This is a story that I thought of writing because it would be a challenge. I have another story...
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"Never say you’re sorry- it's a sign of weakness. The sooner you get that, the longer you'll live."
Nothing in my life could have possibly prepared me for what happened today. Nothing. Not my parents dying, not living with my Aunt and Uncle until I was eighteen, not almost getting coned out of all my life’s savings, nothing could prepare me for what happened, and who I met.
My life is usually the boring cliché or a working class citizen. I get out of my warm bed, away from
all the cozy comforters, and go brush my teeth. Getting dressed, I am usually brought back to the harsh reality that I have gained weight, so I go to the kitchen and eat some low fat brand name cereal that says it's supposed to make you thinner. Bull.
After I ate the boring stuff, I ended up rushing to get ready for work, throwing on clothes so fast I hardly know what I end up wearing until later, when I finally look down at a crumb that drops in my lap or I spill something. After this is done, I run out the door to my car, jumping in and getting myself mentally ready for the long ride ahead where I will probably encounter a couple of people cutting me off, and more than likely more than a few people flipping me off because I don’t drive fast enough for them. Well I’m sorry; I’d rather not be caught between two big semi trucks.
You’d think that working at a publishing company would be amazing. Reading books all day and trying to make them better, and finally watching a writers dreams come true as you show them their new book; hard cover and on the shelves everywhere, soon to be best seller. Well, that’s if you have a good job in the business. Being a secretary, like me, isn’t that fun.
All I do is sit at a desk and sign papers saying that the publishers have gotten the manuscripts from the authors. I also copy and paste the occasional email to a hopeful author who is probably going to get their dreams crushed. Well, they are going to have their dreams crushed. This publishing firm doesn't email someone back if they have made the cut. They call them personally. So if they get the email I send, it means that they are probably going to go throw all their stories in a garbage can somewhere, light it on fire, and go lay in bed crying their eyes out.
The building is huge, and quite the opposite of boring, despite what it is for me, inside. People always stop at the foot of it while passing by to gawk at the size and dimension of the thing.
I actually highly doubt that, but I'm often too bored for my own good, and come up with stupid stories such as that to amuse me. Really, I do.
Not that people throwing away their dreams and crying amuses me...
Anyways, during the day in the office, my only highlight is when I have that break to walk-slowly- to the vending machine to sped ten dollars a day to get several snacks and drinks. This also totally ruins my so called healthy breakfast for good.
Sometimes, the occasional person comes and talks to me, but otherwise I try to stay away from people. I don't like them. People and animals. They're the same thing really.
I only have one friend, and they happen to be of the opposite gender. He's been my best friend since high school. The only downside of having a guy friend and no girl friends is that I don't really have anyone to talk to about well, girly stuff.
Tony is just another lover-boy with good looks. Blonde hair, blue eyes, scatters of freckles that all the girls adore, the chiseled features that the ladies drool over. All the ladies fall for his charms, but he really only has one girl of him. He's been going after her for years, and I think they would be cute together. The only problem is that if he succeeds, she might take him away from me, and I would have no one.
As I was walking to the office today, my red hair pulled up into a high ponytail, my glasses hiding my brown eyes, I got a text from Tony himself. He asked if we could go to the bar tonight. I said yes, or course. My life would be a waste land without the bar as a retreat. So we agreed that he would pick me up after work and we'd go there together.
The day passed by like any other, and I was more than willing to jump into Tony's car to head to the bar.
On the trip, Tony told me all about the latest stories on the news. There has been someone robbing banks, a street racer it seems. The person robs them, and then speeds off in their shiny cool race car. I guess. Who really cares?
Once we were at the bar, I hopped out of the car and when to get my drink on.
The bar was a cute southern style bar with the swinging gate doors and the deer heads hanging on the walls. Above the doors to each of the bathrooms hung a horse shoe. The one over the ladies room was facing right side up, the one over the male's room hanging down. This was done by yours truly when she was very, very drunk, and never fixed. Probably because it was true.
We walked into the bar, the stench of beer and other delightful alcoholic drinks hitting my nose, making me sniff my ways automatically to the bar, Tony in tow. We ordered from the tough burley man there, and went to sit down. Tony had a couple shots of bourbon, not thinking about how we would get to our houses, and I had a dirty martini. I always started with the fancy stuff, and then got down to the rugged stuff. It was how I rolled. Always have, always will.
To the other people in the bar, we were just another couple of twenty-five year olds who wanted to have fun and drink up.
After a couple of hours of drinking and catching up as best as we could while intoxicated, Tony suddenly started watching the TV that was right above my head.
"Sydney, why are you on the TV screen?" He asked me, quirking an eyebrow and frowning.
I was confused, and got up so I could see for myself. On the screen was a video of a car racing down the highway. In the top right corner in big red letters read the word 'LIVE', so I knew it was happening right at that moment. Sure enough though, in the bottom left corner was a picture of a girl with red hair and brown eyes. She looked like me. Exactly like me.
"If you know where this woman is, or have seen her anywhere, please make sure you call the police and let them know. She is armed and highly dangerous. If you can help it, please keep her where she is until the officials have arrived at the scene."
Tony looked at me, startled. "That-that's not me-" I began.
I looked around the bar. Everyone was looking at me, either fear or danger clear in their eyes.
"That-that's not me! Don't you se-see?" I asked, framing my face sloppily, still evidently drunk, and smiling.
And that's exactly when someone clubbed me on the head. I think it was with a baseball bat, but who knows? And frankly, who cares? I was clubbed with something, being knocked out. And that's all I remembered.
And that brings us to the present.
As of now, I'm sitting in a jail cell. Yup. A jail cell. And next to who? Next to me.
Apparently, my parents failed to mention that I had a twin sister.
My life is officially interesting.