“He saw himself, a mass…of other people’s pieces”- The Face, Frieda Hughes
When I was older, in university, (a very prestigious one of course, my parents’ choice), I began to realise that it is possible to find my true identity. I wanted to know who I was- not what everyone else wanted me to be. I went about my search in quite the wrong way- dabbling in alcohol, drugs etcetera, until I understood that I was different, unique.
It was during this time, my quest for myself, that I met her. I felt that she was my alter-ego; we had so much in common. She knew all there was to know about me, for she was just the same. We were twins in our own way- she was closer to me than my biological twin had ever been.
Meeting her changed me in many ways. I was much happier - I felt as if I was more in touch with the ‘true’ me, which had been, for many years, incarcerated in other peoples’ prisons. I was discovering that I am different from others-very different. By eavesdropping on a variety of conversations, (people rarely made an effort to converse with me, and as I was in no hurry to talk them, this did not bother me),
I gathered that others thought I was somewhat mad. As they said this about her, too, it did not worry me- I accepted it as part of our uniqueness.
I had always felt that it was she who was the leader, my teacher. It is only now that I am aware of how advanced I am compared to her.
She met my brother quite by accident- a chance meeting in the park. She guessed who he was immediately- he does, did, look a lot like me. I do not know exactly what happened after that, but it is certain that at the time of his death she was his girlfriend. I think that if it had not been for his untimely passing away, they may have married. If she had been more patient…Patience is not one of her virtues-, she hates to wait for anything. Yet I doubt that her waiting could have made a difference- he would have died anyway, only in this case was just sooner, rather than later.
We were very close, the three of us. He was my twin and she was my ‘best friend’, my only friend, as it happened. We needed no one else, which was just as well, since others were terrified at the intensity of our relationship. It was more than just an ordinary, platonic, friendship- we were, for lack of a better word, ‘soul mates’. We did everything together, we were inseparable. Our families viewed this as unhealthy and did all they could to keep us apart. We defied them quite easily- our shared IQs were much higher than both of our families combined. As often happens in a friendship groups of threes, one pair is closer than another. For us it was slightly different- both I and my brother were closer to her than each other, and she loved us both equally. The fact that she killed him and not me does not prove anything- it obviously suited her more to murder him, than I.
One thing that I shall always remember about her is her interest (or should I say obsession?), in the Vestal Virgins (priestesses of the goddess Vesta), of ancient Rome. It was not so much the actual priestesses that she was interested in, it was how they were executed- their punishment for breaking any of their Vestal vows. They were thrown into a cell with a few drops of oil and a small portion of food. The door was walled up, and the erroneous Vestal Virgins were left in the lonely, windowless cell, from which they never returned. It was this idea of imprisonment and isolation that fascinated her, and by extension me. For a Vestal Virgin imprisonment was a punishment- for us it would be a privilege, a symbol of our power.
We were all working now- by we I mean her, my brother and I. Our jobs were not as good as parents had hoped, but we had long since stopped doing what our parents hoped us to do. She was the most successful- my brother was far too irresponsible, and I had ceased to be interested in the ordinary, every day world quite a while ago. I was thought to be eccentric by my fellow employees. This may or may not be due to the fact that I had changed my name to Vesta (in honour of the Vestal Virgins, not the goddess herself).
It was a happy, relaxed time for us. We were working beneath us, so our work was not in the least bit taxing and we had plenty of time on our hands. My brother was blissfully unaware that his days on earth were numbered, and I do not think even she knew how near his passing was (I think she had originally planned it for much later). The three of us were whole heartedly throwing ourselves into our plans for our twenty-fifth birthday, for it so happened that she was born on the same day as us and a joint celebration culminating in a trip to London was planned. London was to be the site the site of his death.
My memories of the night in which he died are quite vague- I mainly remember being shocked by her ingenuity. It was shortly after our birthday (they were still in London), which means that it was sometime in August. The twenty-sixth, I think, the day before their scheduled return. I am still not certain exactly how she murdered him, and I do not wish to know. All I know is that she is clever, very clever- far cleverer than I had thought. The post-mortem revealed no evidence of foul play, and his death was attributed to natural causes. No one had any reason to suspect her, the grieving girlfriend. No one, that is, but me. I do not only suspect- I know.
No, I did not see her doing it, catch her red-handed- how could I? I was conveniently in Scotland, six hundred miles away. I knew, because we had planned his death, the two of us, together. Planned every single detail. I now know that she had a plan of her own. It was she who suggested my going to Scotland, saying I needed a rest (from what I do not know). It is amazing how naïve I was- I did not suspect a thing. It was only when I received a call just before midnight, telling me that he was dead, that I realised she had murdered him and taken the credit.
You may wonder why I wanted to kill my brother. I did not hate him- on the contrary I loved him very much- he was, after all, my twin. Yet the only way, I thought (and she told me), of finding myself and being truly whole was if he died- for he was half of me. Why she wanted him dead I do not know- she had her own reasons which she never told me.
I have not seen her since then. Rumour has it that she is living alone somewhere in France. Somewhere where no one can find her and ‘rescue’ her. I do not care about her any longer-why should I? It is unlikely that she ever cared about me. She may have, at the beginning, but the truth is, we all used each other- used each other to find our true selves. I hope that wherever he is my brother is he is happy and has found what he was searching for. As for her, I do not know. Part of me believes that she has always known who she really is, but I cannot be sure. I doubt that I will ever see her again, but in any case I don’t particularly want to.
I have finally found my true self- she was wrong, my brother has nothing to do with it. The only way I can be myself is by building another prison. All my life I have been living in the prisons of others- my parents’ prison, my friends’ prison, her prison. Now I will build my own.
White walls. Nothing but white walls. My white walls. Surrounding me. Imprisoning me. For I locked the door, and only I have the key. I am alone with my identity. I am the prisoner and I am the gaoler. A prisoner. Imprisoned by myself. Imprisoned by my insanity.
“He…made his own shape…until it was the signature with which he built his prison.”- The Face, Frieda Hughes.
