The Silent Twin Read Free Page A

Three
Diary Entry
    I wanted to hurt myself today. To slice through my skin and watch the life flow out of me in a red river of madness. It’s my madness. I know that. It’s why my mother nicknamed me Jekyll and Hyde. One moment I would be calm, serene, a perfect child. Then without any warning I was a typhoon, ripping through the room, upsetting anyone in my path. She didn’t understand. And those that did said nothing.
    I’m much better at hiding my feelings now. Diaries are therapeutic, a way of bleeding all the poison and frustrations onto the page. What was it the counsellors said? Imagine filling a balloon with all your torment, and watch as it floats up into the sky. But that never worked for me. The only pressure valve to my emotional turbulence was inflicting physical pain. It’s not my fault. Besides, I always begin with myself. My body bears the scars to prove it. But some days the slash of a razor or burn from a flame just isn’t enough. I try not to allow it to take over, but it builds like a powerful wave. I feel myself being submerged in its darkness, gasping for breath as it consumes me. On those days I can barely recollect what happens.
    Being Jekyll and Hyde isn’t such a terrible thing. Because if I have two separate identities, then the bad thing happened to my alter ego, not me, and I don’t have to take responsibility for what follows. Lately I’ve been finding it harder to cope. The masses of people coming to the house make me feel dizzy and confused. Oh Diary, I wish you were a real person. Someone I could turn to who would understand without judgement. What made me was an evil so great that I had no choice but to embrace it. There is no redemption for me. And making it my ally has given me the strength I need to survive. Sometimes, when the anger is rising, I fantasise about grasping a poker, white-hot from the fire. I imagine the smell of my burning flesh filling my nostrils as the pain seeps through to every nerve ending. I envision myself striking it down on the people who betrayed me. On those occasions, the pain is good. The strength, the control. But I’m not ready to talk about the past yet. It’s like vomiting in your own mouth; tasting the bile that partially digested long ago.
    A detective has come to the farm. She is strong and determined. She wants to integrate herself into our lives, like a beautiful dark spider weaving a sugared web. You can talk to me, tell me how you feel. Her eyes are hypnotic, and her words lure you in. But I know what she is and I won’t allow her a viewing into my soul. I’ve become an expert at allowing my eyes to glaze over in a disinterested way. Sometimes I blurt out a giggle when nobody is looking – seeing them all running around, crying, shouting, a disgusting outpour of human emotions. I have all the power. Because I know things that nobody else knows. I feel the hysteria bubble up inside me, and I stifle the giggles, camouflaging my response as shock or despair. Am I inhuman, to be without compassion? Devoid of empathy? There was little compassion or sorrow for me. I think of Abigail. So beautiful, and so full of life. Her long flowing white-blonde hair, her loud giggles and whoops as she ran through the house, filling the empty spaces with laughter. But then I think of my childhood. And I wonder, is it fair to choose Abigail’s life over mine? I remember my pact and know I have no choice.

Chapter Four
    ‘ A re you a tea or coffee drinker?’ Joanna smiled. ‘I’ve got some nice pastries from the bakery this morning, I drove into Haven especially. Would you like one?’
    ‘Just coffee, thanks,’ Jennifer said, picking a floppy-eared toy rabbit up off the floor and placing it on the table. She returned her gaze to Nick, watching his expression of disbelief as he stared at his wife.
    A jagged vein at the side of his forehead began to pulsate as he spoke in cold, hurt tones. ‘Make the coffee if that’s what you want. We’re going into