Page 43 of The Twins

We don’t talk as often as we did before. Mom is closed off now, and my brother keeps himself busy with the police academy he’s attending. Everything’s changed but my brother. He is late with his graduation, and I fear it has something to do with his career choice.

Unlike me, Vegas doesn’t have much of a plan outside of his failed career choice. I know what I’d do if I were let go.

He doesn’t.

And he never will.

Because unlike me, he can afford to fail, and he won’t feel guilty about it.

Mr. David sends an almost daily text my way, but I haven’t replied in months.

I don’t cry as often as I did in the first weeks after my dad’s death. It helps that at work, I must stay strong, be tough. I can’t afford to show my softer side there, and it kills me inside.

Then again, I prefer being at the office over my studio because I don’t have to think about anything other than the job.

I’ve been working overtime for some time now, and it paid off earlier this year. I got promoted, and I now have bigger responsibilities, more lives at stake with my decisions. I work with delicate software, and I get my fingertips dirty rather often.

Right now, I’m in charge of drone software that we are testing in Fort Mote. We are working with contractors that provide us with the smoothest tiny little drone I’ve ever seen, but damn, it sees and hears everything. With my help, that little thing is impenetrable. It’s meant for intelligence only, but it still feels a certain way when I sit down and think about it.

Which I do often.

Because I can’t stand to be alone with my thoughts about what’s going on in my private life.

I wash it all clean, and I jump into bed without any clothes on. I haven’t eaten today, and it deflates me. The hard work I put in before my father’s death is fading, and I’m becoming a tall skeleton with nothing to live for.

My phone’s by the door that I left unlocked.

I shouldn’t be this careless, but I’ve lost the will to do anything other than the routine at work. Once I show my ID to get to my desk at work, I switch, and the malnourished and murky Remo disappears.

It doesn’t matter how weak I feel.

I have responsibilities, signed contracts, and I must stay true to my word.

My eyes are shut now. I don’t bother with covers or soft pillows. Other people who work for the government don’t get private studios in one of the best locations on the base. They put me here to monitor me. I’m sure of it.

Whatever their intention was, when they handed me the key to this stupid studio, I hope they got what they wanted. I decided against decorating the place. Perhaps it’s a statement on my end.

Hey, look, I won’t be here forever.

My neck already hurts, but I ignore it. Eight hours of pretending to sleep on a cold and hard mattress, and then I can take the bus to my work building.

Everybody else at the office has a car, an allocated spot for their vehicle near our building. I could have one, too. My salary is good enough.

I don’t see the point of endangering other people with my carelessness.

At some point in the night, my phone vibrates. I hear it right away because it’s the only noise in my studio. My neighbors are quiet, surprisingly so, and my fridge is dead. I pulled its plug a month ago when I decided it was a waste of energy.

More messages reach my phone, but I don’t move from my bed.

Occasionally, Mr. David gets drunk, and he sends me a row of ugly messages that I never read. I can sense his desperation from afar, and I don’t want it. I can’t hear him say his ugly words to me because…

I’m not worth anything.

I suck at everything but my job.

I don’t have a fucking life.

It’s in the palm of my hands to change all the above, but I’m too lazy to do anything about it.

---