Sanders Sides One Shots & Shorts

Two Souls Entwined (Brotherly Creativitwins)

Trigger Warning: Hospitals.
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Date Published: June 1st, 2020
Word Count: 1567
POV: Roman, 1st Person (ooooh exciting I know!! I never do 1st person anymore)

Remus and I were born  into the same body. Each of our souls entwined like we were holding  hands since before we took our very first breath. Those early years,  when we didn't have to be concerned over our souls at all, were our  happiest. We wasted away the days playing under the sun, with plastic  swords and red and green sidewalk chalk.

But those years ended,  and then came the worries. Then came the tightness around our parents'  mouths, the frowns that used to line our kindergarten teacher's  forehead, and of course, the question that everyone always asked. It  seemed like it had been the only thing anyone knew how to ask  when it came to Remus and I, either directly to our parents' faces or  just in whispers to each other as we passed by. The question that was  etched permanently into our memories like a scar.

Why aren't they settling?

Settling.

The word had been  foreign then, and we struggled to sit it comfortably in our  five-year-old mouth. It left an unfamiliar taste on our tongue. We knew  what it meant. Kind of. It meant that one of us was supposed to take  control. Take control of our shared body, our words, our heart. It meant  that the other was supposed to fade.

I know now that it means much, much more than that. But at five years old, Remus and I were still naive, still oblivious.

But the varnish of  innocence had begun being worn away by the time we reached first grade.  It had been our speckled-glasses-and-pink-tie-wearing guidance  counsellor who'd made the first scratch in the polish. "You know," Dr.  Picani had said. "Settling isn't scary. I know it might seem like it  right now, but it happens to everybody! The recessive soul, whichever  one of you that is, will just... go to sleep."

He never specified which  one of us he thought was going to survive. But he didn't have to. By  the time we'd reached first grade, everyone believed that Remus was the  dominant soul. He could overpower me. He could move us left when I  wanted to go right, or refuse to open our mouth when I wanted to eat. He  could cry out a "Yes" when I so desperately wanted to say "No". He could do it with such little effort, next to none. As time passed, I grew ever weaker as his control only increased.

But, I could still force  my way through sometimes, and I did if I could. Occasionally, when Mom  would ask us about our day, I would gather up all of my strength to  break through, and tell her my version of things. When we played  games like hide and seek, I could push to the surface and force us  behind the bushes instead of continuing to run for the tall tree that  Remus wanted to attempt to climb. Once, I managed to jerk us while we  were bringing Dad his coffee. The burns hurt for weeks afterward.

The more my strength waned, the more I scrambled to hold on. I wouldn't, couldn't  give up. I would lash out in any way I could, just to convince myself  that I would not disappear. Remus hated me when I did it, but I couldn't  just let go, over fear of the fall. The fall away from my family, my  life. I remembered the freedom that I used to have. It was never  complete, of course, because I always shared with Remus. But I could  remember when I was able to run, to joust a stick like a mighty sword, to raise my hand in class at school, or ask Mom for a hug.

During those middle years, Remus and I fought all the time.

<Shut up, Roman> Remus would say. <Just shut up, and go away!>

And for a long time, I thought that someday I would.

Our parents took us to  our first specialist when we were six. She was a scientist, and much  sterner than our school guidance counsellor. Many more specialists would  follow, with their machines and tests and fees that weren't at all  insignificant. By the time we'd reached sixth grade, Remus and I had  been through three therapists, and taken five different types of  medication. All in the effort to do what nature should have already  done: get rid of the recessive soul.