I always was the other sister. People always referred to me as Michaela's twin. I also did this. Now I am the only sister.
I feel the clinical bleach pumping into my side in the form of a drip. I lie in my hospital bed like a vegetable my grandmother cooked. My sister does the same except she is currently in the morgue.
It happened exactly 34 hours ago. My sister and I were attacked by an unknown psychopath in our school's dining hall. There were no witnesses. I can't remember any of it but my mother told me what happened. My father and his new 'barbie' are on their honeymoon in the Caribbean. They don't intend to come back for her funeral. I am not surprised.
My mother insisted I went but I refused. On the morning of the funeral I bought myself a dress. It was black and 'sophisticated' according to my mother. I change my mind a lot as you can tell.
Fake. That would be the word to describe this whole experience; the reactions of her 'friends'. Fake. My school's increased security. Fake. I feel like I'm looking down on my life like God and I'm not actually living it. I don't cry. I don't smile. I don't laugh at the funny stories her 'friends' tell. This is a reminder that no matter if Michaela Morrison is dead or alive. I will always be the other sister.
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Mystery / ThrillerA perfect set of twins. Or so everyone thought but when one is murdered and one breaks down. Who will pick up the pieces of this torn apart family. The answer is no one because you can't fully fix what's already broken.
