I wrote about twins. Let me set the record straight.
I am not a twin, although as a child, I often imagined one. I suppose
this is a common fantasy, benign enough. But my twin was not a good
twin. He cursed. He stole. He lured cats into our yard with tunafish
then shot them with his pellet gun. When our neighbor's
garage burned down, my twin returned home with the scent of gasoline on
his hands. I told him to leave. I didn't want to be blamed
for his actions. He pleaded for another chance, but being twins, I
understood his heart. No, I said.
Time passed. When I read the local paper's reports of
unsolved burglaries and assaults, I thought of my twin. He was capable
of such crimes and, I feared, worse. Now he has grown up, hidden in my
shadow. Every day, the newspaper reports new horrors. I look for my
twin in airports and train stations. At night, I sometimes wake from
disturbing dreams, my head woozy with the scent of gasoline.
I will keep my eyes open until reunion or death—whatever
- - -
Read CS's story, "The Twins."
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