Drown

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I arrived home, completely drained from the long and exhausting day. The weight of the world seemed to be resting on my shoulders, and I couldn't wait to just unwind and relax. As I walked into my bathroom, ready to wash away the stress, something caught my eye on the sink. It was the bottle of sleeping pills that I had bought earlier.

Letting out a heavy sigh, I picked up the container and stared at it for a moment. These pills were supposed to help me get a good night's rest, but they had failed me time and time again. They were useless, just like the countless sleepless nights I had endured. Without a second thought, I poured the pills down the drain and washed them away with water.

Feeling a mix of frustration and exhaustion, I turned to face the mirror. The reflection staring back at me was a sight of pure weariness. Dark circles under my eyes, a pale complexion, and a face that clearly showed the lack of sleep I had been experiencing. It was disheartening to see myself in such a state.

Suddenly, a surge of anger rushed through me. My throat tightened, and I could feel my breath becoming heavy. In that moment, I couldn't contain it any longer. I let out a loud yell, "ENOUGH!" and stormed out of the bathroom, my feet firmly planted on the ground, ready to release my pent-up frustration.

A heavy silence filled the room as I stood there, seething with rage. And then, without warning, my anger erupted like a volcano. I began throwing anything within my reach, unleashing my fury upon my own home. Picture frames, remotes, displays, and anything else that crossed my path became victims of my wrath.

Tables and chairs were flipped over, and I screamed in pain and frustration, repeatedly asking, "WHY? WHY? WHY?" The kitchen became my next target as I vented my anger on pots and plates, tearing through my belongings without a care.

Finally, as my temper tantrum subsided, I surveyed the aftermath of my rage. The mess I had created was overwhelming. I let out another sigh, realizing that I was the one who would have to clean up this chaos. With a sense of responsibility, I grabbed a dustpan and broom, starting from the kitchen and working my way through the house.

As I reached the lounge, I couldn't help but notice the broken picture frames and the pictures scattered on the floor. Among them, one particular photo caught my attention

The edge of the picture where I stood appeared to be slightly crooked. It seemed as though a portion had been cut off, and upon closer inspection, I noticed a third piece of clothing in the picture.

Curiosity piqued, I pondered, "What could be the story behind this peculiar picture?"

Without a doubt, the best person to shed light on this recent discovery would be none other than my dear mother. After all, she was the one who had given me this picture on the day I moved out.

The following day, I embarked on a journey to my mother's place, which was located a few kilometres outside of town. Ever since her separation from my father years ago, she had been living on her own.

As I approached her door, I knocked and was greeted with a warm smile. "Come in, come in," she welcomed me, her voice filled with warmth.

"I'll put the kettle on for a cup of tea," she continued, bustling about in the kitchen.

We engaged in conversation, the typical exchange between a parent and child. She inquired about my well-being and questioned why I didn't visit more often. Eventually, as she paused to take a sip of her tea, I prepared to ask her about the peculiar picture.

However, before the words could escape my lips, a voice within me held me back. "Don't ask her, for you know she'll dismiss it. Look in the box for the truth," the voice whispered.

Intrigued by the mysterious voice, I altered my question and instead asked my mother about the whereabouts of my old comic books. "I plan to give them to children who visit my store with their parents," I explained to her.

"They should be in the backroom, among the old clutter," she replied.

With her permission, I ventured into the backroom, instructing her to stay put as I assured her it wouldn't take long.

What was the purpose of all this?

The box the voice had referred to was my mother's secret box, hidden away from my father. I had known of its existence, as I had often observed her discreetly placing items inside when she believed I wasn't watching. And true to her nature, she had stowed it away amidst the old junk.

As I made my way through the backroom, I diligently searched for the box. Concealed beneath layers of dusty blankets, I finally discovered it. It was evident that my mother had never laid a hand on it since my father's departure

As I carefully removed the layer of dust from the lid, I couldn't help but feel a sense of anticipation. What secrets would this old box hold? With a gentle push, the lid creaked open, revealing a treasure trove of forgotten memories.

Amongst the assortment of items, my eyes were immediately drawn to a stack of love letters. They were not addressed to my father, which piqued my curiosity even further. As I sifted through the contents, I discovered an old doll, a delicate necklace, and a silver bracelet. Each item seemed to whisper stories of their own.

However, it was the object nestled at the bottom of the box that held the key to my quest. With trembling hands, I retrieved the missing piece of the picture from my pocket. It was time to reunite the fragments and uncover the truth. As the two pieces seamlessly fit together, my heart skipped a beat.

In that moment, the complete picture before me was nothing short of astonishing. My eyes widened in disbelief as I realized the unimaginable. "Dear Lord," I gasped, "I had a brother! And not just any brother, but my very own twin brother!" The revelation left me speechless, my mind racing with questions and emotions.