Aliya Smith
Intro to Creative Writing
Professor Horvitz
25 October 2012
The
Escape
“Surgery
just wouldn’t be possible,” the doctor said with a subtle frown sneaking to the
corner of his mouth. “I’m so sorry.” He meant it. And after that, I don’t
remember much more than inaudible murmuring—explanations of potential
complications—and the thick thump of my heart in my throat. That was two years
ago tonight.
I can’t keep living like this. The
piss-stained, hand-me-down sheets of at least four generations, the cotton
candy colored walls that everyone assumes a girl’s room should have, and the
fact that I have to share it all with a sister – a twin sister – a goddamn
conjoined twin sister – makes becoming a teenager almost completely unbearable.
It wasn’t always so tormenting, though. When we were toddlers (and until we
were about eleven), Daniella and I were inseparable… obviously. But we
absolutely loved that we always had to be side-by-side. We were best friends.
Once we really started to grow up, though, I guess I tried to ostracize my
sister. The attempts were useless. Showering, eating, sleeping together – every
waking moment, Daniella accompanied me, so one day I asked my parents if we
could try to get separated. That’s when the doctor gave us the news that
surgery would only risk a rupture of our intestines.
I’m always going to be alone, even with
someone constantly stuck to me. So I’ve decided I can’t leave it up to
anyone else. I need to find my own way out of this anatomical penitentiary.
Until I really have time to plan everything out, though, I need to sleep. My
head is hot and my stomach’s twisting in ways I don’t know how to untangle.
“Goodnight,
Karla,” my unknowing sister whispers.
“Night,” I say,
and my body lets me drift off and leave any schemes behind.
A
deafening siren screams from the small alarm clock on the bedside table. A
blinding beam of scorching sun stares in through the east-facing window in my
cramped closet for a bedroom. A numbness crawls down from my right ribs to my
knee immediately following a thick, sopping puddle that pushes itself beneath me.
Damn it, she pissed herself again.
Angry and ready to kill Daniella, I shoot up and before I know it, I’ve quickly
crashed into the hardwood floor at the sight of the ocean of crimson seeping
into my bed. I glance to my right and where Daniella would normally be is a
poorly sewn recent wound. I try to let out a scream but no sound will come out.
Scared, stiff, pale and sweaty, I reach over and slam my hand down on my alarm
and stumble over to my window to shut the tattered curtains in hopes that no
one would look in upon the mess. I turn around to face the left-behinds of some
bed battle and a scrawny arm is languidly lying out next to a bedpost. I fall
once more to the floor to yank who I assume is my twin out from the dark and
when our skin touches, I fly back into the wall.
She’s so fucking cold.
Before
I can think of what to do, I hear the far-too-chipper, every-morning “Rise and
shine, breakfast time!” from my loving mother downstairs and without thought, I
shove Daniella completely under the bed, wad my sheets up, throw them in the
old, green duffle on the floor, and turn my mattress over so no one would see
the murder scene, so it seems. But god damn it, I hope it’s anything but that.
I
can’t think of anything to do so I pace, hastily and heavily, around the
outline of my bed where it juts out from the wall in the center of the room. My
heart is heaving and I’m choking back sonic screams of terror. My feet won’t
work right so I knock over a lamp, but thank fucking god I manage to catch it
before it shatters. Fear makes me fast but I keep getting clumsier, so I keep
my hands at my side but quickly find myself pulling out hair and digging
soon-to-be-scars into my arms. I look back at the bed and there’s blood
creeping out from under it. My body tries to vomit but I’ve eaten nothing, so I
dry heave and nearly pass out. The pulsating pain of the messy slash on my side
isn’t helping.
“Sweetie,
come downstairs! Food is ready!” my mom yells up, slightly losing patience.
“C-c-coming
mom,” I scream in a cracking hoarseness. The scent of hot Belgian waffles slips
under the door and forces itself up my nose. Daniella’s favorite. Torrential floods race from my tear ducts down
to my lips and I can taste the saltiness of my confused horror-sadness. Almost
as if autopilot decided to take over, I change into unstained attire, leave my
room, feet stuttering down the stairs and I go to the kitchen where there is
not two, but one plate of waffles, stacked probably ten high, and they’re all
for me.
“Well
it’s about time! Your waffles are getting cold, dear,” my mom says, seemingly
oblivious to Daniella’s absence.
“W-w-what
about D-D-D-Daniella?” I ask with hesitation, again ready to puke at the thought of my
dead sister. My mom’s eyes dart down and she pours herself a mug full of black
coffee and adds nothing to it, which isn’t like her.
“Who
are you talking about, sweetie?” my dad asks, but he also avoids eye contact
with me. I just shake my head and cut my waffles, but I can’t stomach one bite,
so I just sip at the ice water next to what should be my sister’s breakfast.
When I finally come around to trying the food, my mother bolt over—still
looking away from me—to hand me a new two-strapped book bag. I don’t know what
to do other than grab the “gift” and leave as quickly as possible.
When
I walk outside, the rusty, yellow bus is at the end of our driveway and the
windows are filled with gazes from wide eyes. Some kids yell from the
almost-open broken ones, urging me to hurry up, but I can’t bear to step foot
on there. I know that everyone will see that Daniella’s no longer attached to
me, even if my parents won’t admit to noticing, themselves.
So
I run. I can’t stop until I’m completely out of sight. I find myself under a
dead tree in the fall-struck woods, crying again and ready to throw up all of my
insides. I look up at the tree above me and notice it’s been split in half and
that it’s only partially dead; the part standing is barren of leaves and life.
The fallen half is flourishing and covered in green.
What the hell is going on? I swear to God
this wasn’t what I wanted. I have no one to talk to until I look to my
right and see Daniella’s body hanging off of me, half covered in dirt and dead
leaves, but she looks up at me and screams, letting out nonsensical talk about
her dead sister. I can no longer move or breathe. My head falls forward and my
legs are decaying, maggot-infested, dead. I manage to let out one screech and
shoot up in my bed, yanking Daniella to unexpected consciousness.
“What
the hell was that for, you psycho??” Daniella, now red-faced and pissed off,
yells. I want to cry again but all I can manage to do is latch onto her even
more than usual and smile as I dig my face into Daniella’s shoulder. The alarm
screams and the sun stares in.
“Rise
and shine, breakfast time!”
