Keeper

            We were young when we made the pact. We were friends then, too, but that faded quickly. We’d seen something on television — a law show, I think — and knew you could get away with anything if no one talked. Of course, that didn’t usually happen – on television, someone always caved. We wouldn’t though, we swore. No matter what we got caught up in, one could never rat out the other. Our bond was special, we thought. You couldn’t count on anyone if you couldn’t count on your twin.

            It was later that we realized that bond was a fluke. As far as we were concerned then, the nine months we had spent in the same uterus together were enough for a lifetime. We divided our room until we were old enough for separate ones. We sought out different friends, played different sports, whined until we were put in separate classes.

             Our names were always attached anyway – Brooklyn and Milo or Milo and Brooklyn – like we were one person. The people saying that probably didn’t know we could go months without speaking. Our own parents hadn’t even really noticed. They were busy – they had chores, careers, and other kids to worry about. They grouped our names together too. 

            Dr. Camry is sitting in front of me now, referring to me only as Brooklyn. She is doing it deliberately and seems to think that it’s reassuring. It is probably how she was taught to deal with cases like mine. Sequester the client in a room with too many couches and then wear them down with the use of their first name. It’s not working on me though – in this setting, I feel no different hearing my name alone. I hear it a lot now.

            “Brooklyn, can you tell me how your brother died?”

            There it is. The question she has been setting up for about ten minutes now. She could have just asked it outright and saved herself the trouble. Just like with the other questions, I am not going to answer.

            I can’t. 

The End

1 comment about this story Feed