by Les Petits Papiers d'Aya
Un devoir d’anglais un petit peu joyeux pour ma semaine de TM.
You tell me I am beautiful as your broken smile fades away. Silly girl – I look just like you. My reflection is sitting in front of me, I reach for your hand without ever touching it. My second self is comforting me with healing tears. I would wipe them away if I could, though all I am allowed is to see your eyes drowning slowly.
‘What a chance we have’, you say, ‘that we’ll always have a twin as ugly as us. Our nose looks so much prettier on your face.’
As far as I remember, we were never really apart. Some couldn’t distinguish us and we forgave them – from growing my soul by your side, even I forgot whom of the two of us I really was.
The water on your cheeks is like a kick in my innards.
‘What’s wrong ?’
You need my help. You can feel the Monster flowing through your veins, killing every cell on its way. Soon it will damage your body, gently, painfully, until you can feel your brains weaken. And eventually, you’ll cease moving completely.
‘Promise me something. Don’t let the Monster turn me tacky. When Mum leans over my corpse, I want her to cry in our golden hair. Promise me you’ll do everything to stop it so that I leave this world pretty.’
I see myself nodding in your pupils.
Your roar echoes in my skull.
‘It’s coming ! The Monster… It’s killing me.’
Your pain breaks something inside of me. Our screams unite. We are one. I feel your agony, as you fall down I hit the ground.
Your arm rises quietly. The flame of madness dances in your eyes. The Monster is burning you from the inside. Your hair flows untidy around your wounded head. A ray of sun is reflected in the knife you hold. You have nothing of the beauty you worship in me.
The blade is halfway between our heads. Something between us vibrates. You explode, shattered into thousands of pieces – you disappear.
This evening Mrs. Winston is cooking a roasted duck. She likes it laid in slices and served with vegetables. She adds pineapple too, because she’s an exotic woman, as witnesses the collection of tourist guides on top of her bookshelf, praising landscapes she’s never seen.
She’s missing a tool. She can’t cut her duck. Her daughter must have taken it. Mrs Winston has stopped wondering about her daughter a long while ago – maybe that day she saw her talking alone in her room and hitting herself. After all, the back cover of one of the psychology books, just below the touristic ones, stated that with teenage comes a weird behaviour.
The door of the room is open.
She picks up the knife under the splinters of the mirror. Looking at the blade, she notices happily that her single daughter’s blood fits perfectly the colour of her nail polish.
She glues a memento on the bookshelf.
– Choose a dress for the funeral.
– Buy pineapple.
Papier du 28.01.2014