The Other Twin This work is considered exceptional by our editorial staff.

The Other Twin is not a myth.


She lives through millions of people condemning her existence, yet she lurks behind the wall, inhaling the foul air of judgement.


The Other Twin is stick skinny, with bones protruding from her frail wrists and hipbones that feel like rock. She has thin hair and jagged ribs, scabby knees, and eye sockets too large for her head.


Society does not notice. She is a twin after all. And twins are supposed to be the same.


“So you are the shy twin?”


Perfect Twin does not say a word. Perfect Twin has perfect teeth and smiles with radiance, pearly and shiny. They all clap and kneel down to talk to her. The Other Twin has crooked teeth and gums that show, almost sickly. Society does not notice. Because twins are supposed to be the same. And to them, she looks the same.


“So when will your grades be up to par with your sister?”


Perfect Twin does not say a word. Perfect Twin has report cards so flawless that they look like they are made of gold leaf, type that looks like it is made from onyx and obsidian rather than ink from a ballpoint pen. The Other Twin has a report card torn on the side and on gray paper that looks like years-old newspaper, type that looks like a first grader’s scribbles. Society does not notice. To them, the paper looks the same. And because twins are supposed to be the same, the grades are just a joke and The Other Twin just isn’t trying as hard.


But I do try my best, she tries to say but the words don’t make it past her chattering teeth. I stayed up every night I had a test together with my sister. I stayed after school to get help and I sat next to her. I’m trying my best.


But Society doesn’t care. Because twins are supposed to be the same.


“We couldn’t accept you because you don’t have the personality your sister does. We wish you luck on your future endeavors.”


Perfect Twin does not say a word. Her uniform is crisp and neat, nametag glinting in the feeble light. Her uniform looks more like a gown rather than a polo and black slacks. The Other Twin peers over the counter in a ratty sweatshirt and baggy pants. Society does not notice. Because twins are supposed to be the same. And she’s just not passionate enough.


But I really wanted to get into this program, she wants to protest but they curl up inside her sweater paws. I practiced everyday in front of the mirror and I asked others for help. I am passionate.


But Society doesn’t care. Because twins are supposed to be the same.


“Why can’t you just be your sister? You’re twins, after all.”


The question finally comes. The Other Twin has waited eons for this question.


“Twins,” she echoes, her first words in a long, long time. They look taken aback by her voice. She doesn’t know why; it might be that it sounded far more different from Perfect Twin. Or maybe because it sounded way too similar.


“Twins,” she repeats again, this time with a dull edge to her voice. How something that is supposed to be the same as her, be a part of her, can wear her down so much that she couldn’t tell if she were a person anymore, much less a sister.






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