“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. 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. And 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 encroaching
on 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 can 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.
“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 seeps
under the door and force 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, begin out from my room, down the
stairs and 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, nauseated 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 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 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!”
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