Some thoughts about the twins from a novel I'm writing. Written from the point of view of a younger Bianca.
She looks a lot like me, but she's got money in the bank. Her hair is better kept, muscles toned, clothes clean and well chosen. While I sit with my back to the wall, shoes untied, shadows gradually deepening under my eyes, pipe in my mouth, she maneuvers around me with ease, moving forward in life like she's supposed to. Her wit is probably sharper than mine, hard won through years of studying and reading to better her mind. We have the same skill set, but hers is better polished, with many more achievements along the way. She's earned it. We both have a love for colorful vocabulary, though mine is spotted with cuss words and hers with delightful Old English oddities. She speaks French fluently now, and also bits of the other romantics, while I struggle to remember the Latin I half-heartedly studied as a child. Not a day goes by where she doesn't go to bed more accomplished than she woke up. I'm lucky to be dressed before 3 pm.
And yet, there is no pity in that face when she looks at me. When our eyes meet there's a mutual understanding hidden somewhere in there. She copes by becoming everything people expect her to be, pushing her limits for the sake of a little approval. I cope with sleepless nights, THC and nicotine, bad art conceived at four in the morning. In the end, everything we do is a plea for mercy against the pain of being alive.
She's a straight A student and I'm a dropout. And yet, we will leave this world the same. Two bodies, slowly returning to the dust from whence they came, quickly buried in the sands of time.