Chapter 2: A Hiccup in the Universe

She is a freak! Duri learned the meaning for the first time when she eavesdropped on her parents’ private conversation. Father was one to talk. This coming from a failure, she thought.

It was then that Mother caught Duri listening (not that she was hiding it in the first place). She dragged Duri out of the room. She bent at the waist and patted Duri’s small head.

Mother’s volume had two settings— she either spoke in hushed tones or screeched. This time, she used her “inside” voice. Mother stammered as she explained that Father didn’t mean what he said. It was involuntary, like a hiccup. Remember when you had those really bad hiccups?

Adults were liars. Duri was getting whiplash from their lies. They cared way too much about how the world perceived them. And then they taught their sons and daughters how to fire off white lies, mostly harmless, but sometimes with detrimental effects.

She ought to be more like her peers, a beautiful and broken mess, rehearsing and executing their killer lines like a pro, wearing body glitter to distract others from noticing how terrible of an actress they were.

Yeri: “I like your outfit.” (You’re trash.)

Father: “I’m busy today.” (I don’t want you near.)

Duri: “I’m fine.” (My chest hurts.)

Headmaster: “Tell me the truth, I won’t be mad.” (She said you started the fight. Are you sure you didn’t hit her?)

Nari: “I don’t want to go to the school dance.” (I don’t have anyone to go with.)

Duri often wondered what it would be like if she was more like her sister. Nari was a normal girl who had normal problems. She was in love with the idea of “love.” Whenever she had boyfriend troubles, she ran to Duri, who could calm down her sister with just her presence alone. It also helped that Duri couldn’t interrupt— verbally, that is. She doubted she could be helpful anyway. She had never once been genuinely curious about Nari’s relationships.

They were in Nari’s favorite room in the house, the kitchen. Duri sat in silence with her arms crossed. She offered an artificial, supportive smile after Nari vented about a lack of intimacy. If Duri could speak her mind, she would lay it on Nari that her boyfriend was a shady character, but she had deduced a long time ago that there was an unspoken rule between talkers and listeners: No one wanted tough love; among the top contenders was hearing the truth. Friends, including sisters, couldn’t express how they actually felt about a closed one’s relationship. Under these circumstances, it was expected of Dari to give meaningless advice or tell white lies, such as “maybe he didn’t see your text” or “maybe his phone really died.” But even that required too much social stamina.

Sometimes Duri didn’t know how to act around her twin. The two of them were cats and dogs. They coexisted under one roof but stayed out of each other’s way.

Duri didn’t fully understand social cues. She needed breathing room. She wanted her attic.

“Yoongi haven’t asked me to the dance yet,” Nari was saying. “Should I ask him?”

Duri said nothing. The winter formal was one of the few events where the girls got to mingle with the boys from their sister school. Nari’s boyfriend attended this sister school.

“Do you want to be my date?”

This piqued Duri’s curiosity.

“We never get to wear anything nice. And this could be the last thing we do together as high school students. What do you think?”

When Nari smiled at her like that, a smile unlike Duri’s own, Duri pondered if Nari’s affection was genuine or obligatory. If Mother loved Duri out of fear, then who was to say Mother didn’t strike the same fear in Nari?

“Please.” Nari wrapped her arms around Duri’s shoulders and rocked them from side to side. “I don’t ask you for anything. Please be my date.”

Date? Duri signed.

“Yes. It will be fun! I can bring you juice from the punch bowl. We can dance. We can make fun of the chaperones who are trying to be ‘hip’ with us. I think a photographer will be there too. We can get our pictures taken and maybe it’ll land in the yearbook. What do you say?”

Duri shook her head.

Nari pouted and rocked her harder. “Please, you won’t be alone for a second. I promise you that. Yoongi. He never takes me anywhere nice, and I want you to have the time of your life. Us both.”

Nothing was going to sway Duri. Though the hug felt nice. Then Nari took a cheap shot.

“If I were to die tomorrow, wouldn’t you be sad?”

Duri didn’t know sorrow. Father’s funeral was strangely an unemotional experience. Neither did she feel it at the thought of her twin’s death. But she felt a pang of something. Literature said sisters were flowers from the same garden. Twins were halves to one whole. It rang some truthfulness.

Nari would jump from the greatest heights to catch Duri. Even in the darkness, there was nowhere to hide from Nari. If she had to choose a favorite person, it would undoubtedly be Nari.

Duri patted Nari’s hand then signed her answer, yes.

“Does that mean you’ll go?”

Yes.

With a squeal, Nari pulled Duri from her chair and dragged her downstairs. While Nari took a proper look at their wardrobe, Duri stared at her unfortunate reflection. She was skinny, at least ten pounds underweight. In fairytales, alabaster skin complimented dark hair, but in reality, her coarse hair was too dark for her pale face.

Unsatisfied with her findings, Nari took Duri dress shopping at a local thrift store. Nari bought a classic cocktail dress in royal blue and paired it with a shawl.

It was a stubborn fact that Duri liked everything black. Black pleated skirt. Black lace corset. Black leather ankle boot. Black choker.

Mid-purchase, Nari received a text that made her frown. She tried her best to keep it in, but she was annoyed. It could only be one out of two people: her boyfriend or Mother.

Outside of the store, Nari entrusted the shopping bags to Duri.

“I have to go. You can find your way home, right?”

Duri nodded.

Nari took off in the opposite direction.

Meanwhile, Duri decided not to take the shortest route home.

She stopped in front of an intimidating red brick building that featured a massive cross rising above a circle mortar flower patterned window. The stained glass were intricately geometric and colorful. The architecture of the church was timelessly Catholic— the past, present, and future of God. The massive arched doors were beautiful handcrafted and opened into the foyer then the nave. One large, carpet path shepherded the masses into the side aisles. Bibles were tucked into the backs of the empty pews.

Her footsteps echoed as she stalked the cross-shaped layout. She had attended Sunday church hundreds of times in the past, but the visits dwindled down after Father’s passing, then they stopped completely after Mother’s breakdown.

“Passing” was a delicate way to put it for the sensitive bunch. As the story went, suicide was a grave sin and did not pave the way to heaven. So, official cause of death was an accidental drug overdose, but the family suspected the truth. They knew how long Father had battled with depression, but instead of seeking professional help, they had turned to the Church for all their problems.

The upside to Father’s undiagnosed history was a hefty insurance payout, not to say that Duri would trade money for the other. With Father around, it was easier to pretend they were a big happy family.

It was never the same. Mother no longer ushered them to the front row. They sat in the back with the degenerates to avoid detection and any unpleasantness. Since then, Mother had a visceral loathing for Duri and was convinced that she brought on bad luck for being the second born twin. There was something Mother wasn’t saying, but Duri had a feeling she wasn’t ready to open up that can of rotting worms.

After all, Mother slept with a kitchen knife under her pillow. She had used the same knife to scratch out Duri’s face in the family photos.

Duri prolonged her harmless tour. The dark stained-glass windows throughout the church had imagery of Christ, Mary, and archangels. The sanctuary was ornated with a marble altar, bronze candle tapers, chalices, a book stand, and a tabernacle. The western back wall crucified stone Jesus on a cross.

Duri’s gaze was drawn to the confessional box. It was the darkest area of the church. She set down the shopping bags, ducked inside, and pulled the curtains close. The sudden drop in temperature sent shivers up her arms, so she wrapped them around her torso. Her eyes adjusted quickly to the dim light. The latticed opening revealed very little about the other side of the box. Was the priest in today or was he in the sacristy?

She knocked twice. Paused. Silence. In these matters, no answer was an answer. She had suspected all along that she was a defective model in God’s eyes. She exited the confessional. She could leave, but she chose to stay.

If she could speak, she would describe the violent