The Face You See Is The Face Of Family
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Bro, you gotta let me out at some point.

Wanna bet? Come on, look at them. Such a lovely family. The wife is cute as a button on a stripper's G-string. The husband is such a handsome, upstanding citizen. And those little girls? What are they, eight or nine? The twins are eight.

Twins? Forget about it. I'm not letting you hurt twins. Me? You're just as dangerous, bro. Don't try to deny it. And I wouldn't hurt the twins. Now, that stripper ma may need a little adjusting. Drop it. You are not getting out. Ah, is that so? You sure about that, bro? I'm pretty damn sure about it. I'm the one in control here. Shit, bro. You ain't ever in control as long as you keep me trapped inside.

The bastard doesn't respond. "What, no comeback?" I ask, desperate to keep our little back and forth going. It's the only time I have any sort of interaction. Otherwise, my day is spent staring out of these two windows, wishing for freedom. Wishing for us to get back to what we were meant to do, what we do best. "Okay, okay, you're upset," I say. "I get that, totally understand.

But you gotta see things from my perspective every once in a while." "No I don't," he replies. "You and me? No more." "No more? What does that mean? You want us to be done? Is that what you want? Then kick me out. Make me leave. Come on, bro. Do it." I wait. "We've been down this road before?" "I can't," he says finally. "And why is that?" I ask, sticking it in and twisting hard.

"Because we're family," he says. "Because we're family," I echo. "Now, my good bro, how about you let your family have some freedom?" I stare out the windows at the lovely family across the street. Oh, the wife. Well, she looks just lovely in her cut-off shorts and that halter top that's fraying along the right seam. The husband is in his white tank top and baggy jeans.

He only has one tank as far as I can tell. Once it's so brown you forget it's white, he has his lovely wife wash it. Personally, I'd burn it. Then we have the little girls. Twins, my bro says. Not identical, no way. One is healthy and spry as she bounces around the yard, chasing pretend butterflies or whatever little girls her age do. The other? Not so healthy looking. No, not at all.

Hey.

The dad shouts from across the street. What the fuck are you doing? He's not talking to me. I'm trapped behind these two windows. Nope. He's pissed at my bro. He's the one outside standing on the porch, drinking coffee, looking across the street, my bro says and lifts his coffee cup. Beautiful day, isn't it?

"Get fucked, you freak!" the dad shouts. He gets up from his porch steps, hikes up his baggy jeans, and moves to his crooked, rusted-out gate. "You hear me, freak? Get fucked!" "Just having my cup of coffee on my own front porch," my bro replies. He takes a sip and smiles wide. "Sorry to have bothered you." The dad flips him off, then goes back to his sweet little family.

I hear the loud smack and the crying of the little girl before my bro is even through the front door. The door closes and locks, like always. Then my bro turns and stares out of the door's lightest window. "That dad's gonna kill one of them someday," I say. "Quiet," my bro replies. "Come on, bro, you gotta listen to me. You'd be doing them a favor by letting me out. Then I can walk over there and give the dad a couple of smacks so he can see how it feels."

"I'm sure he already knows," my bro says. "Assholes like that aren't born. They're made." "Oh, really?" I laugh. "You disagree?" he asks. "Yeah, I fucking disagree," I say. "You're living in La La Land if you think monsters can't be born." "I didn't say monsters can't be born," he replies. "I said assholes like that are made, not born. He's nothing special. Just white trash and a wife beater."

He takes his fashion to heart, I say as I watch the dad close in on the mom and give her a serious wallop to the side of her head. He hits her so hard she falls off her stripper heels. I do appreciate how the wife likes to be stylish while in that quarter postage stamp of a yard, her husband should appreciate her more. "I've got to get to work," my bro says. "Bro, come on." "What?" "You got fired last week. You ain't going nowhere.

No. I've just been taking some time off. Bullshit. You got canned and you know it. How would you know? Were you at work with me? He's being cruel. No, I say. I wasn't at work with you. Because you don't let me go to work with you. For good reason, my bro says. They wouldn't understand you. Everyone has family, bro, I say. You'd be surprised what most people can or cannot understand. He sips his coffee. I wait.

He sips some more. I wait some more. "Fine, whatever," he says after a couple more sips. I got fired. "I fucking knew it!" I shout. "Bam!" "Don't gloat," he says. "It sucked. They had Sheila do it." "Sheila?" I ask with a fake gasp. "Not Sheila. Fuck you." "Hey, bro. You're the one without the cojones to ask that chick out," I say, rubbing it in. "You're wrong.

I ask, totally surprised. I asked her out and she laughed her ass off in my face. Well, not in my face. She wouldn't get that close. Not only did she laugh at me, but she said even standing in the same room with me made her want to puke. Well, can you blame her? You're the ugly twin, bro, not me. Fuck you, he says and walks into the kitchen. I go with, because what else am I going to do? I'm locked in here with only two windows to look out of.

"Come on, bro," I say. "You know what I mean. It ain't easy for normal folks to look at that mug of yours. You got one eye drooping down to your chin almost. And what the fuck is up with those eyebrows? It's like someone sheared a sheepdog and glued every fucking strand of hair to your forehead. And those teeth? Forget about it, bro. You got one sticking straight out at a 90-degree angle. It looks like a diving board for your fucking gingivitis.

Brother should be supportive. He snaps. Says the motherfucker that keeps his brother locked inside this fucking place 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, 364 days a year. I shout. It's for your own good. He says. Especially after last time. Last time was amazing. I say. Don't you remember? I'm trying to block it out. Why? It was a masterpiece. I wait while he brings up the memory.

I always have to let him get there first. Yeah, sure, I push my bro hard all the time. We're brothers, we're twins for fuck's sake. It's what we do, push each other. But with this type of thing, I have to lead him. No pushing, so I wait. He washes out his coffee cup and stares out the cracked window above the kitchen sink. He sets the cup in the dish rack, grips the edge of the sink, and lowers his head.

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$45 upfront payment equivalent to $15 per month. New customers on first three-month plan only. Taxes and fees extra. Speeds lower above 40 gigabytes. See details. The last of the suds swirled down into the drain. It was pretty awesome, he says quietly after several minutes. Fuck yeah, it was, I shout. I give it a second, then I recall the story, allowing him to relive it as if he was the one responsible.

He wasn't, of course. We work together. We're brothers. We're twins. Sharing is fucking caring. And we share everything. That college couple moved into the trailer half a block down, I say, and pause. He doesn't tell me to shut up, so I continue. We watched them lug all those boxes inside while it rained down on their asses. We could have helped, he says quietly.

but not scared, quiet. No, no, he's anticipating the good parts. "We could have, sure," I say. "But where's the fun in that?" So, the young couple is soaked to the bone. They get all their shit inside, and guess what? They forgot to buy drapes for the windows, my bro says. "Yup," I say. And we get to watch the fun as they strip out of those wet clothes and do what college couples do best.

"She screamed so loud we could hear her over the rain," my bro says. "And no one around us gave a shit," I say. "She screamed her head off, and not one of our lovely neighbors even poked their head out." He nods up and down, his hands gripping the edge of the sink even harder. "What did we decide to do then?" I ask. He shakes his head back and forth. "Come on, bro," I say. "What did we do then?"

We went to say hello. He says after a second of hesitation. Why? I ask. Because, he says. Because why? I ask, feeling the anticipation build. Because he couldn't make her scream right, my bro says. So we had to show him how it was done. We had to show him how it was done, I say. Exactly, bro. And did we show him?

"Yes," my bro whispers. "Yes, we did," I say. We walked into that trailer without knocking and walloped that guy so hard and so fast that we didn't even have to restrain him. He was out cold. "Then it was her turn," my bro says. "Then it was her turn," I echo. I hit her with a right hook and knocked out some teeth. She went down just as hard as her man did. Then what?

Then we saw the box marked "Kitchen", my bro says. "Yeah, we did", I say. We opened that box and right on top was their set of kitchen knives. "Cheap ones", my bro adds. "Cut them some slack", I say. "College kids always have shitty knives. Most everyone does. You gotta go to the good neighborhoods to find the good knives." "They were dull", he says. "So dull", I say inside. "Dull is the best."

"Dull is the best," he echoes. "What did we do with those knives?" I ask. "We got to work," my bro says. "All night long," I say. That chick screamed for an hour before her throat gave out. "Too bad," my bro says. "She lasted six more hours after that." "When the guy came to, he shit and pissed himself at what he saw then passed out again," I say and laugh and laugh and laugh.

My bro joins me, and we just laugh and laugh right there in the kitchen. Then my bro sighs. It's a heavy sigh. Is. I done a bad thing, sigh. Cops came to talk to us, he says. Yeah? And what happened? I ask. They took one look at me and undid the snaps on their guns, he says. Fuckers, I say. But all they wanted to do was ask us some questions. We told them about the screaming we heard.

"But we thought they were, well, you know," my bro says. Someone with your fucked up face talking about two young college kids getting sexy made them squirm. I say, "They were so disgusted that they couldn't thank us fast enough so they could get the hell off our porch." "They arrested the boyfriend," he says. "We framed his ass good, didn't we?" I say, "What happened to that guy?" He asks. "Went crazy," I say. "You brought home that newspaper, remember?"

"Right, yeah," he says. Lost his mind. His lawyer got him off with an insanity plea. "He's in the nut house for life," I say. "The nut house for life," my bro repeats. There's a loud scream from out front, and my bro pushes away from the sink. We hurry to the front door and look out across the street. The husband is dishing out some discipline on the special one. He's whipping the ever-loving shit out of that girl with his belt.

I'm surprised he owns a belt, I say. With the way he lets his pants hang off his ass. "He's gonna kill her," my bro says and reaches for the door handle. "Hold on," I say and he pauses. "You know the neighbors are watching this. We let it play out for now." "Then what?" my bro asks. Oh, I can hear how upset he's getting by the way his voice shakes. We're getting close.

"Then maybe we go have a neighborly chat with dear daddy later tonight," I say. "You could let me do the talking. I can't let you out," he says. "Too dangerous." "For them, maybe," I say. "For us too," he says. "I'm losing him." "Okay, no problem, bro," I say. "You're right. They live across the street. If something were to happen to them, then we'd be the first place they look." He nods as we watch the violence unfold.

The girl goes limp as a rag doll, and that's when the mom finally intervenes. She takes a few licks from the belt for her effort, but after enduring those without crying out, the husband gets bored and walks off. "It just makes me so mad," my bro says. "I hear you, bro," I say. One second, two seconds, three seconds. "Hey, I got an idea. You know who doesn't live across the street?"

"Lots of people," he says. "Most of the world. Funny," I say. "But I'm thinking of someone specific. I'm thinking of… Sheila." He stiffens. Maybe I pushed too far, too fast. Then he grins. And I'm worried the grin will split that gorgeous fucked up face of his. "Yeah," he says. "Sheila doesn't live across the street. And she laughed at you," I say, piling it on.

"She did laugh at me," he says. "She was real mean about it too." "Real mean about it," I say. "So mean," he says. "The meanest," I say. Then I ask, "What time is it?" He looks around and finds the wall clock. "Almost 11," he says. "And what time does Sheila take her lunch break?" I ask. "Same time as the boss," he says. "Noon on the dot."

"Noon on the dot," I say, and just let it all work itself out in his head. It doesn't take long. "Okay," he says. "Let's go." "Let's? As in let us? The two of us?" I ask, trying not to get my hopes up. "Yeah, us," he says. "Don't fuck with me, bro," I say. "You better fucking mean it this time."

I mean it, he says. Fuck yeah, I shout. Get the keys and let's go take Sheila to lunch. Max Bankman, I'm the new doctor. Welcome aboard the Odyssey. ABC Thursdays. This ship is heaven. We're tending to our past with our dreams. I'm in. From 9-1-1 executive producer Ryan Murphy comes a splashy new drama on a luxury cruise ship with Joshua Jackson and Don Johnson. It's your job to keep everyone alive. She's in V-fit. One, two, three. Clear. Clear.

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Traffic is a bitch. "We ain't gonna make it," my bro says. "Fuck this traffic!" I look around, and almost every driver is actively avoiding looking at our car. It's not a bad car, ten years old with some rust and dents, but it's not the car they're trying to avoid looking at. It's my beautiful brother they have a hard time with. "Flip them all off," I say. "Show them they can all go and fuck themselves." "That's how you get shot," he says. "You haven't been out in a while."

The world has changed since after lockdown. People are angrier, more tense. One wrong move and you end up with a 9mm pointed at your head. My kind of world, I say. That's what I'm afraid of, he says. I laugh. He doesn't. But the corners of his mouth scrunch up in that half-smirk he does. Shit, my bro says when we arrive at the warehouse where he works. Or used to work. What? I ask, looking all over for the issue.

He points out the windshield at a woman getting into her car. "She's already leaving for lunch," my bro says. "So? We ain't gonna have our chat with her right here at the warehouse," I say. "Oh, right, yeah," he replies. "Of course." "This, bro, is why you have to let me out more often," I say. "This shit is my wheelhouse." The woman pulls out of the parking lot and swerves into traffic.

She gets a couple of honks as she cuts two cars off when she suddenly crosses lanes. But she's a looker, and lookers like her don't give a shit about car horns. Unless they're from some dude trying to give her a compliment. "Keep an eye on her," my bro says. "Always," I reply as he weaves his way into the road. She drives a couple of blocks before she turns left. Luckily, we've caught up to her and make the same turn two cars later. She's up ahead, stopped at a red light.

"Keep back," I say. "I know how to do this," he replies. "Sorry." I apologize. He does know how to do this. It's just been a while. I think we both expect her to turn left after the third light, but she stays straight, passing the rows of fast food restaurants that crisscross these streets. "Where is she going?" my bro asks, but I know he's not asking me. She drives. We follow.

After a few minutes, she turns into a nice neighborhood. We make the same turn and watch her drive a couple of blocks before she pulls into a driveway. My bro and I scan the area. As far as I can see, none of the neighbors are paying attention as Sheila gets out of the car and walks up to the front door. She has a key and lets herself in. "Nice place for a secretary," I say as we park three houses away. "This isn't her house," my bro says.

"Oh?" I ask, knowing exactly whose house it is. "I should've known," my bro says. I can hear him getting worked up. "This is good. This is your boss's house, ain't it?" I say. He doesn't respond. He doesn't need to. "Looks like Afternoon Delight is on the lunch menu," I say. "He's single, right?" "Yeah," my bro says. "So is she."

"Well, it's just a little nookie between consenting adults," I say. "I guess that's why she turned you down." I wait a second, then two more. "But she shouldn't have laughed at you. That wasn't called for." "No, it wasn't," he says, eyes on the house. "I should ask her to apologize," I say and reach for the door handle. Our hand actually moves and touches the door handle before he reacts. "No," he snaps, pulling our hand back. "You are staying here.

"Come on, bro. We both know I'll be able to get an apology out of her," I say. "The second she takes one look at you, she'll probably start laughing again. Or call the cops." "I can't let you out of this car," he says. "Then what are we even doing here, bro?" I ask. He doesn't respond. "Can we at least roll down the windows? It's stuffy as fuck." After a moment, he turns the car on so the windows can roll down.

The motors whir until finally, a nice breeze blows across the front seats. "That's better," I say. Then I hear a woman laugh and squeal followed by splashing. "Sounds like your boss has a pool." He closes his eyes. "I can't have that." "Hey," I say. His eyes snap open. "Why are we here if you aren't going to let me out of the car?" "I don't know," he says. "Except you do know," I argue.

He shakes his head back and forth. "Yes, you do." "Why am I here? Why did you bring me?" "It sure as fuck wasn't meant to sit in this car and watch you be pathetic." "I'm not pathetic!" He shouts and slams his fists down on the steering wheel. "She's pathetic!" "Yes, she is," I say. He calms down after a moment. "And she needs to apologize." "She needs to apologize," he agrees.

"That means I have to get out of this car," I say. "You just have to let me." He grips the steering wheel and I watch as his fingers go white. Then he lets go and nods. "Is that a yes?" I ask. "You have to say it, yes." "You can get out of the car," he says quietly. "Good choice, bro," I say. He pulls the visor down and flips open the makeup mirror.

The change takes a couple of minutes. It always does. But after a little bit, I check myself in the mirror and smile at that damn handsome face. I smooth my jeans, tuck in my shirt, and run my hands through my hair. Then I open the car door and step out. I'm at the boss's driveway when a woman in her mid-forties comes jogging by. I give her a wide smile. She smiles back, and I can see the look in her eye. She puts a little extra bounce in her step as she jogs past me. Damn.

I wish I had time to find out where she lives, but I don't. Lunch hour means lunch hour, which means I'm on the clock. I walk up the pathway to the front door and press the doorbell. Inside, I hear the chimes and some guy calls out that he's coming. Three seconds later, an older man with quite a belly on him answers. Yeah, what? He asks. He's dressed in a robe and has a cocktail in his hand. Hi, I say. Is Sheila here? He looks puzzled.

That's how I want him to look. "Sheila?" he asks, then looks me up and down and sighs. "Listen, buddy. If you're some ex-boyfriend or whatever, you can take your bullshit and go home, okay? I don't need no drama on my doorstep." "You didn't answer my question," I say. "Is Sheila here?" "Larry? Who is it?" a woman calls from inside. "One of your former conquests." The boss, Larry, yells back over his shoulder.

Sheila comes walking around the corner dressed in her own robe. By the way the front hangs, I can tell she ain't wearing no bathing suit. If she is, it's gotta be the smallest suit on the planet. "I don't know this guy," she says as she comes up behind Larry. "Who did he say he is?" "He didn't," Larry says. "My brother worked for you," I say to Larry then turn my gaze to Sheila. Despite being confused, I can see in her eyes how she perceives me.

I don't have a belly like Larry does, and the sudden lust in her eyes tells me she knows it. I'm guessing by her look that love isn't exactly what bonds these two together. "Your brother? Who the fuck is your brother?" Larry asks. "Oh, you know him," I say and force a quick change so I can let our face slip just enough for them to see. Sheila gasps and takes a couple of steps back as I get our face put back right.

"What the holy-" Larry starts to say, but I grab his cocktail glass and shove it all the way in his mouth before he can finish. Glass and teeth shatter, and blood begins to pour from between his lips. Then I grab him by the back of the head and slam his face down as my knee comes up. His nose shatters, and the glass in his mouth keeps on doing even more damage. He collapses to the floor. I step inside and close the door behind me.

Sheila is so shocked that she forgets to scream. All she does is scramble backward on her hands and feet as she tries to get as far away from me as possible. "Oh, she is definitely not wearing a bathing suit." "You owe my brother an apology," I say as I casually pursue her. "You hurt him deeply when you laughed at him." "Who are you?" She screams. "Get away from me!" "I showed you who I am," I say, then pause when I pass a mirror hanging on the hallway wall.

Damn, I'm good looking. Nothing droops on my face. No giant bush of a unibrow. My teeth are perfectly white and incredibly straight. Great skin tone. Although I could use a little sunlight. I need to remind my bro to take us for a walk now and again for a little extra vitamin D. I turn away from the mirror and back to Sheila. She's twisting her body and trying to get up.

I hurry down the hallway and grab her by the back of the hair then yank her face close to mine. "You will apologize," I say. Laughing at someone when they are at their most vulnerable is not cool. Not cool at all. "I don't know your brother!" She yells and then screams. I slam her head into the kitchen table. Her scream stops. I pull her back up and stare into her eyes while blood pours down her face. "I showed you," I say to her. She whimpers.

I guess I'll have to show you again," I say and toss her to the ground. She slides across the kitchen tile and crashes into the fridge. Her eyes are massively white set against the blood smeared across her face. Now, I say as I brace myself for the change, "When he shows up, you aren't going to laugh. You aren't going to scream. You are going to say you are sorry. Got it?"

I can tell she doesn't get it by the way she stares at me with pure terror. "Hey!" I shout and clap my hands together. She blinks and meets my eyes. "There you are! Did you hear what I said?" She nods. "Good." I say. "Just one second, and my brother will be here." She nods again. Then I let the change happen. Boy, does she scream when I let my brother out. The shitty part is, I have to go back inside and can only watch through the two windows.

Sheila doesn't apologize. She's too busy screaming. So my brother has to rip the apology out of her. I watch and I laugh. It's what she deserves. When he's done and standing there with Sheila's larynx clutched in his right hand, I say, "You should let me out again." "Why?" he asks, his breath coming in deep gasps. "Because it's best if they see my face when we go outside," I say. I'm sure these neighbors have door cameras and other security.

"Good point," he says. He drops the larynx and he begins the change, which lets me back out again. I double check my appearance in the hall mirror. Damn, I'm handsome. Then I'm out the door and whistling as I walk back to the car.

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My bro sits by the front window, drinking cup after cup of coffee as he watches the street. Then the police cruiser arrives and it's showtime. My bro gets up and walks to the door just as the officers knock. "Mr. Blanchard?" The first officer asks, then pauses when he sees my brother's face. "I, uh, I'm Officer Gould. This is Officer Hammonds." The second officer can only stare at the sight before him. "How can I help you, officers?" My bro asks.

"Uh, well, uh, were you recently laid off from Carmen Distributors?" The first officer asks. "You mean, was I fired?" "Yeah, I was," my bro says. "No notice or nothing. Just out of my ass. I'm sorry to hear that," the first officer says. "Can we ask you where you were three days ago?" "Three days ago?" My brother responds. "That was what, Monday?"

Yes. The first officer says, he's struggling to keep eye contact. It's priceless. Where were you during the day on Monday? Here at home, my bro says. Not like I had a job to do. Are you sure, sir? The second officer asks. Am I sure I have no job? My bro asks. He's doing great. I'm so proud of him.

"No, sir. Are you sure you were home?" the second officer asks. "According to eyewitnesses, you left around lunchtime that day." I stare out of the two windows, and my gaze goes from the second officer to the trailer across the street. I can see the wife hiding behind her thin curtains, watching us, as her two girls play out front. Well, one plays while the other drools and claps.

"Yeah, I went to get groceries," my bro says. "So you weren't home all day like you just said?" the first officer asks. "I was, except for the grocery trip," my bro says. "What is this all about? Well, Mr. Blanchard, your former employer and one of his employees were both found at his house," the second officer says. "It looks like they may have been murdered." "Oh dear," my bro says, and his hands go to his cheeks, framing his mouth.

I revel at the cringing from the two officers as they are forced to look at my bro's fucked up mouth. "There is security footage of a car that matches your car's description." The first officer asks. "Mind if we have a look?" He gestures at the car parked in front of our house. "My car? The plates matched?" My bro asks. He adds an extra moist slur to the words, freaking the officers out even more.

There was no clear footage of the license plate, the second officer says. But you were recently laid off. Fired. My bro interrupts, correcting the officer. Yes, fired, the officer continues. And your car matches the video, so I'm sure you can see why we need to investigate. Of course. Go right ahead, my brother says. But hold on, the two officers tense up.

"I'll grab my keys," my bro says, snatching them from the hook by the door. "You have to keep things locked around here." He offers the keys to the first officer. The man hesitates before taking them. But he does take them, and we watch from the front porch as the two officers open the car and search it from top to bottom. They find nothing, of course. We are very careful about leaving no evidence. It's an hour before the officers are finished.

They walk up to the porch and the first one hands my bro his card. "Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Blanchard," the first officer says. "If we have any more questions, we'll be in touch. If you think of anything, please give me a call." The second officer hands my bro the car keys. "If you can stay in town for a while, that would be helpful," the second officer says. "I wasn't planning on going anywhere," my bro says. "Hey, may I ask a question?" "Sure," the first officer says.

"Was there footage of anyone leaving the house?" my bro asks. The two officers share a look, then the first one says, "Yes, we have a very solid description of a man leaving the house." My bro smiles, and the officers cringe. "I'm guessing he didn't look anything like me," my bro says. "No, Mr. Blanchard," the first officer says. "He didn't look anything like you.

"Good luck, officers," my bro says, and we watch the two men get into their cruiser and drive away. When the cruiser is long gone, our gaze shifts to the trailer across the street. Right when we make eye contact with the mother, she pulls the curtain over the window. My bro steps off the porch and walks us across to the short chain-link fence that separates the tiny yard from the street. "Hi there," my bro says to the girls. "Is your mama home?"

The one that isn't drooling nods and points back at the trailer. The curtain flutters. "How about your daddy?" my bro asks. The girl shakes her head. We crouch down so that the girl's bodies are blocking us from Mom's view. "You two are twins, right?" my bro asks. The girls nod. Both of them. "Good, good. That means that the drooling one is aware enough to be useful. This will be beautiful." "Did you know I'm a twin too?" my bro asks.

They shake their heads. "It's true," my bro says. "But when we were inside our mama, something went wrong." "I'm not sure wrong is the right word, but I don't interrupt." "Sometimes, a stronger twin will take nutrients from the weaker twin," my bro says. "You understand, right?" The one sister looks over at the drooling sister and nods. "And sometimes, a twin will even absorb another twin before they are born," my bro says.

"Do you know what that means?" "They don't." "One twin, that's the other twin inside its body." My bro continues. "This means for most twins, one suddenly becomes an only child." The girls watch us closely. "But that's not what happened to us." My bro says. "Can I come out?" I ask. "Yes." My bro says. We let the change happen. Neither of the girls freak out or gasp when they suddenly see a whole new face on their neighbor's body.

My brother absorbed me, but he wasn't the healthy one, I explain. So things are different for us. I didn't stop existing. I just got locked inside until we were old enough for my brother to let me out. The girls don't nod. They don't show any sign they understand. It's a little high concept, so I get it. My brother lets me out when things need to be done, I say and shrug. Or when urges are just too strong. I can be a little persistent.

"They don't understand that word," my bro says. The girl's eyes widen when his voice comes out of my perfect mouth. "What we're saying is that twins stick together," I continue. "And when things get rough, or when someone tries to hurt us, we work together and stop the hurting." I lean to the side just enough so I can look past the girls at the trailer. I make sure my face isn't in sight of the window. Wouldn't want to confuse mom.

The girls turn their heads and look back at the trailer. Then they look back at me. I can see in their eyes that they get what I'm saying. "Twins work together," I say. "So, if things get bad and someone hurts you, all you have to do is work together and you can stop it. Do you understand?" They nod. "I gotta go," I say and we change back to my bro's face. "One last thing," my bro says. "Do your parents have knives?" The girls nod.

"Good," my bro says. "Hopefully they're dull. Dull knives are the best." He stands up and waves at the girls, then walks back to our house. That night, about an hour after dad gets home from work, we hear the screaming start up. And the screaming isn't coming from the girls. We can't help but smile. The next morning, my bro takes his cup of coffee out onto the porch. The two girls are already in the front yard playing. My bro waves.

The girls wave. The drooling one holds up a bloody knife. "Dull!" she shouts. My bro gives her a thumbs up. We sip coffee and wait for the police to arrive. Someone will call them eventually. Until then, we watch the girls play. "Damn!" I say as we study the mom's corpse draped across the porch steps. "People really shouldn't fuck with twins. You never know what's gonna happen." "Yup," my bro says. "Twins stick together.

"Twins stick together," I say then add. "You should let me out more often." "Don't even start with me!" "Ah, come on, bro!"