Gemini
a story about twins
We were twins, born at the same time. Our mother always talks about how horrifying it was to see us birthed – she never expected two heads on one body. For that reason, she always seemed to love one of us more than the other. We never blamed her for it though, we had no say in the matter, only the kind of half-served love that comes from expectancy and the following disappointment. We were named Left and Right.
Left was the relaxed one, far more intelligent than she let on, and carried the burden of not being the favorite. She could calculate complex math in her head, diffuse any situation with the lilt of her soft-spoken tongue, and was truly empathic beyond reason. I, Right, am different. I can never relax, my mind is always racing, trying to think of every outcome of infinite possibilities and often disappointed when the outcome is different than the million imagined scenarios. Despite our psychological differences, we were inseparable – I could always tell what she was thinking, what she needed, how she felt. We called it our superpower.
Mom loved me more. I wish it weren’t so obvious. When she embraced us, it was always just the kiss of my forehead and not Left’s, the caress of my face and not hers too. Maybe it was because she was left-handed, natural to reach for my face first. I always felt Left’s heart drop in our chest as she was neglected of another kiss, another “I’m proud of you,” an “I love you.” I felt the disappointment settle in the pit of our stomach and the anger that boiled just beneath it.
“I just don’t understand it,” Left would say sometimes through tears. I held her face, wiped the tears as they dripped to out chest, and told her our mother’s love was only a fraction of our for each other.
Our mother was never maliciously spiteful, except one time. We’d forgotten to do the dishes one night, and our mother, slurring her words between sips of wine, scolded Left.
“Twice as much brainpower and still can’t do the simplest shit,” she spat at left, “God, I wish you were never born.” She stormed off, stopped, cocked her head for a moment, turned back and kissed me on the forehead before apologizing. To me, not Left. Left clinched her fists and I had to stop her from making us do something we’d regret. Left never let that memory go – I always felt the rage of that moment burning in our chest, even in the happiest of moments.
Even her first kiss. It was between classes, a tall-brown haired boy caught her by surprise, grabbed our waist, swung us around and planted one right on her. I could only blush in embarrassment when their lips locked. I could feel the tingle, the electricity of attraction between them. I don’t think I ever saw Left so flustered or happy. Still beneath that, the absent burn of Mom’s love stung on. I think that’s what drove her mad when I experienced my own love for the first time – that I could have her, mom, and someone else.
“He’s so ugly,” she would whisper in my ear when I kissed him.”
“You need to get out more,” I would jeer playfully. It stopped being fun after a while.
An inky darkness set in; the sluggish wight of depression suffocated our body. I hardly got us going some days – Left wouldn’t even try. Her head would loll against mine as she slept while I walked. Some days, we couldn’t move at all as she refused to move. This became a habit – several days of the week dedicated to a half-comatose stupor in our bed. I would beg and beg her to help us get going and she would only respond in grunts and moans. No amount of reassurance relieved the weighted hand of negligence that grasped our heart and her mind.
There seemed to be no end in sight until I awoke one night to a splitting headache. The left side of my head exploded into little stars at the corners of my eyes. I couldn’t feel her anymore. I shook our body, slapped her face, knocked our heads together, sat up in bed, the dead weight of her head nodding off to the side, and slammed us back into the pillows, and she still didn’t wake. I felt the creeping tongue of paralysis travel from our toes, up our legs and arms until all I could do was move my mouth. I screamed for our mother, who came to my aid immediately. She shushed me and told me it would be okay, not even bothering to glance at Left.
I still feel the phantom weight of her head on my left shoulder and the ache on my heart of our loveless mother. There wasn’t a funeral or even a remembrance. That sooty inkiness leaks from my eyes and enraptures my heart once more as our mother looks at me with the adoration she denied Left. The procedure went far better than anyone could’ve reasonably expected. But I no longer feel complete.