I’ve already forgotten the name of the drunk man stumbling beside me. I decide to call him Gavin—it’s as close to sparking a memory as anything—until he corrects me or until I kick him out an hour from now. I learned a long time ago, or a long time ago for me—names aren’t that important.

We approach the unremarkable house where I was made, standing in the middle of an unremarkable block.

I’ve staggered halfway up the steps before I realize he’s no longer at my side but lingering on the sidewalk, his jaw dangling and his eyes unfocused from inebriation.

“Jim.” He points, either at me or the two-story house behind me. “I’ve been here before. Was that you? Did we hook up already?”

Jesus. Can I not have one thing that’s mine?

I shake my head no and gesture for him to follow me inside. I hope Jim-Prime is asleep, so he can’t ruin this like he usually does.

But no. The door creaks behind me—an irritating noise that Jim-Prime keeps asking me to fix, like he can’t figure out how to operate a can of WD-40 when he’s supposedly a genius. Jim-Prime emerges beside me—somehow even his shadow seems to judge me.

“Holy shit.” Gavin’s eyes bulge. “Twins?”

I fish cigarettes from my pocket and sink to the steps. I already know how this will go.

Jim-Prime bounds past me to the sidewalk in his flannel bathrobe and beige slippers to approach Gavin. He speaks to my now-aborted date in a hushed tone and two minutes later, Gavin is moping into an uber. Jim-Prime stands before me, hands on his hips. His judgmental sneer makes me want to punch him in the mouth, but I’m too wasted to bother swinging. I snort in his direction, my nostrils filling with still-wafting smoke from my cigarette.

“Jim-Beta. You can’t keep sneaking out.” His voice is reedy, pitching into the stratosphere. I loathe it even more than my own.

“I’m a person too, you know.” My words slur into a multisyllabic soup.

He frowns. I prefer this expression to the smug know-it-all of a second ago, but still I smile a bit as I imagine hammering my fist into his perfect teeth. “I didn’t create you to indulge your every selfish whim. You don’t exist, don’t you understand that? If anyone finds out about you….” He pauses for one of his melodramatic, long-suffering sighs. “How can you have so little self control?”

“I dunno.” I exhale smoke into his face. The cigarette tastes like toasted chemicals so I toss it into the street. “Let’s ask the guy that made me?”

One year, two months and eighteen days ago, I woke up strapped to a hospital bed in the basement of this house. The first person I met after opening my eyes was a man who called himself Jim. I didn’t immediately realize that we shared a face. He named me Jim-Beta and for two days he brought me food and interrogated me: could I recall his eighteenth birthday? No. The name of the psychology professor who tried to flunk him? No. The nickname of his beloved childhood frenchie? Still, sadly, no. My earliest memories are of being a disappointment.

And being hungry. Always hungry.

Jim-Prime tightens his robe around his waist even though the night is warm and sticky, then glances around. “Let’s get inside before someone sees us, okay?”

I attempt to stand, clumsy and off-balance, and lurch forward off the steps. Jim-Prime catches me and pulls me up before I smash my face into the concrete. So considerate.

“I hate you.” I attempt to wriggle free from his grasp but his arm around my midsection is too strong as he guides me back up the steps.

If I really hated him, I’d tell him the truth.

Jim-Prime thinks he’s my creator. He isn’t.

After Jim-Original determined that I possessed just enough of his memories to function as a person—I retained his vocabulary and knowledge of the world plus some hazy childhood flashes, even if I lacked his supposed brilliance—he enlisted me to help him craft his next project.

“C’mon. I’m putting you to bed.” Jim-Prime directs me through the front door then takes my wrist like I’m a little boy—something I never was.

One day Jim-Original was gone, leaving a still-sleeping clone abandoned on the basement table. He didn’t say where he went, or why, or if he ever intended to return. Maybe he realized cloning himself was a terrible idea. I probably inherited being a fuckup from him.

After he was absent two days, I carried the other clone upstairs and situated him in Jim-Original’s bed, where I sat with him nearly every minute of every day as if he was my own creation. And I watched him wake from non-existence, weighted with our creator’s memories and frustrating genius. Because he shares Jim-Original’s memories, he has the memory of making me, of his disappointment in me. He believes he’s my father, my god-figure, and didn’t waste a minute before he started bossing me around. In reality, I’m the underwhelming, rough first draft, but still closer to being his creator than he is to mine. I only remember being me.

The bottle helps with that, sometimes. The trips to the bar and the men I try to lure home? They help less.

Jim-Prime helps me undress, lowering me into bed. “I’m just looking out for us. You’re my responsibility and you don’t know how dangerous the world can be.” He pulls a single sheet to my waist, then turns to leave.

I envy Jim-Prime’s ignorance. It would be so liberating not to know I’m someone’s discarded project.

“I’m sorry.” The words emerge as a hoarse whisper. I don’t think he hears.

Underneath the bed, I’ve stashed a backpack with money and clothes and Jim-Original’s passport. He’s out there somewhere, and I’m going to find him. Tomorrow, I’ll go. That’s what I tell myself.