The sad truth is that seeing Lan’s face is the only way I can see my face looking peaceful.
We’re identical twins, but Lan is a bit more muscular than me. His eyes are meaner, too, and he wears this permanent provoking smirk.
Despite having the same physical image, we’re worlds apart. He’s clinically diagnosed with narcissistic and antisocial personality disorder.
I’m diagnosed with being fucked up.
He’s the charming twin, the one who everyone’s attention flocks toward, the superstar of the King family, and the genius of contemporary art.
He’s everything lumped into one supreme existence.
All my life, I’ve watched him soar and fly toward the sky while I’ve remained stuck underground.
I mentally shake my head. I’m not doing this today.
“What are you doing here?” I ask cautiously. It’s not a secret that Lan and I don’t have the greatest relationship. That happens when the person I always cared about labeled me as ‘Spare Parts’ in his contacts.
He meant it as a joke and I reciprocated it, but it cut something inside me. The illusion that we share a bond, maybe.
“I can’t come to see my brother?” He slides a hand into his pocket and I take note of his black trousers that are folded at the ankles. While we both dress elegantly, we have different styles. I doubt he has any khaki trousers or polo shirts in his wardrobe.
“What do you really want, Lan?”
“You don’t believe I’m here to check on you?” He grins. “I’m hurt, little bro.”
“I’m not your little bro.”
“I happen to be fifteen whole minutes older than you. Deal with it.” He ruffles my hair as if we’re back to being kids, and I knock his hand off.
I don’t want to think of our once-close relationship when I destroyed it with my own hands.
Once upon a time, we slept in the same bed and he told me everything, including details I didn’t care to hear.
Then everything collapsed. My mind included.
“Seriously, what are you doing here?” I ask with more exasperation than I usually show.
Might have to do with my exceptionally jittering nerves lately.
“I really just want to check on you. Mum sounded worried on the phone.”
I briefly close my eyes. “I’m fine.”
“Sure, Bran. If you keep telling yourself that often enough, you might eventually believe it.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” I narrow my eyes, but he’s not looking at me.
He physically pushes me out of the way as he stalks to my canvas.
Shit.
Fuck.
Bloody fucking hell.
Sweat trickles down my back as my brother looks at the seemingly haphazard strokes on the canvas. If it were anyone else, I wouldn’t be so worried, but this is my genius twin brother we’re talking about.
The top dog of REU art school and the up-and-coming sculpting talent who’s won multiple awards for his devilishly detailed statues.
His head tilts to the side as he studies the canvas and I want to jump in front of him and hide it. I want to soak it in black ink. But I don’t, or Lan would sense something is seriously wrong.
There are two things that scare the fuck out of me.
My image in the mirror and Landon.
“This is…fucking brilliant.” He whistles.
My chest squeezes until it nearly topples me over. Lan hasn’t praised anything I’ve done in…eight years.
His previous descriptions of my work have been scathingly critical.
Severely mediocre.
Exasperatingly tedious.
Devastatingly unoriginal.
Exceptionally mind-numbing.
Disturbingly boring.
Boring.
Boring.
Boring.
That’s my twin brother, ladies and gentlemen. He pulls no punches in telling me how bad I am compared to his otherworldly talent.
It doesn’t matter how much my world-renowned artist mum and the professors have liked my work. It doesn’t matter how many awards I get for my technically superior nature scenes.
Lan has never liked any of them. Not even one.
“It’s just a fluke,” I mutter, fighting my emotions as I step to the canvas, wanting to bring it down and hide everything it represents.
For some reason, I feel completely raw and naked in front of him. Like that night he hugged me for the last time.
My brother clutches me by the shoulder and spins me around so that we’re both looking at the chaos of red and yellow. The fiery explosion my fingers made in translation of the chaos brewing in my mind.
“If that’s a fluke, do it all the time, Bran. Seriously, this is your best work in a long time.” He squeezes my shoulder. “I told you everything would get better if you stopped shackling yourself.”
I tense.
No. I am still shackling myself. I can’t stop doing that.
I’m in control.
Control.
Control.
Control.
He turns me around to face him as I’m about to lose my fucking shit and spiral down that nasty road.
His eyes are narrowed. “Please tell me this isn’t because you got back with Clara.”
“What does she have to do with it…?” Sometimes I forget we’re together. I keep making up all sorts of excuses to not meet at night—or even during the day—and send her designer bags and shoes as compensation.
“She’s flaunting you all over her IG like an attention whore.”
“Lan! That’s so rude.”
“Well, she is. A gold digger, too.” He frowns. “For the life of me, I can’t understand why the hell you keep going back to the bitch. She cheated on you, multiple times, and she’s so toxic, it makes drugs look like unicorn rainbows.”
“Very rich coming from the toxicity king.”
He huffs. “Classic Bran move.”
“What?”
“Always deflect, little bro. Run, hide, and change the subject whenever it hits too close to home. That’s working bloody wonders for you.”
I force a smile. “If you’re done, kindly get out.”
“Lose her, Bran. I mean it. If the bitch hurts you one more time, I’ll take things into my own hands and we both know how that will end.”
And then he steps out of the studio.
I continue watching the door long after he’s gone.
His words sounded like he cared, or like he was doing it for me, but no. Lan has always seen me as an extension of himself, so the reason he’d take revenge against Clara isn’t for me. It’s for him, so he won’t look weak.
My eyes land on the canvas and I groan. I’m so glad Lan didn’t see a certain silhouette. But I do.
Clearly.
In the middle of the volcanic chaos stands a figure—tall, muscular, and furious.
My hand shakes as I run it over my face.
Fuck.
What the hell is happening to me?
And how can I stop this?
8
BRANDON
A week later, I go out to the local pub with my friends.
Only so I don’t get too stuck in my head and…do something I’ll regret.
Chatter echoes around us as drinks are exchanged. We’re seated at a big table in the middle, surrounded by smaller ones.
A few older locals sit at the bar, discussing their crops as they down their daily pints.