I should've lowered the vase, but it felt like my only defence in a haze of confusion.
"Who are you?" I yelled.
"Who are you?" she yelled back, like she wasn't the stranger in somebody else's apartment.
"I live here. How did you get in here?"
"No, I live here," she insisted. "Well, not for much longer, but still. It's mine right now, and you're trespassing."
"Is this a joke?" I searched her face for any trace of humour. My face – because it truly was a replica, although she was much more talented at enhancing it. My sweaty skin had nothing on her flawless powder and red lipstick, which came to life against sparkling silver jewellery. Then something occurred to me. "Wait, what do you mean, not for much longer?"
"I'm moving in with my fiancé!" she answered gleefully. Suddenly, her left arm was thrust in my face, fingers wiggling to highlight the chunky diamond below the knuckle. "It's going to be amazing. His place is huge. I'll have my own dressing room, basement gym, outdoor pool–"
"But you're me!" I protested. "You're practically a carbon copy! What's going on here?"
"Really?" Her nose wrinkled as she looked me up and down. "I'm not so sure. Did you know you've got pizza all over you?"
"I'm aware," I said, through gritted teeth. "Look, OK, I'll admit you look a lot better than me right now. But... can't you see we're the same person?"
Glamorous Me didn't get the chance to answer, because we were both cut off by a deafening bang from the other side of the wall. We shared an alarmed glance before darting out of the bathroom together to investigate.
"You are kidding."
The third Me, who'd seemingly appeared from nowhere, might have been less glamorous, but was certainly more threatening. Not so much the checked shirt or paint-splattered apron – more the hammer she was brandishing.
"Don't mind me!" she said, realising we were staring open-mouthed. "Just finding a place to hang my painting."
She turned back to the wall, ready to continue hammering, before the obvious struck her. "What are you two doing in my apartment?"
"Not this again," Glamorous Me groaned, crossing her arms. "I thought we'd established you're in my apartment. And it's going to make it really hard to move out if you're all hanging around."
By now, I was getting freaked out. "Look, I don't know what kind of joke this is, but it's not funny anymore. So can you give it up, please?" As I glanced between them, I noticed the canvas that Arty Me was now hanging above my TV. "And what is that painting supposed to be?"
"It's abstract," she said proudly. "It's supposed to be whatever you want it to be."
Glamorous Me rolled her eyes.
"I have a good feeling about this one," Arty Me continued. "I just know this is going to be the painting that sells. Yes, I said that about the last twelve, but this time it really is the one..."
Suddenly, there was noise from the bedroom, and the door swung open to reveal a fourth Me – this one in a pristine business suit, balancing a laptop in one hand and holding a phone to her ear with the other. "Excuse me, could you keep it down a little?" she demanded. "I'm on a conference call here."
"Great. Another one," I said flatly. "Let me guess, you're me and this is your apartment?"
But Businesswoman Me was far too busy to engage in pointless back and forth. The phone stayed glued to her ear as she took a seat on the couch and cleared a space for her laptop on the coffee table, jabbering away about marketing campaigns and yearly sales figures.
It was already noisy, but when Arty Me grabbed her paintbrush and started dabbing at a new canvas that had appeared from nowhere, Glamorous Me soon realized she was in the splatter zone and started protesting loudly that her dress (a gift from her fiancé, naturally) was far too expensive to get ruined. I could feel my patience expiring, temper flaring, and all of a sudden the chaos was too much.
"Be quiet!" I bellowed.
The room fell into quiet submission. They looked at me expectantly, my mirror image reflected three times over.
"Look," I said, "I have no idea what's going on here, but I do know we need to figure it out. And the only way that's happening is if the four of us sit down and have a calm, civilised conversation. Do you think you can handle that?"
A pause, but then three nods.
"Great," I said, with a forced smile. "Glad we're all on the same page."
