I walk slowly home. Miriam still has her drama session to attend as usual and won't finish until later. But I never wait for her. It's strange: we're not dependent on each other's existence, as one may expect of identical twins. Rather the opposite. We are as different as identical twins can be, like day and night. Sure, our features are quite the same, but there ends the likeness. Miriam is everything that I'm not: very attractive and forward, well liked and has plenty of friends.

I see Bernie and Bea out there with some playmates in the park on the other side the road, as I shut the gate. Bernie sights me and waves his hand eagerly and I raise a tired hand in reply.

I enter the house. It's quiet, Mrs. Wilsome must be out shopping. Good, then I'll have the whole house to myself a while. The hallway is in a mess as usual, mostly with the little twins' things: schoolbags, books, jackets, shoes and socks spread all over the place. They can never put things back in their places. I absently put the place into order like I've done hundreds of times before; then I take out a boring homework book, make myself a sandwich and pour up a glass of milk and here I'm sitting in the kitchen looking through my history notes. That's what I'm having tomorrow: history. To prevent myself from dying of sorrow (I'm exaggerating of course but it sometimes feels as if I am) I've decided to pass all the exams the best I possibly can. But then a long sigh escapes me and I shut the book in front of me. I just can't concentrate on a thing like that now. I drink up the last drop, and replace what I have taken out. Then I lock myself in the bathroom and look into the mirror. A pale face surrounded by a whirl of hair stare back at me. Is that really me? It looks so—well—strange. Everything has been strange to me since that day, everything except Mother Nature.

I take a comb and pull it through my hair. It has no healthy lustre at all. It falls in uneven waves all the way down to just below my shoulder blades. When one combs the fringe back one can see the face clearly. It is delicately cut like the twin's, but somewhat thinner. A small straight nose, small mouth, blue-green eyes, and medium length dark eyelashes. I feel a small bump coming up on my forehead beneath my fingers, but then I hear Mrs. Wilsome returning. I can't stay in here much longer. There's no reason to, she says. Isn't there? How come I do it then?

***

... PART THREE next!

Image: My original cover to this story.
© 1983/2016 by kemorgan65