a loud bang. The front door of the cottage was flung open. A man darted from the door, sprinting toward me with the speed of danger. Straight toward the lighthouse. His pace was unrelenting, his arms swinging up and down. I was trapped atop a platform, with no escape but the singular ladder, and no firearm to defend myself. My soul’s resting place was going to become my grave. The sound of his footsteps rushed past the lighthouse. He had run straight past me, toward the ocean. Peeking over the railing, I scanned the perimeter of Woe’s End. Throughout two acres of sand and palm trees, the impostor was nowhere to be found. I was left with a swinging, open front door, and nightmarish perceptions. The remainder of my night was spent atop the lighthouse, on the phone with Zed. The man, who I supposed, was the real Zed. When it felt safe to do so, I obtained the pistol from my bedroom. The police were uncaring in their response. As long as there was no sight of the perpetrator, they saw no need to send armed forces to Woe’s End. In an effort to comfort me, Zed promised to return home the following day. He expressed great worry and genuine sympathy. Emotions that the impostor was incapable of. With Zed at my side, I could feel safe. Even though I knew that somewhere, in a hidden corner of the island, that man was still lurking. Still watching me. He had not just disappeared beneath the waves. It was simply… impossible. I surveyed Woe’s End atop the lighthouse, holding the pistol like a sentry for the next day. My husband approached Woe’s End just after sundown, in a fashion all too similar to the night prior. His boat a black blight climbing the horizon, approaching like the slow grasp of death itself. As I greeted him, hugging and shaking him, I felt his back, his ribs. All of it, different from how it should have been. All of it, wrong. The eye color was correct - familiar, comforting brown. But the teeth were crooked in a way I had never recognized. The cheek bones were gaunt, elevated slightly higher. If Zed was a sculpture of my creation, then someone had wetted the material, and imprinted their own vision upon my work. All I could do was trust the eyes. I saw no further means of maintaining my sanity. I ruthlessly questioned him about our phone calls. He recalled our conversations from the night prior. As I anticipated, he had no knowledge of any conversation the fake Zed had remembered. My theory had been confirmed; somehow, two different men had talked to me from the same phone number. Two men who looked very similar, though not quite like my husband. By bedtime, I couldn’t bear to look at the man. Zed tried to comfort me, pulling me close to him. He smelled different. He smelled strange, like burning plastic, or artificial chemicals. Strands of hair fell over his forehead, far too thin, far too light in color. Laying in bed, I did not sleep. All night, I stared at the ceiling, as a complete stranger snored next to me, holding me in his arms. His arms that felt like malicious knives, that smelled like smoldering charcoal. At 2 AM, I retreated to the top of the lighthouse. Smoking a cigarette, soft vapors dissipating with the breeze, I studied Zed’s photograph. Holding it before my eyes, I used my lighter to illuminate its features. There was no doubt about it. The hair, the smile, everything, wrong, wrong, wrong. Once again, the man sleeping in my bed was not my husband. Whispers emerged from the shore, like Sirens chanting. The winds of Woe’s End would often carry melancholic echoes across the ocean. But the proximity of this conversation was personal, breathing down my neck. Standing at the wooden dock, where both Zeds had arrived by a boat, were two shadowed figures. Both men - both of the same, stolen stature. The stature of Zed. They held a hushed conversation, looking straight at each other, conspiring. Motioning with their hands, the two like dark puppets among a cast of silhouettes. Obscured by the shadows of the lighthouse, I observed them. My mind refused to grip the fabric of the situation, the reality that something dangerous had breached Woe’s End. Yet, an opportunity to end the ploy resided in my night gown. Without a sound, I crept down the ladder and walked toward the dock. As I grew closer, I grew sure that they were the same two men. Hushed voices muttered my name like it was a curse. They spoke of Luaria, and of ancient magics practiced during the rehabilitation of a powerful man. The two men opposite each other were not Zed. They were burlesque mimics, two faces created in a forge of uncanny hilarity. Once I was within undeniable distance, I held the pistol outward, clicking the safety off. Their faces turned to me. The two Zeds held their hands upward in surrender. Both lacked the serious submission of a hostage. Their deference was mirthless. With a quivering voice, I commanded them to follow my lead. I ushered them off the dock, nudging their shoulder blades with the pistol. They walked in front of me as I guided their steps toward the basement of the cottage. We descended the steps to the damp cellar, the forgotten pit of Woe’s End. I wished for chairs and rope to bind them, but my weapon was all I had to subdue the doppelgangers. “What is happening?” I demanded, shifting the barrel of the gun between the two bodies. The two Zeds attempted to speak simultaneously, as if enacting a coordinated ruse. “I found this man,” one would say calmly, smiling. “He’s a danger to you, we can’t trust him.” The other would retort, laughing. The words came from one mouth and both simultaneously. Their lips moved in both perfect sync, and disparate discord. Like the two bodies were swapping places before my eyes, like a coin under a magician’s cup. “I’m the real Zed. Have you forgotten me? Have I meant that little to you?” “You can’t tell it's me? After all these years?” The bickering hammered at me, chiseling away the patience within. I thought of only one thing. The same thought that had ruled over my isolation like an exiled king. Solitude. Woe’s End, my lovely, lonely island. I never wanted Zed to come back. I knew it all along, and I knew it better than ever at that moment. Woe’s End belonged to me. My feelings of false love were a pitiful attempt to justify my envy, my lust for the golden shores of the Island. I would do whatever it took to return to solitude. Whatever it took to rid myself of the one and only blight, the man standing before me, the men wearing his face. They never ceased to bicker and plead with me. Both smiled deviously as they argued back and forth. Yet their eyes never left mine, never turning to look at each other. Slowly, the two of them walked toward me, no longer threatened by the pistol. Each step was in unison, their feet pressing the cellar floor at the exact same time. My back approached the wall, the two closing the gap between, eliminating the factor of time. I turned my pistol to the Zed on the right, and pulled the trigger. The bullet pierced his head, splattering blood and brains across the stone walls. With a thud, the body fell to the ground, pooling crimson blood beneath. The Zed on the left approached me with a sigh of relief. He expressed his specious gratitude, his appreciation that I had realized his authenticity. But he never stopped walking toward me. His hands never stopped twitching with an innate desire to strangle and choke. I pointed the pistol at him as well, firing a bullet to end his life. His face disintegrated, the nose and upper lip disappearing, giving way to blood and bone. The large body collapsed to the ground, falling neatly in place next to its gory familiar. As the sun rose on Woe’s End, I was left with two bodies and a basement full of blood and bullets. Though the tasks of the following day were gruesome, peace had returned to my life. All day was spent mopping blood, scrubbing walls, and bagging organs. The hearts and intestines were rubbery, as if produced by a factory. Scooping everything into large black garbage bags, I smiled amidst the strife. Because I was all alone with Woe’s End, the lighthouse, and the cottage. The sun shone brightly, without a cloud to deter its beauty. I dragged the two garbage bags across the beach, relishing in the softness of the sand between my toes. A trail of blood stained my footprints, painting a path of war from the basement to the dock. Before long, the rain would return, and wash away any evidence, and any memory of that demented night. At the end of the dock, I rolled the body bags into the ocean. Both were chained to a large boulder, sending them to a void at the ocean floor. I smoked a cigarette with bloody, trembling fingers as I watched the bags disappear into nothingness. By sunset, all was well on Woe’s End. The murders had been cleaned up, the evidence disposed of. I ate a quiet, easy dinner - cereal and milk. The silence surrounding the dinner table was pure ecstasy. My bath was peaceful, rife with contemplation and intelligent ideas. As I laid in bed, I felt little regret for what had to be done. I refused to think of the terrifying implications of multiple Zeds on Woe’s End. I absolutely refused to think anything of it. Because to do so was to accept that more could arrive. That somewhere, at the other end of the planet, devilish forces sought to tantalize and torture me. During my brief slumber, I dreamed of Zed. Not the real one, but a paltry facsimile. A fake, factory-made replica, knocking at the door of the cottage. He called my name with echoing ghastliness, pervading the halls of the cottage. His voice was robotic. I woke up, my forehead and pillow covered in sweat. The nightmare had been realistic, as if that voice still echoed throughout the cottage. I had pictured myself in my own bed as he called my name. I felt that he was still standing at the door. Swinging the front door open, I held my pistol outward. There was no Zed there. The barrel aimed only at the serene waves of the sea and the very dock that had swallowed two bodies. I lowered the gun. Calmly, I climbed the ladder of the lighthouse. As I pulled a cigarette from my metal case, the photograph of Zed came out with it. Foggily, lost in a haze, I held it before my face. That smile, those white teeth. It had always been the only thing between me and the life I dreamed of. After lighting my cigarette, I brought the lighter to the photograph. I held the photograph between two fingers, watching it burn down to a single ember. The breeze swept the smoldering scrap from me, hiding it within the millions of grains of sand. Another secret blended within centuries of Zed’s heritage on Woe’s End. Movement emerged from the dock. A black, reflective figure moving, squirming. A creature, shaped like a man, crawled from the sea. It climbed like a quadrupedal animal. My eyes pried themselves open. My face broke out in pallid sweat. I placed my hand on the pistol at my side. But the scurrying menace soon disappeared from my sight, moving with ghoulish speed, disappearing behind the cottage. Glass shattered, a window of the cottage broken. Breaking, banging, and cracking rang throughout the home. The creature was toppling furniture and glass as it hunted for me. It tore into the walls with fury. I could hear as the antique wooden table was toppled and fragmented. A brief interlude of silence ensued before his voice called my name from the cottage. Zed’s voice. It came first in an imploring, romantic whisper. Then, the voice rose into urgency, yelling for me, screaming. It resumed smashing furniture, spazzing like a demonic child. Destroying the cottage I loved with its bare hands. I sat down with my back to the wall of the lighthouse. With the pistol in my hand, I covered my ears, crying in whispers. Pleading for him to go away forever. Perhaps the continued destruction from the house would have eased my mind - the satisfaction of knowing that he was still far from me. But as I uncovered my ears, I received uncomfortable silence. The still night, accompanied by a ghastly breeze. He seized me from my right, wrapping his arms under my shoulders. I began to scream, dropping the gun in my futile struggle. I turned to look at his face. It was wild with excitement - the look of Zed crazed with malignance. Those eyes were not his - they contained malice, they were red and twisted. He said things to me - That he was going to help me, that I was going insane. That I was going to a better place. I flailed, kicked and screamed until I ran out of breath, and my body could not move. He held me tight with malefic strength. Zed produced a needle from his black jacket and injected a mysterious substance into my arm. Paralysis cemented my joints and my lips. Immediately I ceased all resistance. I became a waking corpse, conscious of the world around me, but unable to interact with it in any way. Zed hauled me over his shoulder, and descended the lighthouse ladder. He carried me across the beach, his boots treading the trail of blood-stained sand. Before, there had been nothing but a crawling beast at the dock. Now, an unfamiliar boat bobbed and rocked in its place. White, clinical lights shone from the boat. It was old and dirty, covered in barnacles like it had risen from the depths of a trench. Zed carried me across the dock, onto the boat. He placed my back on the damp floor. From the claustrophobic cabin, five men emerged like clowns from a car. Their steps were professional, authoritative. Like a team of surgeons preparing to operate on a dying patient. Each of the five men were Zed, each of them with their own deformities separating them from the one, true specimen. Some of them wore surgical masks. Some of them had bright lights shining from headbands. They all leaned in towards me, bringing their faces close for examination. Their voices were a barrage, like a jury of doctors debating on a diagnosis. They rabbled about my eyes, how they could see the insanity within. Shining a bright red flashlight in the retina, they took my temperature, and measured my heart rate. The boat began to rock, undulating with the waves as it departed from the dock. Violent winds battered the sea, and drizzle from the dark clouds above wetted my face. My eyes jerked in the direction of Woe’s End. The island was growing smaller, vanishing with the fog of distance. It was like watching a precious child fall from a cliff. Like watching your betrothed die before your very eyes. I would never see Woe’s End again. My one, true love. As the boat sailed further into the black ocean, thunder crackled. Blue lightning whipped the sea. Rain poured torrentially, and the five Zeds operated on me. They probed me with sticks and needles, cutting open my arms as they sparred with medical jargon. My senses were overloaded, the boat rocking like a roller coaster. I fell unconscious, my last waking vision of five masked Zeds, their faces an inch away from my own. ******************************************************************************** I awoke in a pure white room. There were no windows and no furniture, save the twin bed on which I lay. The sheets and mattress were just as white, blending with the walls of the cell. A singular door was hinged at the opposite end of the room. The room itself was far too long, far too liminal. I thought that if I made a run for the door, that it would just grow in distance, that I would never gain any ground. A straight jacket constricted my upper body. Manacles chained my ankles to the bed. Beside it were metal buckets containing water and detritus. The door at the end of the room opened. A Zed entered the cell, wearing a white doctor’s coat. He approached leisurely, a clipboard in hand. His black shoes clicked against the shining floor, echoing throughout the empty room. He kneeled before me, smiling. With an indifferent tone, he asked questions - whether I knew where I was, or why I had ended up in such a room. With fervent pleas, I admitted everything to the Zed. That I had seen multiple copies of my husband. How I had killed two of them in the basement. How I had seen that abhorrence crawl from the sea. He shook his head at each statement, recording notes on his clipboard. “Do you remember the last time you think you talked to your husband, the real Zed?” He asked me. “I, I…” My bottom lip quivered. My mind ran sprints, as my body was unable to move. “I was on the phone with him. I admitted that I had married him for the acquisition of property. I told him he was no one to me, he was everyone to me. But I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean it…” I sobbed, looking into the eyes of the Zed. The familiar, brown eyes. Zed smiled. “Miss, the suggested treatment is a frontal lobe lobotomy, followed by lifelong rehabilitation. Treatment should start within the following days.” He stood up, and looked at me one last time, adorning a sardonic smile. An eidetic image of a burned photograph flashed in my mind. The eyes, the nose, the lips. Suddenly I was smoking a cigarette atop my lighthouse for the last time. Faintly whispering, running my finger along the photograph of Zed. Without another word, Zed turned and walked toward the door, tucking the clipboard beneath his arm. “Zed?” I called desperately. He opened the door, locking it behind him as he walked out. “Zed!” I cried out.