Double Jeopardy

One minute from now:

An eyeball, split.

Jagged cheekbone.

Slivered lips.

Shattered nose.

Cracked chin.

Broken bits of me.

Two hours ago:

People think it’s cool to have an identical twin.

Not I.

I walk into our bedroom and there she is — Hannah — my face on someone else.

She loves it. Matching haircuts. Matching makeup. Matching clothes.

She’s smothering me alive.

I scowl at her.

She scowls back, mocking me.

“You bought the same shirt again?” I snap. “Stop copying me!”

"Stop copying me!" she spits, the words snapping right over mine.

Rage boils over.

I yank off my shirt, digging in the dresser for something different. Anything.

Then I see it. The snow globe. Twins’ First Christmas. Moved again to my side of the shelf. I shove it back, hard. Her books crash to the floor.

I stomp out, slamming the door hard behind me.

I know she won’t clean up the mess. She never does.

Eighteen years ago:

“It’s absorbing,” the doctor says.

One hour ago:

Dinner is awkward and silent.

Mom and Dad keep glancing at each other. They heard the shouting. The crashing and banging.

They ALWAYS blame me. Never Hannah.

I’m too much for them. And yet, never enough.

Six months ago:

A shaky breath.

SEND.

A college three thousand miles away. My face. My life. My secret escape plan.

Eighteen years ago:

Mom tucks the ultrasound photo into her purse — two little blobs, two dreams.

Two shadows.

One minute ago:

I walk into the bedroom.

Why is my laptop open? Email flashing: Congratulations, you’ve been accepted...

Across the room, Hannah's face is twisted in rage — same as mine.

“How could you?” We scream at each other, voices colliding.

I throw myself onto the bed, gasping between sobs.

“You never leave me alone!”

I choke on a laugh. “Maybe I should change my pronouns to they/them!”

Hannah says nothing. Just stares, tear-streaked face, trembling chin.

Guilt consumes me. My heart speeds up.

Tick-tock.

I look around. The snow globe. I pick it up. Heft its weight.

Cock my arm back.

Hannah’s eyes, the mirror image of my own, flicker with doubt.

She thinks I won’t do it.

Tick-tock.

I hurl the snow globe straight at her face.

The mirror explodes.

Eighteen years ago:

“It’s absorbing,” says the doctor. “Sometimes one twin absorbs the other. Your surviving twin is a chimera — two sets of DNA in one body.”

One little blob. The ultrasound photo lands in the trash on the way out.

Mom keeps the other.

Right now:

I sink to my knees, staring at my reflection in the wreckage of the mirror.

An eyeball, split

Jagged cheekbone

Slivered lips

Shattered nose

Cracked chin

Broken bits of me.

I pick up a shard. It slices into my palm. I squeeze it tight.

Spilled red on a champagne carpet, white paper towels absorbing the flow.

I was never enough. I was always one two many.