We are nine when I discover I am the evil twin. We've just blown out the candles on our birthday cake. Our dad sets down the kitchen knife and heads around the corner to help mom grab bowls and ice-cream. That's when it pops into my mind. The image of my hand reaching for the blade. I wonder how sharp it is. Would it cut more than just cake? Could it cut through flesh? Bone?

 

The impulse to reach out and take it is overwhelming. But it's not me who grabs the knife. My brother looks at me, eyes glazed over, and wraps his fingers around the handle. He turns it over, sets the silver blade in the flat of his palm. I am not sure how, but I know what he's about to do. I can see it in my own head. He'll curl his fingers around the metal, placing the sharp edge along the tender creases in his skin and squeeze. Squeeze until the knife bites through flesh, and even then he won't stop. He'll squeeze until he hears the grind of blade against bone, the snap of tendons. I can picture the blood as it wells out of his fist and snakes down his wrist to drip onto the white linen tablecloth. The one my mom saves only for special occasions.

 

I shut my eyes against the image that slices into my brain.

 

"Cake. Think about cake," I order myself, trying to wash the vision of crimson away. I can't remember what our cake looks like. I can only see the red stain billowing within my mind.

 

I force my eyes open, afraid of what I might find, but the cloth is still white. The cake sits upon it untouched, piled high with frosting, blue and green. Our favorite colors. And nine skinny candles perched on top. My brother's hand shakes out of the corner of my eyes, the blade quivering with indecision. Focus. I picture the metal piercing the crested blue of the icing instead of pink flesh.

 

He moves toward the cake, slowly. It takes all of me to keep my brain trained on the task and from sliding back to the image of flesh and blood and bone.

 

 

The clank of the knife as it hits the plate beneath rings like a bell, clear and innocent, impervious to my dark thoughts. Not a grind and or a snap to be heard.

 

I let out a sigh of relief as the last piece is cut through. My brother looks up, his dark eyes meeting mine. I know he knows. For a second they flit down again, back to the knife, and I force myself to picture him setting it carefully on the table. The icing stains the cloth blue and not red.

 

There's something wrong with me.

 

#

 

We are thirteen. I am scared of my own mind. I try to control every thought, violently pushing away those that come to me unbidden. But sometimes I slip.

 

My twin has his best friend over. He makes friends more easily than I do. They're playing video games in the other room. They didn't invite me. They never invite me. They whisper about me and think I don't know.

I hate my twin's best friend. His voice, his obnoxious snorts, his dumb jokes. He chews with his mouth open and laughs like a hyena. He's using my controller right now and getting his greasy pizza hands all over it. I hear him grunting from the other room and I want to punch him in his fucking face.

 

 

There's a scream, and the boy comes running through the kitchen, blood pouring from his nose. He's crying, but I don't quite feel bad.

 

Not until our mom is screaming at my brother.

 

"I didn't mean to," he says between sobs. He casts a dark look my way.

 

"I didn't mean to," I whisper under my breath.

 

I never mean to, but it happens all the same and my brother always pays the price. No wonder he doesn't play with me anymore.

 

#

 

We're sixteen now. We take turns in the driver's seat as we're learning how to drive. I sit in the back as I wait my turn. It's raining but my dad insists that driving in the rain is a good skill to learn. I watch drops slide down the glass and blur the headlights of oncoming cars as they pass us by.

 

There's a blue sedan and a red minivan. A yellow taxi and a silver semi. I follow their headlights as they roll down the hill. The semi's lights sit much higher than the rest and the glare hurts my eyes, but I don't turn away. I'm mesmerized by the sheer size of it as it barrels towards us.

 

 

The image hits me all at once, an unwelcome intruder. The picture of our car mangled as the semi smacks into us—The sharp impact of a head on collision. I can almost hear the screech of metal as we collide, except I don't. I know I don't.

 

 

This isn't real.

 

I take a steadying breath and focus on the rain. The rhythmic beat of it as it hits our windshield. The splatter made by our tires as they kick up water off the road. It almost drowns out the thoughts in my mind. Almost. But up ahead I can see my brother, his hands knuckle white on the wheel. How easy it would be for him to veer us right into oncoming traffic. His shoulder tilts. The wheel turns and the car lists to the left.

 

I try to clear my mind, but all I can think about is the crash that feels so inevitable that maybe we've always been headed towards this moment. We cross the yellow lines.

 

I brace myself against the impact. A horn blares impossibly loud. My Dad shouts and my head slams into the window as our car swerves away from the truck. Dad's hands are clasped on the wheel, but he can't adjust from the passenger side and the car spins out across the road and away. We hit the hard packed dirt of a ditch before coming to a stop.

 

There are a lot of tears while our parents make sure we're all okay. And screaming as Dad swears my brother will never hold car keys again.

 

My eyes meet my twins in the rearview mirror. I am not sure what I see in his expression. Accusation? Or hate? Probably both. A reflection of my own.

 

I almost killed my whole family today. My mind is a putrid thing, where evil thoughts are left to fester. They spread like rot, spoiling me from the inside out. How long before I'm wholly corrupt? What happens then? I just want it to stop.

 

#

 

At night I can hear my twin sleeping in the bunk above me, his measured breathing. In. Out. In. Out. A deep relaxing sleep. I don't sleep like that. I'm afraid of the things I might dream up. I despise the things that I have.

 

What would it feel like to be able to sleep so deep? To let my mind run completely free. Free of the fear, the guilt, the hate? Would I sleep like that if I weren't a twin? If he didn't exist, would these thoughts just go away?

 

I wonder what he dreams about. Sweet dreams, I'm sure. Slash of red. No. Sweet, calming dreams. The sickening snap of a rope gone taught. No! Think of something else!

 

 

"No!" I shout, sitting up, my palms pressed hard against my eyelids, banishing the images that burn behind them.

 

My chest heaves, my heart hammers, my breath echoes loud in my ears, but my twin is silent—the rhythmic snore now missing from the bunk above.

 

Did I wake him?

 

I try to calm myself and listen, but my panting is still too loud. I inhale, holding it in before I realize the sound isn't coming from me.

 

My twin. His breath is hot on my neck. I half turn to see.

 

The glint of a knife flashes. A slash of red, wet and warm. It spills out before me, staining my white sheets. I clutch at my side, my hands come away slick.

 

He stares at me, dark eyes just the same.

 

"It wasn't me?" I gasp, a question that hangs in the air.