• "Catch!" he yelled, throwing the ball. She reached her hands out and waited for the ball to fall into her hands. The ball bounced off her arm and landed in the grass, a few feet away from the mailbox. Next to the mailbox was a pale brick path, which led to a plain looking house. It was large though, and it settled in a picture-perfect neighborhood. It was a large white house with dark navy shutters and a shingled roof. Along the front of the house was a garden that was luscious with vibrant flowers and was often seen with a younger looking woman bent over them with gloves and a watering can.
    The girl ran to get the ball, her light brown pigtails bobbing in sync with her short steps. She grabbed the ball with both hands, for she was a girl of only four and the ball was about the size of her head.
    "Mommy, look!" she called to the woman bent over the garden. Her voice was quiet and high pitched and was easily drowned out by the sound of a lawn mower of a nearby house. However, the girl payed no mind and threw the ball back to the boy, breathless and giggling from her enjoyable early summer day. The boy caught it and brushed his pale brown bangs from his face with small, clumsy hands. It was easy to see the two children were twins -- they had the same dusty brown hair, the same dimpled smile, the same tawny eyes that glimmered in the sun.
    "Catch!" he yelled again, and whipped the ball. It quickly curved and went sailing into the street. It hit the ground and bounced, landing silently in the lawn across the street.
    "I got it!" the girl yelled and went running for the street. She leaped off the curb and continued, keeping her eyes fixated on the ball.
    Meanwhile, a speeding, reckless driver turned the corner, screaming into a cellphone about something or other, not paying any attention to the road in front of her. The car jerked and bumped, and she immediately knew she had hit something. She slowed and stopped climbing out of the car with her phone glued to her ear. She turned and examined the scene in front of her, letting the cell phone drop to the ground. "Oh, God," she whispered. "Oh, please God, no..."


    "I can't believe it's been eleven years," he whispered, losing focus on the homework that lay in front of him. He had pale brown hair that fell into handsome wisps around his head. He chuckled. It was a dry chuckle, lacking all humor and emotion. "So fast, the years go."
    "I know," she said nonchalantly, examining her pale cuticles. "But never mind that. Back to work." She was tall, with chalky smooth skin and long brown ringlets that cascaded around her shoulders. She looked just like her mother... just like him...
    He glanced at the clock. 4:37. "Nah," he said, pushing himself up from his desk chair. "We have to go now." He pulled his sneakers on and left his messy bedroom. She followed, slipping her smooth hand into his.
    He went down the stairs and into the kitchen, standing in front of his mother, who was currently reading an uninteresting looking book at the kitchen table. Her face was worn from the years, but it still held a warm and welcoming smile, which she displayed to her son now. She looked at the clock that hung on the wall over the threshold. "Lost track of the time," she said quietly, standing and sliding her chair in. "Mrs. Hengler gave me another book today and it's pretty mesmerizing." She walked through the rooms until she reached the living room, where the front door was. He followed.
    She grabbed the car keys and her jacket, both of which hung conveniently on hooks next to the door. They continued outside and into an old blue car, something you wouldn't expect to see outside of such a beautiful house. He slipped into the passenger's seat and looked out the side window, his right hand pushing up against the side of his face.
    "Buckle up, Garrett," the woman said and stuck the key into the ignition. "One car mishap is enough for a lifetime."
    "One too many," he mumbled in return and clicked the seat belt across his chest.

    - - - - - - - - - -

    Garrett sat in a warm room, the silence disturbed every second with the tick of a wall clock. The carpet was a soft, dark crimson and the walls were a shade of deep pink. He sat on a comfortable cream couch, while the woman across from him sat on a stool. Her hair was a dark gray and her glasses were angled toward a clip board, where she wrote endlessly about things neither of them cared about.
    "So," she said, breaking the silence with her liquid voice. "How are things, Garrett?"
    He shrugged.
    "And with Jen?"
    He looked at the old lady for a minute and then to the girl next to him. She smiled and nodded. "Fine," he said curtly. He hated therapy; it was like they were here only to make fun of him.
    "And have you been taking the medication for schizo--"
    "I told you," he interrupted. "It's not schizophrenia. Just because you can't see her doesn't mean she's not there. I don't need the damned medicine."
    The woman looked at him for a moment and continued writing on her board.
    The girl next to him -- the one named Jen -- wrapped an arm around Garrett's and said softly, "You should take it anyway. It would please those around you." She was weightless and her touch was empty. But she was there. She was Garrett's beloved twin.