Gemini

We were twins, born at the same time. Our mother always talks about how horrifying it was to see us birthed - she never expected two heads on one body. For that reason, she always seemed to love one of us more than the other, when she could tell us apart. We never blamed her for it though, we had no say in the matter, only the kind of half-served love that comes from unexpectancy. We were named Left and Right.

Left was the relaxed one, far more intelligent than let on, and carried the burden of not being the favorite. She could solve any math problem thrown her way, diffuse any argument with her soft-spoken tongue, and empathic beyond reason. I, Right, am different. I could never relax. My mind is always racing, trying to think of every outcome of infinite possibilities and being disappointed when nothing happens the right way. Despite our different approaches to life, Left and me are inseparable – I can always tell what she is thinking, what she needs, or how she feels, and am glad to provide it. The intimacy we share is beyond that of normal siblings.

Mom loves me more. I wish it weren’t so obvious. When she embraces us, it’s always just the kiss of my forehead and not Left’s, the caress of my face and not hers too. Maybe it’s because she’s left-handed, natural to reach for my face first. I can always feel Left’s heart drop in our chest as she is neglected of another kiss, another “I’m proud of you”, or an “I love you”. I can feel the disappointment settle in the pit of our stomach and the anger that boils just beneath it. “I just don’t understand,” Left would say sometimes through tears. I hold her face, wipe the tears as they dripped to our chest, and tell her our mother’s love was only a fraction of ours for each other.

Our mother was never directly spiteful to us, except one time. We’d forgotten to do the dishes one night, and our mother, wine-drunk and especially bold, scolded Left.

“Twice as much brainpower and still can’t do the simplest shit,” she spit at Left, “God, I wish you were never born.” She half stormed off, stopped, turned back, and kissed me on the forehead and apologized to me. Me, not Left. Left clinched her fist, and I had to stop her from making us do something we’d regret. Left never let that memory go. I always feel the rage of that memory burning in our chest, heart racing, even in the happiest of moments.

Even Left’s first kiss. It was between classes, a tall brown-haired boy caught her by surprise, grabbed our waist, swung us around and planted one right on her. I could only blush in embarrassment. His lips looked and I could feel the tingle, the electricity of attraction between them. I don’t think I’d ever seen her so flustered or happy. Still, beneath that, the absent burn of Mom’s love stung on. I think that’s what drove her mad when I experienced my own love for the first time – that I could have her, mom, and someone else.

“He’s so ugly,” she would whisper to me when I would kiss him.

“You need to get out more,” I would jeer playfully. But it only got worse from there. An inky darkness set in. The sluggish weight of depression suffocated our body. I could hardly get us going some days – Left wouldn’t even try. Her head would loll against mine as she slept while we walked, other days we couldn’t go anywhere because she refused to move. Eventually, this became habit – several days of the week dedicated to a half-comatose stupor in our bed.

There was no end in sight. Until she closed her eyes one night and gave in to defeat. I couldn’t feel her anymore. She wouldn’t wake up. I shook our body, slapped her face, sat up in bed and fell back into the pillow, and she still didn’t wake. Then I felt the creeping tongue of paralysis in our toes, our legs, our arms, until finally all I could do was move my mouth. I screamed for our mother, who came to my aid. She shushed me and told me it would be okay. I couldn’t see how that could be true, and I still don’t today after the procedure. I no longer feel complete.