Page 15 of The Truths We Burn

The cracking of skin against skin echoes in the space, my cheek burning from the contact she’d made with it. I still feel the way her nails dragged across me. The pain lingers on my skin, my chest throbbing for more.

I roll my tongue on the inside of my cheek, grinning smugly.

“Over my dead fucking body, pyro.” She seethes.

Yeah, I’m so going to enjoy watching her little boyfriend burn beneath my feet while I take his girl right out from underneath his fucking nose.

Sage

I used to get so annoyed in middle school when people would ask stupid questions about myself and Rose. Yes, we’re twins, but that doesn’t mean I can read her mind.

The constantWhere’s your twin?Always referred to as “the twins,” even when you are by yourself.

It wasn’t until high school that we became our own people, she was traveling in one direction and I headed towards the top of the food chain. We were no longer referred to as “the twins.” Just Rosemary and Sage.

And there were times, like right now, when the moon was high and the dark covered my bedroom that I missed being attached to her. I missed being close to her in public, always being seen as one half of a whole.

Like clockwork, Rose’s soft cries of sadness had woken me up. This happens almost every other night, and I’m not surprised to see the green glow of my clock reads 3:34. I let out a sigh as I sit up, stretching my arms, my script forThe Cruciblesliding off my bed as I move. With practiced footwork, I navigate my room without having to click the light on, opening my door and heading to the room directly beside mine.

I’d once heard our bedrooms are direct reflections of who we are on the inside, and if that’s true, my twin sister and I are just as different as people think us to be.

Hers has band posters, potted plants, lots of black-colored clothing, and a night-light that projects stars on the ceiling, while mine is pink, organized, with lots of natural light and a fluffy white rug on the floor.

Parts of me that I keep locked away don’t want to accept that we had fallen so far apart from one another.

Her voice reminds me of my reason for even coming inside here in the first place.

With ease, I move to her bed, slipping into the space next to her. The soft cotton sheets wrap me up, the smell of smoke and cologne stuck to the bed from Silas’s hoodie she’s wearing.

Using the tips of my fingers, I smooth the frown on her face, relaxing the muscles on her forehead. Dragging them down her nose, soothing her awake, I let her know that whatever monster she’s running from in her head, he isn’t real.

She moves with my touch, consciousness on the verge of taking over.

“It’s just a dream, Ro, you’re okay,” I whisper, waiting for her to realize that she is in fact trapped in a nightmare and that at any moment she can leave that place.

Which she does after a few more minutes of drawing on her face with my finger. She eventually allows her eyes to flutter open, taking a moment to adjust to reality.

“Did I wake—” She gets caught in a yawn. “—you up?”

I shake my head. “No, I was on the way to the bathroom and heard you rolling around,”I lie.

Grabbing the top portion of her comforter, she throws it over both of our heads. We’re encased in the darkness beneath her blanket, and I’m transformed back to a time when we were little girls and refused to sleep in separate beds. When I wasn’t jaded and the world was still full of possibilities. And it is, just not here, not in this town. At night when our parents were asleep, we’d crawl beneath the blankets and tell each other stories or dreams.

Below these blankets, I can take off the mask and be that little girl again. No looking over my shoulder to see who is watching, no insults to cut others down so I remain on top. I have nothing to fear right now.

“What was the nightmare about?”

“Same thing as always. Dark hallways, strange voices.”

There are times I’m so envious of how gentle and open Rose is. There are other times that I hate myself for trying to pick that apart because I’m jealous.

Jealous that I’m the one bad things happened to.

Jealous that she still has the ability to care for others. To see the good in them.

While I’m soaking in a vat of black tar that won’t seem to let me go.

“I’m sorry for being mean the other day and at the diner,” I whisper, tucking my hands beneath my head as I look over at her. The light from her stars creeps through the spaces on her blanket, giving us minimal light.

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