Zoey

Prologue

This is my life—my story. It’s the story of how I came to be who I am and it starts out much the way it ends—with my solitude. The story of my life is the object of other people’s nightmares, but it is all very real to me.

I was born May 5, 1983 to Elaine and Erich Jacobs. Shortly after my birth, my mother was crashing on an operating table in the OR and my father was blankly staring at walls. People tell me not to hate him—not to abhor my mother. But how do you strangle the revulsion you feel when someone’s name is mentioned?

Everyone always told me that I was so lucky—such a lucky little girl. If I was so lucky, how did this happen? Where was lady luck, whom had apparently blessed me, when I needed her?

I’m not an only child—I have a twin brother. He’s only twenty-four minutes older than me, though those minutes seem to make all the difference in the world. But we’re the only kids Elaine and Erich Jacobs ever had. It is a shock to me that our mother had children at all, really. She’s so vain, I would think the prospect of her body stretching and growing to accomodate a baby would disgust her.

Doctors did all they could for my mother in the OR, but there is only so much you can do for a person who is having a seizure right after a C-section. They told my father that they did not know what to expect. Of course she survived, and everyone rejoiced. And while they celebrated that Elaine Jacobs’ life was spared for the time, I was left crying in the nursery in a plastic bassinet with five other screaming babies. I don’t remember it—I was only four hours old, but I found pictures of my father and his brothers and friends holding and being silly and celebrating with Zander in their arms...but where was I?

Things changed when my mother woke up, though. She couldn’t feel her legs, and when they looked into it more, they found she had hemorrhagged after her epidural which had partially paralyzed her and she required emergency surgery. It was only temporary—shortly after the surgery she started physical therapy and slowly learned to walk again. Then, it took about a year before she looked like her old self again, regained her dancer physique. So for almost two years my mom was out of work. She refused to let anyone see her ‘weak’ in a wheelchair. You see, my parents aren’t ordinary. My father used to be in a very successful band when he was in his twenties, but they broke up when things got a little too out of control. A little too many people that wanted a piece of them, a little too many days on the road touring, groupies getting a little too bold, band mates getting a little too tripped out, you get the idea. They’re still friends—my father and all of the band members—and still quite popular, actually. My mother, she teaches dance at her own studio. She always had big dreams of dancing in the Royal Ballet—and she probably would have if she hadn’t been so in love with my father that she gave the dream up. But I guess she was happy enough teaching her dance classes.

When Mother finally recovered full use of her legs and was once again her spaghetti-thin self, she went back to her studio and took over her classes once again. I was ignored. I have an exceptional memory—an unfortunate twist of fate for me. From the age of three and up, I remember everything. I remember my first word better than my parents do. It was ‘hug’ if you’re curious. It was a weird home to live in, the Jacobs household. My brother, Zander, was doted on. Everyone encouraged him and supported him and poured love on him. Zoey, me…I’m different. I was never much like my brother, even though we are twins. We get along great—we’ve only had about two fights in our entire lives. He was day and I night as far as siblings go. He had sun-kissed blonde hair and what can only be described as mesmerizing dark blue eyes. He got more compliments on his eyes then anyone else I’ve ever known. He got the best grades in all of his classes and was the best striker on the soccer team. He was popular throughout school and graduated valedictorian, student-council president, and star athlete. I, on the other hand, am very different.

Outward appearance wise, I have dark brunette hair and what people have said are piercing pale blue eyes. I never got many compliments for my eyes—people always avoided making eye contact with me as though it physically hurt them to do so. If eyes are the window to the soul, people closed the blinds when they looked at me. I never played sports in school or ran for office, and I got decent grades, but I wasn’t at the top of my class by any means, and I was truant all through high school. I was not popular, and did not have droves of friends like my brother; I had only a small group of friends, mostly guys. I’m usually tan, like Zander—hell, how could you not be when you live in California? I’m thin—like my mother, but that is where similarities with my mother end. My mother is a gorgeous creature, the very image of the perfect ballet dancer. I am passable, and I would never describe myself as anything more than pretty when I am at my best. Zander got the movie-star good looks, I got what was left in the gene pool. It’s nothing to complain about, I guess. I mean, I’m not ugly or anything, and looks have never been that important to me.

At home I was ignored, and if I wasn’t being ignored I was being yelled at for not being perfect, not even trying to be perfect. My mother dislikes me because in her eyes I took away two years of her life. Let me explain that little bit of thinking: it was not until she was in labor that anybody even realized that I existed, and after hours of labor and Zander's birth it became apparent that Mother would require a C-section—because of me, because I was turned the wrong way. It was the epidural she received for the C-section that caused her paralysis. But then, that was not really my fault and it is irrational and stupid that Mother has held that against me.

My father dislikes me because I’m not like his friends’ kids. I dress differently; I wear tunics and holey jeans and worn out chucks; I wear retro pencil skirts and t-shirts with funky designs and pictures on them; I accessorize with chunky bangles and handmade necklaces and vintage shoes; I wear these things to dinner parties my parents throw and school and the beach. Father doesn’t approve of the way I dress—he thinks I’m a slut or something because I don't wear the same preppy clothes other kids do. He also hates the music I listen to, the people I hang out with (or, the few he has ever met...you can see the disdain plainly on his face), my personality (I'm not a constant ray of sunshine like my cousins), my haircut...you name it, he probably doesn't approve of it or dislikes it. But like I said before, Zander and I get along great. Mainly because outside of the house we really don't hang around one another. Inside of the house, Mother and Father try their best to keep us separated, as well. His room is on the other side of the house, we have no friends in common, and we don't have many interests in common, either. Even with the same last name, not many people in school knew I was his sister, let alone his twin. When they finally found out, it spread through the school like wild fire and I found myself the source of way too much attention. So I didn’t come for a week or so, and things calmed back down.

You could call me rebellious, I guess. I snuck out of the house more times than I could count and went to parties or hit the clubs. Sometimes I would sneak out and just go to the park and swing on the swings. I felt so free when the wind would rush through my hair and I would lay back and let my head fall, eyes open—watching the earth come rushing towards me.

Throughout high school I worked at a coffee shop that I hated. Too many people came in and tried to act like they were king of the world and could boss me around, and it was just one of those jobs where you are underpaid and underappreciated. The only reason I did not quit was because I had a few of my friends as co-workers and we did have fun between the jackass customers and our crazy boss.

When I reached my senior year in high school, I was pretty well settled in my own skin—I finally liked who I was and how I had turned out, despite my parents best attempts to make me feel otherwise. But then something happened that changed everything, and I suddenly hated everything about myself and the world around me. On top of that I felt utterly trapped in this mindset, in my life, and in my parents house. There were too many sides to a cage closing in on me. I was used to being free, to doing whatever I wanted, and then…everything went bad, it all came crashing down around me. My family didn’t want to hear about it and I didn’t want to tell anyone, so I took it inside myself and it festered and grew, a beauty and self-loathing. Why couldn’t I stop it?