Splinters
The first time Elena lashed out, it was subtle enough their parents could dismiss it.
"Don't nag me," she snapped when their mother reminded her to tidy her side of the room. The words hung in the air, sharp and alien in Elena's mouth. Their mother froze, startled, before smoothing her face into a forgiving smile.
"She must be tired," she said, as if explaining away the weather.
Mara caught the flicker in Elena's eyes—anger, fear, something roiling beneath the surface. She said nothing, but the unease rooted deeper in her chest.
At school, the change was harder to ignore. Elena forgot her homework—something that had never happened. When the teacher called her name, she blinked blankly, as though hearing it from underwater.
Later, Mara found her sister sitting in the library's far corner, her notes scattered, her pencil frozen above the page.
"Elena?"
Her sister looked up slowly, face pale, eyes unfocused. "What time is it?"
"Nearly three."
Elena blinked, glancing at the clock as if it were lying. "But… I was just in class."
"You were. That was an hour ago."
Confusion twisted her features, then melted into frustration. She shoved the papers into her bag, too forcefully, the edge tearing. "I'm fine," she muttered.
But her hands shook.
That night, their parents confronted her. Mara sat at the table, silent, as the voices sharpened.
"Elena, what's going on?" their father asked, tone halfway between concern and accusation. "Your teachers say you've been distracted."
Their mother added, softer but no less cutting, "This isn't like you."
Elena's jaw clenched. She stared at her untouched plate. "I said I'm fine."
Her father's hand struck the table, rattling the silverware. "Don't speak to us like that."
Something in Elena snapped. She stood abruptly, chair scraping, her voice rising like a flame. "You only love me when I'm perfect! You don't even see me—none of you do!"
The words rang through the room, thick with truth. Mara's breath caught. She wanted to cheer, to scream in agreement. But her parents only stared, shocked into silence. Elena's chest heaved. Then, like a curtain falling, her expression smoothed. She lowered her gaze, mumbled an apology, and fled upstairs.
Mara followed minutes later.
The bedroom was dark, curtains drawn tight. Elena sat on the floor, arms wrapped around her knees. Mara approached cautiously.
"You didn't mean it, did you?" Mara asked softly.
Elena's head snapped up, eyes wide, almost panicked. "Mean what?"
"The things you said. At dinner."
Her sister blinked. Then shook her head, confused. "What are you talking about?"
Mara's blood ran cold.
"You don't remember?"
"No." Elena's voice trembled. "Did I… say something bad?"
Mara wanted to tell her everything. To force her to remember. But one look at her sister's face stopped her. Whatever cracks had opened inside Elena, she was terrified of what might crawl through them.
Later that night, Mara woke again to whispering. But it wasn't the usual half-dream mutter.
Elena was kneeling by the window, forehead pressed against the glass, her breath fogging the pane. Her voice was low, fervent. "Beneath the roots… beneath the roots… it's waiting… it's waiting…"
Mara's throat locked. She wanted to call out, to shake her awake. But something held her still, a heavy certainty that if she interrupted now, she'd see something in Elena's eyes she wasn't ready for.
Instead, she lay back down, clutching the blanket to her chest, praying for morning.
The perfect twin was splintering. And Mara was beginning to wonder if she'd ever truly known who her sister was—or what she had become.