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Shadows and Sunshine
Copyright © 2005-2007 by Aster Rose - All rights reserved		 

Shadows and Sunshine
by Aster Rose
We opened our eyes at the same time. In the dark we look like twins, but in truth we are opposites, crude parodies of each other. I untangle myself from the twisted bed sheets and move to get dressed. She, my literal antonym, does the same. While she puts on a T-shirt and jeans, I apply black makeup to my face, deepening its mystery and shadow. Hers looks like a mask in comparison, white and virginal. But then again, mine does too. We stand beside each other for a moment, two ceremonial masks, one light, one dark, hanging uncertain in the mirror.
At breakfast, I fight viciously with my mother over some stupidly trivial matter that I’ll forget about before third period. While we scream, she stays silent, avoiding trouble; the matter has nothing to do with her, but she slowly begins to cry. It is strange our relationship, separate, and yet parts of a whole. Finishing our argument, I return with voracity to my meal, as if it had never happened. Her tears fade, and soon all that is left of them are barely noticeable pink rings under her striking blue eyes.
In first period, which is math, a dreaded and hateful thing, we write a poem. She will start, with some witty, comical line, intended to gain a chuckle; I will take over, my words bleeding soft melancholy from the pen ink. The finished product is lopsided chaos, leaving you unsure whether to laugh or cry. That is how our life happens. As we create our Frankenstein, she takes copious notes on what the teacher is saying, her expression focused and studious. I don’t bother. I know my sister of light will be all too willing to let me copy them later.
In drama, she is airy and energetic, like a clumsy butterfly, constantly making jokes. I slouch and mope about, complaining loudly about something or the other. I participate in the exercise, and dramatize the awfulness of everything, sarcasm never far away from tongue. I know it hurts her to be weighed down with all my hate, but I can’t help it. It’s who I am. She is silly when it’s her turn, smiling and giggling at everything, and happily making others burst out laughing. Her cheer bubbles inside me, but I ignore it as best I can. The joy feels out of place in my chest, heavy and irritating.
At lunch we sit across from each other, chewing our snacks and slurping our sodas. She talks to our friends about the day so far, about anything, about nothing. I see no point in this conversation. I am silent, distant; I take in information like a child eats candy. If I feel the need, I am not afraid to make nasty comments. Our friend’s naiveté is often bothersome rather than endearing, and I see no reason to pretend they are beautiful people. They sometimes loathe me for my outspokenness, but I could care less. Friends are often expendable. When they stomp away, angered by the truths that drip from mouth, tainted with venom, she always rushes after them into the bleak hallways, sobbing, begging. She needs them to make her whole, even though she’s aware it is only wistful thinking. She makes all the apologies for me, not able to bear being alone, with only a shadowed sister to keep harsh company. They come back, if only for her desperate need.
In History, the boy beside us implores for a single sheet of paper. I refuse, snapping insults into his surprised, pimply face with zeal. She winces at my bitter words, but is already taking out a miniature stack of notebook paper with a click, from her binder. I try to stop her, telling her that it’s like feeding animals in the wild. After awhile, they expect food, or in this case, paper. I sat there like a sign in a lush park, reading in fat, authoritative print that you can’t feed the squirrels. I sit there like my mother, scolding. I don’t hinder her from her deed. Grinning from ear to ear, she makes a Black Dahlia of her pale face as she hands the ungrateful boy his paper. A warm feeling of a job well done gurgles from my stomach; I try to force it back down. I don’t want it, this feeling of generosity that is by right hers, flooding my soul.
In the bathroom, before science, I write graffiti on the prosaic green wall with a black Sharpie. Its heady scent permeates the air, wafting to the nostrils of girls trying to make their lank hair curl, as they crowd in front of the lonely, cracked mirror. It gives me sick pleasure to see those names paired with beautiful obscenities. Later, they will cause swarms of underground gossip and mascara tears sliding muddy down pink cheeks. I stand back to admire my work. I hear a strangled cry from the next stall, she, irrevocably guilty for my actions. I feel nothing, just satisfaction, and pity for my poor, cursed twin.
That night we press our palms together, like we are about to play some childish hand game about a Miss Mary Mack watching acrobatic elephants. Her palms are like a dove’s pure feathers, and mine are tinged with the grey of mists on a moor. It would be so easy. So simple, to join, to become one, to become a whole rather than stray parts. We could be something together, not just a shadow and a ray of sunshine. It seems like an obvious choice. But I can’t help but think of how much I’ll lose. I will never be able to do something again guilt-free. Never hurt someone’s feelings without having to say I’m sorry. How could I live with the conscience I don’t have lecturing away about my morals? And yet I want to be without those pestering joys that aren’t mine! What would it be like, to never have to sit through those nauseating feelings of having done something “good”, when you have done nothing at all.
It’s impossible to decide, to know whether to destroy ourselves to make something new, or stay as we have always been, sisters. We stand there, still like Roman statues, our eyes blank. Light and Dark locked in an embrace of decision, irresolute, and unsure what’s next.

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