The only way to get through with hearts and wrists intact is...

When it first happened I didn't know what to do. At first, I didn't even realize what had happened. It's like waking up from a coma, you don't really know what to do so you stay still. It's not until you try to move, really actually move, that you realize that you're paralysed. That's what it was like for me.

When I woke up that morning everything seemed the same. I was never an unhappy child because I always had you there. I was never alone, I was never sad. When we grew into teenagers I always had someone to turn to, always someone to talk to. So when I turned over and you wern't there a slow kind of panic filled me. In the mornings, you were always there. If you were the first to wake, you'd wait for me, and vice versa. I knew that something must be very wrong. It wasn't until I traipsed down the stairs and saw our mother crumpled into our father's chest that I realized that you were gone.

You had left me. You left me behind.

It was like seeing for the first time that day. Like the curtain had finally been drawn back to reveal the horrible truth. Standing in front of me, smiling rather cruelly, as if to say; Ha, I told you so. Whether you can call it innocence or naivety, it doesn't really matter. What matters is that I hadn't really taken enough notice to make a difference. And now it was too late. You, Jason. Jason, my twin brother. My twin brother, my best friend. My best friend, the other half of me. For the first time in my life I felt truly unhappy. I had woken up from a coma to find that I was paralysed. That half of my body had gone walk about. That half of me had left me.

For the first year, I still couldn't really comprehend what had happened. I knew somewhere deep down that you really had gone, really had runaway, really had left us all. But it was like my brain was blocking that knowledge. I was experiancing some sort of weird adrenaline rush that was preventing me from feeling the pain. I was in shock. I had spent the entire year barely eating, barely sleeping. I stayed up at nights and wondered during the days whether you gone was my fault. Even if it wasn't entirely my fault, it was somewhat my fault. I was your twin. I knew you better than any other person on this planet. I thought I knew yourself more than you knew you.

Then I became desperate. Because even if it was my fault you loved me. I knew that you did. You wouldn't leave me, you would come back for me. That was what I was convinced of for the entire first year. That you would be coming back for me. So, I followed the pattern that always happened whenever you had big news. It had started when we were younger. Whenever you had something to tell me you would write it down on a sticky note and hide it somewhere. I would never find them right away because that wasn't the point. The point was that I would find out when we were both ready for me to find out. It was usually a couple of weeks after, which meant that I was given time to figure it out for myself, and this sticky note would just confirm that I was right.

It happened when dad first hit you, when you realized that you liked our other best friend Benny, when you and Benny had sex, when you found out you were gay, when you and dad fought about it, when you first took drugs, when you started drinking, started smoking. Anything that happened I would eventually find out via sticky note, and then it was deemed acceptable to talk about. So for this first year I searched high and low for a sticky note, a sticky note that would explain that you had left but would be coming back to get me. A sticky note that you never intended to leave, and so didn't.

The second year I refused to think about it. I pushed you to the back of my mind because I had problems of my own. Problems that you had created. I suffered from depression, malnourishment because I wouldn't eat, I was nearly kicked out of school because I couldn't keep up with the work and I wasn never in. I was angry at you because you had been selfish and you ruined my life. You ruined our family. Our mother kicked our dad out. Because she was almost 100% sure that you leaving was entirely his fault. He always picked on you, called you names, patronized you, beat on you, hated you. Because you were always rebellious, you took drugs and smoked and drank and slept around. Because you were gay. He hated you for all of it, and our mother hated him for hating you. Nobody hated me because I never did anything. I went to school, I got good grades, I was on the honor role, I was popular and pretty and athletic and smart and talented. So when I went downhill, when dad got kicked out, when you left, mum started to drink heavily. The pressure got to much for her. She shot herself in the head.

All of this, because of you. You always had to make life hard for everyone else. I used to love you for it, but not now. This time you had gone too far. You had pushed and pushed and pushed until we had all fallen down.

After mum died and dad refused to come back to take care of me, they tried to move me to gran's. I cried and cried and cried. Although I hated you, I was scared that you might come back in the middle of night and I wouldn't be here. So gran moved into our house. My whole family had rejected me and abandoned me. Unwanted by you, unwanted by dad, unwanted by mum. Nobody cared about me. You always demanded the attention and I was cast into the background and forgotten about.

The third year would be the last year. The Last Year. It happened 10 years ago when we were 19. I was still living at home with gran, finished with high school. I hadn't bothered to go to college. I stayed at home all the time because I couldn't face ever leaving the house ever again. I had no future, and I really didn't care. I had given up caring by then. It was about 1am and I was sitting on the chair in our room gazing out of the window into the darkness. A police car and an ambulence raced past the house and I blinked at the flashing lights. Annoyed that they were disrupting my time. Then there was more. Maybe 3 or 4 police cars, another ambulence. At first I was suspicious because hardly any crimes go on in this neighbourhood. No stabbings, no shootings, no robberies. When the others passed, I sighed and dragged on a hoodie and trainers and climbed down the tree. Crossed the lawn and followed the sirens. You were 5 streets away.

The police thought that you had been on the way home. You were coming back for me. Back to me. After 3 years you were coming back. You had stopped in Joe's bar for a beer and got chatting to some guy, Mark, I think they said his name was. You two went out back to the parking lot by the woods for sex. That's when they jumped you. 4 men plus Mark turned on you and beat the crap out of you because you were gay. And that was wrong. You were a freak, sick in the head, and you didn't deserve to live. They broke your ribs, kicked your head in and apparently cut the end of your sick off, because of course you didn't deserve to have one. Because they called you a pussy.

You were on your way back to me, to complete me again when you died. When you were killed. This time I was sure it was my fault. I was the only person to go to your funeral.

It feels alright but that's a lie that's always near
Sit around and blame the one that put you here
I laughed aloud to drown it out
So I could breathe and feel the space around me
(I'm not kidding anymore)