The Both of Us
By YoursTruly
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Meme was gone.
After all these years of being by my side, she was gone—taken away from me as though we were being punished for doing something wrong.
But what had Meme and I done that could possibly be considered wrong?
Since the moment our breaths began to flow in and out of our lungs, we had been inseparable.
Our hands had been fastened together, and neither of us would, or could, let go of each other.
We were forever considered nearly the same person, and neither Meme nor I had ever minded their deduction. After all, we were sisters of the same blood, shape, and heart, therefore Meme and I were grateful that they recognized us as such, effortlessly despite our being complete opposites.
Though some in our position would have hated to be considered the same as the other, we did not. We were two halves of the exact same person, and splitting apart was nearly unthinkable. My sister and I grew up knowing, or at least believing, that we would never have to be distanced from each other. We easily became the other’s confidant, sharing secrets and thoughts between just the two of us, and nothing was ever kept from the other’s head. Every little detail came out with every beat of our heart and every tingle across our skin.
It was funny back then, when we would be able to tell if the other had fallen in love—the fast pace of nervousness would always be evident in our heart and our flushing skin. Meme had that problem a lot, and I had always found it so darn annoying whenever she went through each of those phases.
I would always have to be next to her whenever she had to stammer out conversations between her then-crush, and usually the guy would just ignore my sister.
I would always be the one who tried to capture his attention after that, but not for matters of the heart—at least not the lovey-dovey kind of matters. As my sister and I were linked through the heart, I would feel her hurt and knew that she knew that I could tell that she was lying every single time she claimed she was alright.
My sister deserved better than guys ignoring her, and I always knew that I had been part of the problem. Of course, my being there never helped—and my temperament usually worsened matters as well—but there was no way that we could be divided and still retain the same life as before.
So we made do with each other’s comfort, knowing that although it wasn’t as good as the love we would read from romance novels (all of them sneaked from our mother’s closet), it was as close as we were ever going to get in our lives.
So, we had to say that it was enough for the both of us. If there was really nothing else that we could do to get across that line that kept Meme and I from being loved by lovers, then we would just stick to ourselves. We had done so from the start, and would always do so in the future—that’s what we promised.
Even if it didn’t sound as appealing as we had initially thought.
Because we had basically decided to be fair, we could never be allowed to love anyone besides ourselves, father, mother, and our friends. We could never be allowed to be individually held in a hug meant only for the separate versions of my sister and me.
We wouldn’t ever be allowed to love anyone with our heart because the other would never be able to do the same. It was what we promised, and we swore to keep that promise so long as the both of us lived.
I suppose that we shouldn’t have promised on that.
Two nights ago, our parents took us to the doctor’s again, for a routine check-up to test our heart and our lungs. I remember my sister and I falling asleep on our way to the car, and Meme murmuring her request to be woken up when we arrived at the hospital.
But I barely recall those words, and try as I might, I can’t remember what they exactly were.
I’m trying as hard as I can, and trying even harder than that, but my mind is refusing to focus on remembering and only paying attention to the pain on the right side of my body.
Meme had been there only some hours before, leaning into the space between our necks for that short nap to the hospital.
It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that my parents had decided that it was finally time for us to undergo the operation that would leave me, the half that contained the heart, alive.
They had confessed to as much as that when the gathering of nurses and doctors had finally allowed them within my solitary room.
I hadn’t wanted to see them, but I had no choice in the matter. My body couldn’t even lift itself an inch off the bed, and moving from my spot on the uncomfortable hospital bed was not anything I should have—or even could have—attempted.
I had tried the first time my parents came in, only to remain unmoved but thoroughly exhausted from the effort to sit up—an effort that was wasted, as it didn’t even happen.
My mother tells me that I’ll be released when I can move again, and when the doctors consider me fit enough to continue with the rest of my life.
Three nurses have been assigned to my bedside, never allowed to leave me until their shifts change, or their superiors tell them that it’s alright to go to the bathroom.
I can hear their complaints whenever they think I’m asleep. Even when there is no one else to speak to, I can hear their sighs and they’re enough to tell me that they wished that they didn’t have to sit there beside me for eight hours straight, watching my every movement to make sure I was doing fine.
Well I didn’t want to be fine two weeks ago, why should I want to be fine now?
I’ve never be fine without Meme.
How can a half ever be considered a whole? How can a piece of a puzzle be the puzzle all by itself?
How could those doctors, those nurses–my own parents–believe that I could be fine without Meme?
She had been there my entire life, attached to me since we were conceived inside of our mother. She had never parted from me, refusing to be split into a separate being—a separate person that could wander from my side and seek a kind of comfort that siblings shared with friends, rather than each other.
Meme, my conjoined twin, was no longer here beside me.
So I refuse to be fine—I refuse to get better.
Because there’s nothing left for me to get better for if my sister isn’t there to do the same beside me.
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Meme was gone.
After all these years of being by my side, she was gone—taken away from me as though we were being punished for doing something wrong.
But what had Meme and I done that could possibly be considered wrong?
Since the moment our breaths began to flow in and out of our lungs, we had been inseparable.
Our hands had been fastened together, and neither of us would, or could, let go of each other.
We were forever considered nearly the same person, and neither Meme nor I had ever minded their deduction. After all, we were sisters of the same blood, shape, and heart, therefore Meme and I were grateful that they recognized us as such, effortlessly despite our being complete opposites.
Though some in our position would have hated to be considered the same as the other, we did not. We were two halves of the exact same person, and splitting apart was nearly unthinkable. My sister and I grew up knowing, or at least believing, that we would never have to be distanced from each other. We easily became the other’s confidant, sharing secrets and thoughts between just the two of us, and nothing was ever kept from the other’s head. Every little detail came out with every beat of our heart and every tingle across our skin.
It was funny back then, when we would be able to tell if the other had fallen in love—the fast pace of nervousness would always be evident in our heart and our flushing skin. Meme had that problem a lot, and I had always found it so darn annoying whenever she went through each of those phases.
I would always have to be next to her whenever she had to stammer out conversations between her then-crush, and usually the guy would just ignore my sister.
I would always be the one who tried to capture his attention after that, but not for matters of the heart—at least not the lovey-dovey kind of matters. As my sister and I were linked through the heart, I would feel her hurt and knew that she knew that I could tell that she was lying every single time she claimed she was alright.
My sister deserved better than guys ignoring her, and I always knew that I had been part of the problem. Of course, my being there never helped—and my temperament usually worsened matters as well—but there was no way that we could be divided and still retain the same life as before.
So we made do with each other’s comfort, knowing that although it wasn’t as good as the love we would read from romance novels (all of them sneaked from our mother’s closet), it was as close as we were ever going to get in our lives.
So, we had to say that it was enough for the both of us. If there was really nothing else that we could do to get across that line that kept Meme and I from being loved by lovers, then we would just stick to ourselves. We had done so from the start, and would always do so in the future—that’s what we promised.
Even if it didn’t sound as appealing as we had initially thought.
Because we had basically decided to be fair, we could never be allowed to love anyone besides ourselves, father, mother, and our friends. We could never be allowed to be individually held in a hug meant only for the separate versions of my sister and me.
We wouldn’t ever be allowed to love anyone with our heart because the other would never be able to do the same. It was what we promised, and we swore to keep that promise so long as the both of us lived.
I suppose that we shouldn’t have promised on that.
Two nights ago, our parents took us to the doctor’s again, for a routine check-up to test our heart and our lungs. I remember my sister and I falling asleep on our way to the car, and Meme murmuring her request to be woken up when we arrived at the hospital.
But I barely recall those words, and try as I might, I can’t remember what they exactly were.
I’m trying as hard as I can, and trying even harder than that, but my mind is refusing to focus on remembering and only paying attention to the pain on the right side of my body.
Meme had been there only some hours before, leaning into the space between our necks for that short nap to the hospital.
It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that my parents had decided that it was finally time for us to undergo the operation that would leave me, the half that contained the heart, alive.
They had confessed to as much as that when the gathering of nurses and doctors had finally allowed them within my solitary room.
I hadn’t wanted to see them, but I had no choice in the matter. My body couldn’t even lift itself an inch off the bed, and moving from my spot on the uncomfortable hospital bed was not anything I should have—or even could have—attempted.
I had tried the first time my parents came in, only to remain unmoved but thoroughly exhausted from the effort to sit up—an effort that was wasted, as it didn’t even happen.
My mother tells me that I’ll be released when I can move again, and when the doctors consider me fit enough to continue with the rest of my life.
Three nurses have been assigned to my bedside, never allowed to leave me until their shifts change, or their superiors tell them that it’s alright to go to the bathroom.
I can hear their complaints whenever they think I’m asleep. Even when there is no one else to speak to, I can hear their sighs and they’re enough to tell me that they wished that they didn’t have to sit there beside me for eight hours straight, watching my every movement to make sure I was doing fine.
Well I didn’t want to be fine two weeks ago, why should I want to be fine now?
I’ve never be fine without Meme.
How can a half ever be considered a whole? How can a piece of a puzzle be the puzzle all by itself?
How could those doctors, those nurses–my own parents–believe that I could be fine without Meme?
She had been there my entire life, attached to me since we were conceived inside of our mother. She had never parted from me, refusing to be split into a separate being—a separate person that could wander from my side and seek a kind of comfort that siblings shared with friends, rather than each other.
Meme, my conjoined twin, was no longer here beside me.
So I refuse to be fine—I refuse to get better.
Because there’s nothing left for me to get better for if my sister isn’t there to do the same beside me.