The Better Half

I had always been envious of her.

The attention she always captured.

The fiery resilience in her eyes.

The void she would leave behind.

All of it.

It was inevitable to be hidden in her shadow, when she always strode with the certainty of a queen, her heels clicking through the hallways. Each click would illuminate the hallway, turning heads as she went. It was even more inevitable when those heels hit the table, her rolling eyes promising both detention and admiration.

No one could speak to her, yet everyone had something to say about her. Whispers and rumors sprinkled through the school, but she waved them away with arrogance and a smirk of her ruby red lips. Her hair always twirled in her fingers—or somebody else’s.

My fingers would also reach for my curly black locks—just like hers—but the strands would always slip away. And no one ached for me like they ached for her.

Every step she took made me shrink further into myself, as if I could disappear entirely but still not escape her. My traitorous eyes would always find the floor and my deceitful body would slip away into another room whenever she came by.

Every glance she threw, every laugh she let slip, lodged itself in my mind like a shard of glass. Even in her absence, I traced the memory of her smile, her steps, her voice—haunting, irresistible, consuming me entirely. I imagined her turning toward me, as if she knew the hunger that lived inside me, the obsession that would not let go.

I never had anything to complain about, really. I was always appreciated, yet it was she who really mattered.

I was looked at, but not quite seen. The other students would always nod in my presence, but stare at hers. The teachers liked me but they listened to her. I followed the rules. She broke them. But everyone wanted her anyway.

Rebellion in girls was only unacceptable when it was quiet, when it asked for space instead of attention. She was forgiven because she was loud, because she was beautiful, because her defiance entertained. I was praised because I was small, because I knew how to disappear.

Late at night, my imagination would drift back to her. To see her broken, pouring her eyes out to me, telling me how she was envious of me, those ruby red lips wobbling as she sobbed. My hands would always wrap around her, comforting her, and telling her to move on.

But I could never picture it. Not the way I wanted it to.

Instead, I let myself envision the world without her. Was she like the sun? Without her the world would be cold or empty? Like winter, when all the swallows left their nest in search of warmth?

Or was she like a boulder blocking a dam? And without her would the water finally flow? Free and relentless?

I imagined her absent, eyes closed and silent. The thought startled me, but it would not leave. I wanted her gone. But I knew if she disappeared, a part of me would vanish too.

Day and night, and night and day, it was just her.

It was always going to be her.

Her, her, her.

The hunger had started to eat me from the inside, making me hollower and hollower with every passing day. My body had stopped jerking away from the sight of her, but leaning into it, like an insect to a flytrap. I cursed myself for watching her. My hands itched to reach out to her, but froze every time. I wished for her to speak to me, to hear my name in her sweet and poisonous voice. I looked at her from a lover’s eyes, but with a hater’s instincts.

Meanwhile, I remained compliant. The work was always handed in on time, the hand was always raised in class. Internally, my jealousy boiled over as I silently watched her from behind the desk as she flicked her hair. From my curtain-like hair, I caught a glimpse of her lips.

They no longer looked like rubies.

They looked like blood.

It was just another day, when I sat at the kitchen table, scribbling notes on Dr. Jekyll and Hyde, a school assignment. When I looked up, I realized the knife compartment was open. Light glinted off the blades. The room was quiet. Too quiet. My hand stilled on the paper and my pulse quickened. For a moment, I simply stared, as if it were giving me an answer that I didn’t realize I needed. The door was unlocked.

My hand wrapped around the cold handle. It was heavier than I expected, and a shiver ran through me, as I turned the blade in my hand.

I had always been a good girl.

Until today.

My steps were slow, deliberate. Exactly like hers.

I knew where I was meant to be.

I knew where she was.

The door to her bedroom was slightly ajar. I could hear soft breathing, almost in a mesmerizing pattern. Even in her sleep, she was beautiful, like an angel sent from hell. Her lips weren’t ruby red or blood red now. They were pale, almost white—just like mine.

The room smelled like… I couldn’t tell. My heart was racing, my breathing sounding like drums to my ears. I moved towards her, the floorboard creaking under my weight. She turned over in her sleep. I paused.

My knife rose and struck.

Blood.

My hands.

Her face.

The floor.

Everywhere.

I dragged her body through the corridors and down the stairs. My hand gripped her ankles tightly, leaving a bruise. I could see blood trailing my path, like Hansel leaving bread crumbs.

It was late at night, and the backyard was empty. There was a shovel in my hand, which I couldn’t remember getting. The shovel hit the ground. The soil felt firm and unyielding. My pulse had slowed down, but my hands were still steady. The dirt covered my blood splattered white sandals. I pushed her into the hole. Her body rolled right in.

I hesitated.

I needed to see her one more time. Her face… the object of my desire and contempt.

I reached down, brushing the hair from her face.

And then I saw it.

The face staring back was my own.