By Blake Coniglio
For class, I had the task of writing a monologue. But as an avid horror fan, I went off the rails. That’s how sororicide happened. Writing horror serves as an outlet for me, to create a world where this fictional horror is the only scary thing in the world.
I am alone at my twin sister’s funeral. My parents remain at the other end of the aisle, weeping silent tears. And behind me, a sea of my twin’s coworkers, friends, our family—rising and falling like a sea of black. The church is seeped in rays of colored light. The casket is open. Her face is peaceful and still—in perfect symmetry, like an angel ripped from her own little heaven and framed. Tucked beneath a lace blanket, like a child. She even has her ribbon, still tied perfectly in her hair. A gift from our parents. I hated her. She was the pinnacle of it all—perfect daughter, straight A’s throughout her education, a well-respected member of her field. All the charity work in the world beneath her belt. Even the most brutish of people couldn’t hate her. I watched her worm her way into people’s lives like an infection, a plague of false smiles and pearly white rows of fangs. And then there’s me—college dropout and unpaid intern. I was always nothing next to her. She loomed over my life, a shadow of everything I could never be. I left a trail of failure in my wake, sticky on my shoes. But all she had to do was exist. Every single word was what they wanted to hear, her every breath never wasted. My lungs were filled with heavy nonsense, a chokehold on my throat before I could utter anything. But now, I can’t even breathe—the knowledge in the pit of my stomach, wasting away on the tip of my tongue—and rotting me from the inside out. That she died because of my mistakes. I bet you’re wondering, what the hell does that mean? Then ask her. Blame her for jumping right in front of that truck, taking the blow meant for me. I was supposed to die, I was supposed to make it right—nobody ever wanted me, it was all her, her, her, her, her, her, her, her—like the fucking universe was carved and shaped for her. How could I live if nobody gave me life in the first place? And here we are. Sitting in a church, staring at her as if that fourteen-wheeler didn’t tear her apart into a mangled abomination of roadkill—innocent lace hiding her perfect head that was decapitated by the first tire that hit her. Now I’m left with what she left behind. Which is nothing but a world torn from its light, its hope—judging by the crowd. Out of the corner of my eye, I see people begin to approach my parents, quiet murmurs and mumbles of condolences. Nobody gives a shit about me. And who would? I’m what’s left behind, the ugly reject, something made in the shape of her. When we were younger, we’d do that twin thing. Swap clothes, share a hairstyle—and act like our parents could still tell us apart. I was her, she was me—and nothing could take that from us. It felt so nice to be her. To be loved like she was. And is that so wrong to ask? All my life, I’ve been kicked, discarded, invisible, thrown around like bottom-of-the-barrel shit. Maybe I just want to be loved. What gave her the right? To be the golden child, flawless in anything and everything. Maybe I wanted to be the golden child. To be loved, to be priceless. She knew what love was—she was treated like a national treasure, perfect little darling from day one. Every single facet of her life gave her admiration, respect, love, attention. And she can give it to me, one last gift from my sister dearest. It’s time I take what’s rightfully mine. I am alone at my twin sister’s funeral. The pews are empty. The church is dark. The casket has been closed and fastened. The body within is stripped of its life, its rights, its definition. The ribbon in my hair is mine. It’s always been mine. All I had to do was take it
Blake Coniglio is a class of 2020 Girls Write Now mentee based in Bronx, NY.