I am the sister no one sees. The silent sister, the indoor sister, who oozes down the stairwell, who quivers in pools on the kitchen floor. The one who – come morning – must be scraped from the slats of the bed. Flaking. Falling.
People assume my twin is an only child. She is the one who goes out, strong in the sunlight. She, who sweeps the floors and carries heavy baskets of laundry. She, who cooks for the whole family, selecting ingredients with an assured eye. She, who climbs a tree when no one’s watching, leaning back against the bark, hearing the wind rustle through the leaves.
I see only moonlight. Hear only owls.
People think she was born before me. But I was always waiting. In the shadows. In the darkness. In the moan of the winter wind.
It began with a cough. Then the cough grew worse. Soon, my sister could barely breathe. She lay on a hospital bed at two in the morning. At that hour, I am never far away. I reached out of the shadows and took her hand. She slipped away in a haze of opioids. Leaving only me.
I was always the weak sister. My arms are too pliable for heavy lifting. In the midday sun, I melt. Until my sister died, I never went out. But who else would do her work, now she was gone? With the wind in my face, I tottered into the yard, too feeble to lift more than a clothes peg. I wept, tears melting tracks into my face.
Dust thickened on shelves abandoned after a token sweeping. Piles of laundry grew around me like rock formations in a desert of chores.
That was when my sister returned.
Not fully her, but the bones of her. Strong bones. Able to wield a broom with only one hand.
The piles of ironing fell away. Weeds disappeared from the garden. My heart rose. I hurried out to greet her, to embrace her with gratitude.
But at my touch, she melted away.
I kept my distance. Retreated to my bed and my bookcase. And when I glanced through the window, there she was again, hoeing the weeds. That was when I understood. We are both visible to the world now, but may not be seen together. She has her realm, the active realm of the outdoors, of work, activity and neighbourly friendship. And I have my realm. The slow-moving, silent realm, half in dream and half in the waking world.
She is the one people see. The one they think they know. But it is only the bones of her. Without me, she is incomplete. I am the night to her day, the weakness to her strength. The wax to her bone.
People think my twin is an only child. But we are two.
Elizabeth Hopkinson is an award-winning writer of fairy tale, fantasy and historical short fiction. Her work has been published by Arachne Press, Mother’s Milk, Mslexia and many more. In 2019, she crowdfunded Asexual Fairy Tales, a themed short story collection, which featured in BBC We Are Bradford. At time of writing, she is quarantined with her husband, daughter, cat and more books than food. She may consider eating the books. Find Elizabeth at @hidden_grove
