I wish I was her

I wish I was her

She looked me in the eyes as she fell. Her hands reached out for me, her scream carrying my

name into the void. Shock, fear and sorrow those three words are all I have to encapsulate her

expression. Then as if the world itself held its breath, she was gone. My twin sister Alice died

that day, slipping from a high cliff as we built sandcastles. Accidents happen, it was an

accident. That’s the story I have repeated to myself for the past ten years.

We were 12. Identical in every way, our parents could hardy tell us apart. Mother solved the

problem by giving us bracelets with our names etched on them. Alice was everything I

wasn’t; charismatic, radiant, and quick witted. Her golden hair and sapphire eyes made her

the center of attention, a walking angel to all who met her. I adored her, truly. She was my

only friend, though I often felt like her sidekick, trailing behind as her friends flocked to her. I

looked like her blonde hair, blue eyes but I was different. I didn’t like socializing. Alice was

enough for me.

Our parents tried to treat us equally. Whatever Alice had, I had too. Whatever she liked, I

learned to like. Whatever she did, I followed. I didn’t mind. Her smile the way her lips curved

just so when she was happy made it worth it. I loved her. I needed her.

And it all hit me like a rock in my head when my mother shouted at me. It was not my fault I

gave Alice biscuits that were passed their date. I was a child, too young to know what an

expiration date even meant. The maids really didn’t care what we did or when we snuck out

of the house. They only cared about the paycheck. But Alice got sick, seriously sick. “Why

can’t you act right for once? You were supposed to take care of her! Why can’t you be more

like Alice? It’s not that hard, Ava!” Mother’s words slammed into me like a fist, the door to

my room slamming shut in her wake. My chest hurt, tears stung my eyes, but I didn’t cry.

I will apologize. It will be okay.

I crept to my mother’s room, peeking through the door. She lay beside Alice, stroking her

hair. Alice looked fragile, yet even in her weakness, she was beautiful.

“What is it, Ava?” Mother asked, her voice soft now.

“I’m sorry, Mother. It won’t happen again,” I murmured.

“What’s done is done. Go back to your room. Don’t wake Alice.”

As I turned to leave, I caught sight of Alice’s face. She was smiling, but it wasn’t a smile of

reassurance or warmth. It was... horrifying. Her wide eyes glinted with something I couldn’t

name.

That night, I locked my door and told myself it was just a nightmare. Tomorrow would be

different. Alice and I would laugh again, play again. Everything would return to normal.

But nothing changed. In fact, everything worsened. I started to notice the way Mother doted

on Alice, how she shielded her, cherished her. The difference in their bond gnawed at me.

Had it always been this way? Did Mom love Alice more than me?

I was certain, absolutely certain that everything would go back to how it had been. But

nothing unfolded the way I envisioned. Instead, things only deteriorated between Mother,

Alice, and me. Slowly, I began to see the subtle yet undeniable differences in how Mother

treated us. She loved Alice, cherished her, and protected her in ways she never did for me.

We were twins, weren’t we? Identical in every sense, shouldn’t we have been equal in

everything, even in the way Mother’s love was divided between us? Yet, with every passing

day, the divide grew clearer, and my questions festered like a wound I couldn’t heal.

One afternoon, I approached one of the maids as she worked in the garden. “What was my

mother like before we were born?” I asked.

The maid smiled. “Oh, sweetie your mother was full of life. Soft-spoken and kind. Having

twins was hard for her, but she loves you both. She’s happy now.” She pats my head.

She didn’t want twins, I realized..

“Alice! Let’s go make sandcastles!” Alice called one day. We went to outside, where the cliff

loomed nearby.

“Alice,” I said, watching her sit on the edge, her golden hair waving with wind. “Do you love

me?”

“No,” she said simply, smiling. The same smile. “But I have to. Who else would?”

Her words sliced through me, tearing my heart deep inside.

Enough.

Enough.

Enough.

I plastered on a smile. “Don’t say that, Alice. Let’s draw our bracelets in the sand.”

She removed hers, setting it down. “They’re hard to draw,” she said.

“Let me help,” I offered, slipping her bracelet onto my wrist. “Don’t you think it suits me?”

“No, Ava. It doesn’t. Give it back!” Her hands reached for me, but I slapped them away.

Grabbing her shirt, I stared into her wide eyes and smiled the way she always did.

I wish I was her.

I wish I was her.

Then, I pushed her.

Her body disappeared over the edge, her scream swallowed by the waves below. I felt...

nothing. There was no grief, no joy. Just emptiness. I ran for help, screaming, “Mom! Dad!”

“What happened?” Dad asked, keeping his tone calm until he saw Alice lying on the ground,

blood pooling around her head.

When they arrived, panic-stricken, Mother grabbed my arm. Her eyes flicked to my wrist.

Seeing the bracelet, she whispered, “Thank God. Alice, are you okay? What happened to

Ava?”

I knew she would be relieved to see that Alice was not the one who had died.

“Mom, we were running. I told Ava to slow down, but she didn’t listen,” I sobbed, playing

the part.

10 years later

“Alice, come down! Dinner’s ready!” Mother’s voice called.

I ram down the stairs, greeted with a kiss on my forehead. After dinner, I found Mother

brushing her hair, gazing at a photo of me. I joined her.

“Do you miss her?” I asked.

“She was my daughter,” Mother said softly. Rubbing her thumb over the edge of the frame.

“A problem child, but a good sister. She loved you more than anything.”

Her words made my stomach churn. “You hated her, didn’t you? You always loved me more.

Ava knew that.”

Mother froze, blinking at me. “I don’t want to talk about this, Alice.”

“My name isn’t Alice. It’s Ava. Alice fell that day.” I held out the bracelet with AVA etched on

it.

“No... no...” Mother whispered, horror dawning in her eyes. She snatched the bracelet,

sinking to her knees. “Why, Ava? Why would you do this?”

“Don’t ask why, Mother. You already know.”

Mother’s grief twisted into rage. Her hands clamped around my throat, her tears falling onto

my face as my vision blurred.

In that final moment, I felt it, her love. Not for Alice, but for me. For Ava.

Then everything went black.