We became sisters when I was born. You were yourself, and I was myself. We walked the earth hand in hand and at the same time. On the island, everything changed yesterday. We were driving along when two cars collided with us. Simultaneously; one on one side, the other on the other. You became me and I became you from that point forward. Together.
We arrive home, but Dad believes he is only picking up one of us. We keep our secret because no one could possibly understand. When he asks where I am, you say you don’t know. The family will ponder the mystery.
We share this planet, but never at the same time. We were once always seen together, but now the world only sees you or me, not both of us.
Mother’s inquisitiveness is killing her because we all come over on Sundays to help her around the house. Only I arrive to assist with the installation of wallpaper in her bedroom; you are present, but she cannot see you. She demands to know your location. I’m not sure. The family cannot comprehend.
Years go by. I kept a notebook with all of our memories, both together and apart. I might share this with the family one day, but for now, it’s our own little world. We’re getting old. Our parents are getting older. Dad invites you to join him for a seat. It could be one of his final days. The two of you sit on the sofa together. He’s disappointed because he expected both of us to come. He turns on the television, and you join him in watching a Twilight Zone marathon.
After a few episodes, he reaches for the Waterford candlestick holder next to him and slams it into the side of your head. I can feel it. You can feel it. Our bodies switch places a few times, both looking for a way out. He strikes you again. You. Me. You. Me.
The day has finally come when we are no longer one. “My babies,” he says as he takes his last breath. He can finally rest now that you are you and I am finally me.