Gemini Season
WHAT IF you think your sibling is trying to kill you? Let me explain. I’m Chandra Edwards, sixteen years old, birthday May 28, high school sophomore, identical twin. I live in Montrose, the dullest small town that ever existed. My parents are realtors, the successful founders and owners of Homes by Edwards. They love two things: their successful career and their successful children. Failure is not an option for us. For as long as I can remember, Kendra and I have been at war for Mom and Dad’s attention: my cheerleading, her competitive speech, my horseback riding, her endless cello recitals. The answer to the constant question “Are you proud of me?” is only “yes” if we’ve done something noteworthy. As for rebelling or getting in trouble? Neither one of us has gotten so much as a detention throughout our school career, no matter how many tricks we try to pull and then blame it on the other sister. We keep our records and our noses clean. Both of us are straight-A students with AP classes included. Unfortunately for me, all this has led to crippling anxiety that’s only helped by being with my favorite animals. People suck, especially the kids at Montrose High. They call me “horsegiirL,” and an actual performer with that stage name identifies as half-girl, half-horse. There’s also this ick freshman named Chad Martinez who tries to hang out by my locker and sit by me at lunch. He thinks he’s a chad, but since when has a JV spot on the track team ever impressed anybody in this football town? I avoid him every chance I get. I should tell him off. Back to Kendra. The worst thing about her, and trust me, there are plenty of bad things, is that she thinks she’s the good twin. The innocent one. The one who didn’t rip the hair out of my favorite doll when I was six, ruin our mutual birthday party when I was ten, and throw my equestrian awards away when I was fourteen. I had to run after the garbage truck and throw myself in front of it, waving my arms frantically, so that the driver had to get out and see what the trouble was. I then dug through our gross trash and fished out every single medal and trophy. Mom and Dad thought I’d pitched them all in a fit of “pique” – they’re always trying to teach us new words – but I told them that was “BS.” Even now, we’re not allowed to swear. Our family’s weird that way. I got grounded, and boy, was Kendra happy. She went out for pizza with her friends and rubbed my nose in it when she got home. Not even a scolding from my parents. It’s not fair. So, even though my sister’s a bitch – sorry, “witch” – that still doesn’t mean she’s trying to kill me. Or does it? Last week, we had meatloaf for dinner, and I found a piece of glass in my slice. I could have cut my tongue or choked on it. I showed it to Mom and Dad, who were horrified. Mom swore there was no way she would have put it in there, or that it would be there by accident, but what if there’d been a mistake at the meat processing plant? They put all kinds of crap in ground beef. At least, that’s what I wanted to believe. As for Kendra? She sat there staring at her plate. That was the first suspicious sign. The second was when we’d finished up, and Kendra stuck her tongue out at me. She wiggled it like she was three years old and blew a big, silent raspberry. Then I knew. She’d gotten the glass from somewhere, maybe broken one of her rank perfume bottles, and made sure my slice had a shard in it when Mom and Dad weren’t looking. The thing was, I couldn’t prove it. Not unless I’d caught her red-handed, which I hadn’t. To pay her back, I wrote BITCH on her bathroom mirror in her own bright red lipstick. Ever since then, I’ve had trouble sleeping. When I’m awake, it’s even worse. I walk on eggshells, not only around Kendra, but Mom and Dad, too. I pinned the mirror prank on my dear sister trying to get attention by blaming me. I can’t believe our parents fell for it. Kendra got grounded, and she had to clean the house from top to bottom. Finally, some justice! The thing is, she’s been looking at me funny. As if I’m not there, or only half there. Like a ghost. She doesn’t say anything, which is okay, but the way she stares gives me goosebumps all over. I wish I could read her mind. WHAT IF you think your sibling is trying to kill you? Let me explain. My name is Kendra Edwards. I’m sixteen and a sophomore at Montrose High School. Most importantly, I’m an identical twin. Every minute of every hour of every day, I wish I wasn’t. People always mistake me for Chandra, of course, but I’m nothing like her. She loves to be the center of attention, what with her cheerleading and horseback riding. I’m competitive, too, in speech and music, but that’s nothing compared to shaking it in front of a rowdy football crowd. In terms of grades, we’re dead even. Nothing would infuriate me more than hearing “co-valedictorian” when we graduate. It’s going to happen, though, if Chandra, Mom, and Dad have anything to say about it. Come to think of it, they have a lot to say about everything and everyone. Chandra says I like to pretend I’m the innocent twin, but there’s no pretending about it. My sister has always been the golden child, just because she’s the oldest by five and a half minutes. I’ve always played catch-up, or tried to. Being the scapegoat is an exhausting zero-sum game. Another one is “Guess Who’s Going to College?” A few months ago, Mom and Dad sat us down and told us they’d been going over their finances, and they could only afford to send one of us. A major blow, because I have my sights set on Juilliard. Chandra wants to go to Texas A&M. She says it’s for their equine studies program because she wants to be a horse vet, but I think she also wants to move as far away from home as possible. I do, too. So, who’ll come out ahead? In terms of pure utility and cost, my sister’s got me beat. In terms of prestige, I blow her out of the water. What classical-music-loving parent wouldn’t want a famous cellist in the family, one accredited by the finest conservatory in the country and an aspiring virtuoso on Antonín Dvořák’s Cello Concerto in B Minor? Yes, I’m that good, and I’m not ashamed to admit it. I’ve sent in my application already and am waiting to hear back. I yearn for an in-person audition. The fair thing to do, I guess, is split Mom and Dad’s college savings between the two of us and let us get scholarships and/or student loans to cover the rest, but that’s not what “fair” means in our family. Our definition is “whoever is most deserving,” and that means winner-take-all. A popular proverb these days says the only person standing in your way is you, but in my case, I have two. As much as I self-sabotage sometimes, that’s nothing compared to what Chandra does. I’ve had missing sheet music, broken bows, a mistuned cello, you name it. I know how expensive my stuff is, and there’s no way in hell I’d destroy it in a fit of – what’s the word? Ah, “pique.” I’m more mature than that. I’m more mature than Chandra by light years, but she won’t admit it. She’s been acting funny lately. Devious, even. She found a piece of glass in her meatloaf a few weeks ago, and who was the first person she blamed? That’s right – her doppelganger. I never put that in there. All I could do was stick my tongue out at her, mocking the child Chandra still is. However, is she conniving – there’s another parental word – enough to try to kill me? She’s in my way, just like I’m in hers. I know that much. What I don’t know is if she poisoned my jug of milk. I’m the only one in our house who drinks it. A couple of nights ago, I thought it tasted weird. Not spoiled, but off. I spent the rest of the night throwing up, overcome by sudden chills and fever. Dinner might have been the culprit, but I don’t think so. Chandra didn’t get sick. Neither did Mom and Dad. That led me to suspect my flu-like symptoms weren’t the flu. The next day, I went out to the garage, and my gaze was drawn to the jug of antifreeze. Did she? Could she? I didn’t put the glass shard in her meatloaf, but was this revenge for it anyway? I wish I could read her mind. KENDRA. Yeah? CAN YOU HEAR ME? Hear you? You’re not even talking to me. EXACTLY. Wait – what in the actual hell? Are you speaking to me telepathically? Reading my mind? RIGHT ON BOTH COUNTS. Great. Just what I need. A twin sister who’s inside my head as well as outside. Go away, Chandra. NOT UNTIL YOU CONFESS. To what? The doll thing? The birthday party? Throwing away all your stupid horse awards? YES. AND THE MEATLOAF, TOO. Look, I didn’t do any of that, and the glass shard was there by pure accident. BULL. Stop. Just stop. I’m getting a headache, and it might be a migraine. Get out of my fucking brain. ADMIT IT. ALL OF IT. What about all the crap you did – mistuning my cello, misplacing or throwing my sheet music away, breaking my bows? Hang on a sec. Is that blood oozing out of my nose? HA! JUST LIKE WHEN YOU WERE LITTLE. Get out, get out, get out! YOU DON’T HAVE TO SAY ANYTHING. JUST THINK THE WORDS. Fucking psycho bitch. THOSE WEREN’T THE WORDS I MEANT. COME ON. OWN YOUR DAMN MISDEEDS. I didn’t do anything wrong. LET ME DELVE A LITTLE DEEPER. WHAT’S THIS? YOU’RE STILL AFRAID OF THE DARK? I haven’t told anyone that! Ever! PATHETIC. I’M GOING TO KEEP DIGGING UNTIL YOU DO WHAT I SAY. All right. My nose is gushing and my head is pounding, but she’s shut up. I have to find a way into her mind before she destroys mine. What does Chandra love the most? That’s easy: herself. What does she hate the most? Also easy: me. What does she fear the most? Now we’re getting somewhere… HELLO, CHANDRA. What? Kendra? You’re not talking to me. Your mouth’s not moving. You’re in my head? YEAH. TWO CAN PLAY THAT LITTLE GAME. Hey. Let’s make a deal. I’ll leave you alone if you do the same. TOO LATE. YOU REVEALED ONE OF MY SECRETS. NOW I’LL REVEAL ONE OF YOURS. AHA! YOU’RE SCARED TO DEATH OF ANY BLADE SHARPER THAN A BUTTER KNIFE. THAT’S WHY YOU AVOID STEAK, AND YOU WON’T HELP MOM SLICE AND DICE VEGGIES. NOW THAT’S PATHETIC. At least knives are dangerous. The dark isn’t. YOU THINK YOU’RE SO MUCH BETTER THAN ME, BUT YOU’RE NOT. IF MOM AND DAD EVER SAW THROUGH YOU AND FOUND OUT WHO YOU REALLY ARE… Oh, yeah? Well, same to you. I HAVE AN IDEA. LET’S SETTLE THIS. LET’S CONFRONT OUR FEARS. WE’LL BOTH WIELD KNIVES, AND WE’LL FIGHT IN THE DARK. WINNER TAKE ALL. YOU KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS? Of course. THEN YOU AGREE? Of course, dear sister. TONIGHT AT MIDNIGHT. I’LL SNEAK TWO BUTCHER KNIVES OUT OF THE KITCHEN. SEE YOU THEN. My room or yours? LIVING ROOM. NEUTRAL GROUND. Sure. If all else fails, I’ll at least smash your head on the glass coffee table. OOH! YOU JUST GAVE ME A GREAT IDEA. LOSER. We’ll see about that. 12 AM. Just enough light from the streetlamps outside to see each other by, to create the glint of our respective kitchen blades. We face off like duelists across the coffee table from one another. Neither one of us needs to say a word. We spring at the same moment, climbing onto the glass tabletop and almost headbutting, pulling back at the last second. We slash at the air with our knives in perfect unison, mirror images, not managing to cut flesh no matter how hard we try. It seems as if our foray into each other’s minds has affected our muscle memory, and it’s turned into muscle precognition. We block each other’s moves before we make them. It’s agony to endure. How do you fight and kill someone who knows you so well that you might as well be – well, their identical twin? As we spar, we hurl every insult Mom and Dad have forbidden us: “SLUT!” “WHORE!” “BITCH!” “CUNT!” Finally, we feel blood on our arms. We’ve managed to slice each other in the exact same spot. “FUCKING PSYCHO!” we scream in tandem. All of a sudden, the lights flick on. Mom stands there in the middle of the plush white carpet, open-mouthed and speechless, holding her cell phone up, presumably for both of us to see. “Girls!” she finally cries. “What in the Lord’s name are you doing with knives? You’re both bleeding!” We realize something in that instant. Who in this house has caused us the most misery throughout our lives? As much as we’ve done, who’s been the poisonous source of it all? Who’s urged us to pit ourselves against each other time after time, competing in an eternal game of one-upmanship? Who originally decided that in our family, there can only be one winner? One thought, and one thought only, blares in our minds as we stare at Mom. We rush her before she can react. She shrieks, and the cell phone flies out of her hand. We shove her onto the carpet face-up, and one of us holds her down while the other slits her throat from ear to ear. The white walls of the living room get spattered with hot blood. There’s so much of it. . . Mom’s cell phone keeps vibrating. We don’t care at first, but when we see the message, we mutually go, “Oh, my God…” It’s Dad, and he’s sent some texts that send us both reeling. HOSPITAL CALLED. MY MOM IS CODING. SHE’LL DIE SOON. MUST SAY GOODBYE. NOW. Mom’s blood sprays, pulses, sprays some more, pulses some more. “Come on,” one of us says. “We’ve got to clean up and get out of here before anyone else comes.” “What about Mom? Shouldn’t we call 911?” “Leave her. She’s fucking dead, and good riddance. Let’s head for the bathroom.” “What about Dad and Grandma?” “That’s where we’re going afterward. We have to head Dad off before he suspects anything.” “Right.” I try to swallow my spit, but my throat is completely dry. “What about trying to – ” “Murder each other? Let that go. We have to stick together, no matter what else happens.” “Okay.” We feel anything but okay. However, to think or behave otherwise would get us in even deeper shit. We take quick showers, re-dress, and head for the nearest hospital, thirty minutes away. On the ride over there, we hold hands. It’s the first time in forever we’ve done anything like that, but things have changed in the blink of an eye – and the slash of a knife. Protecting each other is the only thing that matters now. As we exit the car to head for the lobby of City Memorial, we look at each other and think: SHOWTIME. Once upon a time, not so very long ago, we hated each other’s guts. Now? It’s Gemini season, and we twins are good. For now. I think. Credit: Tenet Copyright Statement: Unless explicitly stated, all stories published on Creepypasta.com are the property of (and under copyright to) their respective authors, and may not be narrated or performed under any circumstance.