Dead Twin Sister

by Jack Wallen

  “I know,” I answered softly, covering my mouth in a vain attempt at silencing the sobs.

  “You can turn around, Grog.”

  I sucked in a quick breath to steel my will before turning to see Al perched behind his kit, doing his thing.

  The beat of my heart broke to send a waterfall of tears over my cheeks.

  “Now don’t do that. I’m here, we’re together. Let’s make some noise.”

  I spun my bass back around and tore into an improvised movement to match Al’s beat. The moment was perfect—two souls entwined together so profoundly that words weren’t needed, even after death.

  “You can do this, Grog.”

  I assumed Al meant keep playing—so I upped the ante and worked my way across the fretboard.

  “Your voice is the key,” Al added.

  Again, I assumed Al was referring to our little riff session. So I sang, making up words and melody as we continued our jam.

  “The dead have risen, a chosen few; I buried you once let’s make it two. I can’t live without you by my side; death has become a theme park ride.”

  Without warning, Al stopped, stood, dropped his sticks, and approached me with a misplaced caution. “I mean, you can take down the doppelgänger. You have no need to be afraid.”

  “How do you know that?”

  The sweetest smile edged up the corners of Al’s lips. “I brought you here for a reason.”

  “This is just a dream. I fell asleep and there you were.”

  Al shook his head slowly. “No, luv, this isn’t a dream. I brought you here for this.”

  Before I could question him further, Al stepped into me. I expected him to make a quick exit. When that didn’t happen, I felt an untapped power blossom within—from the center of my chest, strength radiated outward.

  I opened my eyes, assuming I’d find myself lying in bed. That was not the case. Instead, I stood in the middle of my bedroom, hands crossed over my heart.

  “Al,” I whispered with a calm I wasn’t sure I should own at the moment. Even so, feeling my dearly departed friend within my bosom was a blessing I’d not soon forget. Al’s strength mingled with my own, bringing to life a power I’d never before felt.

  With a much-needed calm under my flesh, I slipped into bed and fell back into a languid slumber. I didn’t return to the stage, nor did Al visit me again in my sleep. I hated to think that might have been the last time I’d ever see my dear friend. The counter to that bad news was I’d feel him within me for the rest of my life.

  That was a victory.

  Sleep returned. I gave in.

  ***

  I hated those nights when it seemed you only just fell asleep before the alarm starts squealing for your attention. I wanted to grab my phone and chuck it at the wall. Fortunately, the logic center of my brain had far more control over the emotional; which was actually a joke, considering I could break down weeping at any moment. I guess that’s what happens when you realize just how fragile life actually was. You live … until you don’t; that was the one truest eventuality of being human. Only it seemed my reality veered away from the standard operating procedure prescribed to the bipedal race.

  “Maybe it’s the catsuits giving me nine lives,” I mumbled before a knock came at my door. “Yeah?”

  “It’s me, luv.” Drew’s voice was a welcome respite from the midnight madness that rained down upon my dreams. I needed that man’s distraction, else the heartbreak of missing Al would take me down for yet another count of three.

  One.

  Two.

  Three.

  Yer out!

  Drew cracked the door open and slipped a single finger through the space to use as a puppet. “Can I come in?”

  Boisterous laughter exploded from my mouth. “Yes, yes … by all means, yes!”

  The door opened to reveal Drew, standing in a Judas Priest tee shirt and Jack Skellington boxers.

  “You’re a teenage boy, Drew. You know that, right?”

  “Living the dream, mate. Living the dream.”

  Before Drew could speak another goofy word, I enveloped him in a Hallmark-level embrace. “This connection makes us who we are.”

  There was no hesitation in the return hug. The strength in Drew’s arms blanketed me in comfort; he was my security.

  “You ready for this day, Grog?”

  “About as ready as I can be.”

  “Maybe a bit of full English will give you a bloody case of the perkies?” Drew gestured for the door. “After you, my Queen.”

  With a quick and royal nod, I made my way to the kitchen, where Bella and Dizzy sat, eating as if their lips hadn’t touched food in years. Dizzy offered me a wave.

  “Good morning.” Bella spoke between chews of bagel.

  I grabbed a plate and piled it high with fruit and added a small bowl of yogurt for good measure.

  “There’s bacon,” Dizzy announced. “How can you ignore that glorious plate of meat?”

  I popped a blueberry in my mouth. “The body’s a temple, my dear.”

  Predictably, Drew blew into the kitchen like a rambling tornado, grabbed the carafe of coffee, and filled his thermos. “Done yet? It’s nearly time to beat cheeks to the studio. Rock and roll, my pretties, rock and roll.”

  I shoveled as much breakfast into my mouth as I could and retreated to the boudoir to dress. As I stood before my full-length mirror, I was overcome by the oddest sensation. Staring into the reflection of my eyes, it felt as if I weren’t alone in my flesh. In that instant, the dream returned with cult jam and full force. I was all cried out when I looked behind my eyes to see Al glancing back—his glorious gaze heating up the fire in my heart. Instead of letting sorrow take control, I opted for a flare of snark.

  “How am I supposed to get dressed with you watching me?”

  A knock sounded on the other side of my door. Drew’s voice immediately followed. “You okay in there, luv?”

  “Yes.” My voice stumbled a bit. “I’ll be out in a moment.”

  I swung the closet door open, so the mirror faced away from me and whispered, “Nothing personal, dear.”

  Once dressed, I joined Drew, Dizzy, and Bella in the car. Dizzy had the Spectral focused on me the second I entered. “See anything of interest?” I grilled the young man.

  Dizzy hesitated.

  “There’s something in that silence, Dizz. What is it? What do you spy with your little eye?”

  The young man pulled the camera away, glanced at Bella, and then back to me. “Yeah, there’s something. I just don’t know what to make of it.”

  Drew tossed a quick glance to the rearview mirror. “Care to explain, mate?”

  “Let me replay that…” Dizzy’s voice faded, and his attention returned to the camera playback screen. “Yeah, that’s what I thought I saw.”

  Dizzy turned the camera to me and played the segment. “Look at your eyes.”

  I watched, in abject fear, as a second pair of eyes appeared within my own—as if a ghost was peering out from within. There was no questioning the nature of my secondary spirit.

  It’s me, love. Al’s voice whispered in my head.

  This circus was growing out of control. Any more people wanting to gain access to my psyche might tip me over a rather precarious mental cliff.

  “Maybe it was just a reflection from the sun in my pupils or something.” I did my best to deflect the subject, not yet wanting to confess to anyone that our dearly departed was along for the ride. That conversation might well end with me slipping a straitjacket over my catsuit and head banging in a padded corner for the rest of my life.

  Dizzy shook his head as he watched the bit of film a third time. “I’ve seen light do some tricky-ass things but never like that.”

  In a nod to perfect timing, Drew pulled up to the studio. “Sorry, Kubrick, rock and roll waits for no mystery. You’ll have to grill Groggy on the flipside because we have magic to make.”

  The four of us made our way into th
e studio, wind kicking up my hair as though we were walking through some slow-motion Tarantino entrance, set to the likes of a Filter tune.

  Nice shot and all.

  That’s the rock star life—a poetry in perpetual motion. We were cat suits, mohawks, sunglasses at night and day, and…

  Oh, who was I kidding. We were musicians to our core—not prima donnas making demands to shame Diamond Dave or Mariah Carey. Drew and I were real, not some caricature of modern-day entitlement. Music was our art. Art was sacred.

  “Hidy ho.” Tony’s larger than life voice yanked me from my John Dorian-esque inner monologue. I half expected the sound of a record scratching to play over the moment to draw attention back to a deer-in-the-headlights Grog.

  Drew saved the day by pulling the engineer into a near-to-bromance hug.

  Tony smacked Drew’s back with a mighty whack. “What bit of brilliance are we recording today?”

  Drew pulled away from the man-hug. “‘We Were Born to Kill Each Other.’”

  Tony nodded his approval. “I like the sound of that.”

  “And it’s going to blow those socks right through your sandals, mate.”

  I hadn’t even noticed the clichéd, old man fashion standing before me. I wanted to laugh at Drew’s subtle slight but opted to keep my snark in check.

  “The studio is all yours, Drew.”

  The four of us made our way into the live room. While Drew tuned his guitar, Dizzy set up shop.

  Bella approached me, her usually ebullient smile faded to neutral. “Time for a quick interview?”

  “Love to, my dear.”

  Dizzy mic’d me and we were off.

  “The song you’re about to record, ‘We Were Born to Kill Each Other,’ can you tell us a bit about it?”

  “I remember Drew saying something very profound about this track. No matter how far we have come as a species, in terms of science and culture, our basic programming remains in our core. There we are no different to beasts who must compete to survive.” A slight chuckle escaped my mouth. “That’s Drew … just pointing out a fact is all. There’s so much truth in that. No matter how far we’re removed from that original wriggle from the soup of life, the human condition is such that the strong will eat the weak. It’s despicable, but ingrained in our very DNA. The groovy part about this bit of nihilism is that we humans are given to taking a back seat to our moral compass. If it weren’t for that, we’d all be meat for the beasts.”

  From behind me, Drew played the opening bars for the song. Dizzy pulled away from me and set his sights on the man of the moment. In typical Drew fashion, he struck his best rock god pose and railed on his strings for posterity. He ended with a bit of Eddie Van Halen hammer action and shot his right devil horns toward the camera. As soon as the notes faded to silence, he bobbed his head in time with what had to be the click track and then tore into the song.

  Under the surface of my consciousness, I could feel the overwhelming desire to grab a pair of drumsticks and have a go at the nearest kit. It took a significant amount of concentration to keep that instinct at bay.

  As Drew recorded his track, Dizzy continued filming. Every so often, I’d catch him pointing the camera my way and then reacting as if he’d witnessed a ghost burst from my chest.

  Damn, I wish I were here with you now. Al’s voice rattled in my brain. I wanted to answer, to say to him how much I’d love nothing more than to stare across the room to see him air drumming along with Drew.

  I always found it hilarious to see real drummers flailing their arms in the air as if they were actually behind a kit. Guitarists miming their instruments didn’t hold that same level of charm.

  Drew made it through the first take in one piece. It was necessary to record each of his riffs, so Tony had more to work with. We were never one to forgo the details. With each album we recorded, our striving for perfection grew stronger.

  Once Drew completed his duty, it was my turn to take center stage. I was ready—more than ready, to be honest. After my short stint in The Shallow, I was desperate to make art.

  Drew caught me before go-time dropped. “Something wrong, luv?”

  “What, me? No. Nothing…”

  I couldn’t pull off the lie, not to Drew.

  “I’m just nervous.”

  Drew’s face knotted up with incredulity. “You? Why? You’re the fucking master of this domain. You’ve got zilich to worry about.”

  A quick shake of my head was all Drew needed to understand. “Right. This isn’t about the music.”

  “No.” A heavy sigh escaped my lungs. “The Tasmanian Devil running rampant in my gut is all about her.”

  Drew pulled me in close and whispered, “I won’t leave your side. If anything goes sideways, I’ll be here for you.”

  I graced Drew’s cheek with a lipstick kiss. “I know.”

  The headphones caressed my ears, bringing a much-needed comfort. Drew was right: this was my domain. Let the doppelgänger come. I will go full-on Judas Priest and eat that bitch alive. I offered Tony a thumbs-up and the click track sounded off.

  I sang.

  “What makes us so different from the world’s biology? The creation of art or ideology. Scratch the surface, see the savage clearly; give me a gun, I wanna test Darwin’s theory. We were born in blood, just to get a taste. Hear the call to run in the human race. You’re my rival, you’re not my brother. We were born to kill each other.”

  She surfaced—not quite breaching the void, but enough to make herself known. I ignored a rising fear and pushed myself to continue the call. “Climbing out of the cradle, little children please take note. You can’t climb to the top without stepping on another kid’s throat.”

  The world melted away in a white-hot heat. I could feel myself spiraling downward, into some empty chasm. As my cosmic body jerked violently in time with the music, I could feel her rise, take over the meat that formed me, the skeleton that shaped me, the heart that drove me.

  I’d been returned to The Shallow.

  Exactly as planned.

  ACT IV

  yin/yang

  THIRTEEN

  A competitive nature and an instinct to survive is more reliable than mercy In keeping you alive

  My voice rang out. Actually, it was her voice; I was merely along for the ride. This time unto the breach, I was lucky the memory of the song was so close to the surface; because of that, there was no strain in the remembering.

  And so, I finished the tune, naturally giving it a bit of my own, darker flair. Judging from the sickening grin on Drew’s face, he loved it.

  Or hated it. I could never read them well. The living—they were all so weak, so easily plied with emotional attachment. I always assumed taking control of The Planar Mortalis would be a simple gig. I was wrong. The only downfall was that I hated being confined to the human meat bag. I was created for greater things.

  Such was my cross to bear.

  All in due time.

  “What do you think, Grog?” The engineer swine squealed over the studio monitors. “Was that a wrap on your track, or do you feel like another?”

  I flipped Tony a pair of birds and shouted into the mic, “Piss off, that was perfect. You deny … you lie.”

  Before I could say another word, Dizzy’s camera appeared in my face. I prepared my right arm to knock the piece of equipment from his hands, when Drew swooped in to save the day.

  Fucking hero.

  I was going to enjoy taking him down the most—smacking that grin off his face and ripping mohawk from scalp.

  Drew and Dizzy exchanged a knowing look—knowing only to them. I, on the other hand, was left in the dark. These bastards were scheming something. I would find out what; when I did, the price to pay would be hell.

  “Got time for another? D’Queen aren’t due in for a couple of hours.” Tony’s voice grated on my nerves once more.

  Drew glanced my way, one eyebrow arched as if to say Up to you. Fuck yeah, it’s up to me. The very f
act the man was still living was up to me.

  “Why not?” I answered.

  Tony clicked his mic on again. “This might be a good time to lay down some bass.”

  I hadn’t thought of that. Grog’s bass saved her life in The Seduction. It wasn’t beyond the realm of the possible that some of the magic remained attached to the instrument; magic I could easily draw from, magic that would serve my purpose well.

  Without replying, I slunk over to the case, pulled out Grog’s axe, raised it over my head, and made as if I were about to send it crashing to the floor. Everyone in the room gasped in fear.

  I had them exactly where I needed them.

  “Just fucking with you.” I slung the bass over my shoulder and plucked the lowest string. Vibrations rattled my bones until I was certain the note would make its way upward and escape my mouth.

  Drew dared draw near enough to me to plug the instrument in. The temptation to send the head of the bass into his teeth was overwhelming. Much to my surprise, I fought the urge. The guitarist would live to see another day.

  Maybe.

  “Give me a test,” Tony called out.

  It quickly dawned on me … I wasn’t exactly certain how to play bass. Singing I could fake—especially considering I had Grog’s physiognomy. Playing the right notes for new music wasn’t completely in her muscle memory yet. I wasn’t ready to be made this quickly. Something had to be done.

  The second no one was looking, I pulled my left index finger to my mouth and bit through the flesh until blood spilled over my tongue.

  “Son of a bitch,” I shouted, which had the immediate effect of drawing Drew’s attention.

  “What is it, Grog?”

  “I cut my damn finger.” I held the digit up to Drew, a river of blood snaking over my hand and pooling in my palm. “Fuck. No way I’m recording bass right now.”

  “Here’s a first aid kit.” Bella and her sweetness to the rescue. I was half-tempted to snatch the metal box from her hand and pulverize her skull. Before I could bring that thought to fruition, Drew grabbed the kit and began tending to my wound.

  “It’s okay, luv. I can lay down my track for tomorrow’s session.”