It was early morning, and I had just woken up. Stumbling into the bathroom, I looked into the polished glass of the mirror. The image that stared back at me was not my own but that of my identical twin brother, Roger, though a casual observer wouldn’t have been able to tell at first glance. Where he was strong, healthy and extroverted, I was the exact opposite, introverted, frail and sickly. He got our father’s build and strength as well as his lack of sense. I got our mother’s frail form, but I inherited her brilliance. I was able to excel where he faltered. He was able to surpass me in strength, but I could easily beat him in a battle of wits, quite easily too as he was unarmed.

I stared at my brother’s handsome features; high cheekbones, tan skin, cobalt blue eyes that held the mirth of the world, and soft to the touch auburn hair that cascaded over his broad shoulders. I reached up my thin-fingered hand and touched my long, wiry auburn locks, ran my fingers over my cool, pale cheek I knew that my cobalt eyes were cold, giving nothing but scathing glares. He was always open about everything, often very bumbling when he spoke. I was cold, keeping my thoughts to myself and lashing out with sarcastic comments directed at anyone foolish enough to inquire about them.

Ever since were children, Roger clung to the idea that since we were twins we had to do absolutely everything together, a mindset that was quite annoying and bothersome. He always surpassed me, both in body and social matters. He was always the winner when the other boys played “King of the Hill”, able to keep everyone away from the top with his physical strength. Even as he surpassed me physically, I was surpassing him mentally. I was always studying, always too absorbed in my work to be bothered to play the childish games that he participated in. Even at Roger’s pleading, I always refused.

Even as we grew older, he continued to cling to that childish view, protecting me when he deemed it necessary. He always would say things like, “We’ll always be together to help each other out, won’t we Marc?”

To which I always responded, “Yes Roger, now shut up, you’re being foolish.”

We were both thirteen when our father died in an accident at work, cutting an artery in his leg while chopping wood and bleeding to death in a matter of minutes. When our mother heard of this, she sank into a sort of trance that she never came out of. She wouldn’t eat, and we had to force her to drink by putting water into her mouth a little at a time. Despite our best efforts, she succumbed. We were both distraught, but we held together, doing odd jobs around the town to buy food, never accepting charity from others no matter how hard or often they tried to give it to us.

When we grew to be young adults, we attempted to make a place for ourselves in the world, working for any employer that would have us. He would use his strength and I would use my wits. We continued to work together until the day we separated. I went my own way in pursuit of power and individualism, and he returned home. Of course he begged me to take him with me, but I wouldn’t have any of it. I gave him an ominous warning, telling him that a dark fate would befall him should he follow me. That deterred him for a while, until he began to send me letters filled with foolish comments of love and forgiveness. I sent them back with the message that I had no brother.

I was snapped back into reality, back to the mirror where my brother’s face stared at me. I realized my folly at this point. Roger was my brother, the only family I had left. It was stupid of me to disown him. Who was I to say these things when he was the only connection to my past that I had left? Although he annoyed me at times, he was still my brother and we had had some good times together. It was at that moment that I realized what I had to do. Rushing to my desk and retrieving pen and paper, I sat down and began to write, reading aloud as I wrote.

“Dear Roger…”