A/N: And now for a little short story about Zach. He needs more love. (Although in saying that he will reject whatever you throw at him being so paranoid and suspicious all the time) This takes place between chapter one and chapter two but it could take place at pretty much any time. I just wrote it with that time period in mind.

Waking up is the most difficult part. Everyone always likes to have five more minutes, and I of course, am no exception. Unfortunately I’m one of those people who have the sole duty of waking up those he lives with. There is no glamour or glory in this job; most people aren’t their best in the morning, and I am still no morning person myself.

I stare at the ceiling and count the ridges and bumps until my alarm goes off. I woke up before it again. Odd; some biological clock of mine has finally found something to lock on to. I am by no means a consistent person. I do not consider myself to be obsessive compulsive either, although I must appear to be. I suppose I appear to be many things: perhaps that’s good. It will stop people from knowing the true me. Whoever that is.

I get up on the left side today, walk a small circle around the clothing and papers that still have not seemed to have removed themselves, and pull a new pair of socks off my desk- rearranging things as I go. No one will ever be able to find anything in my room if they look for it. Instead they may be pleasantly surprised by something that they’d never seen before- or possibly become increasingly frustrated until they start throwing things… that’s never good. I’m not stupid of course: nothing important is out in the open like that. Nothing truly important…

My morning routine is as dull as anyone else’s. Ugh, there’s that word: routine. How I loathe it. Humans may be creatures of habit, like sheep, but I try to avoid this for very specific reasons. Reasons I’d love to share with you, but you’d laugh. Not that I mind you laughing, not that I care that you’ll make fun of me, spread rumours, call me crazy… no, that’s not what bothers me. What bother me are people who ask questions for the sake of knowing the answer- and then using that answer against one. No matter what I tell you, you’d still laugh at me. I’m not especially skilled at making answers seem ‘real’ or ‘believable’ or ‘practical’ for your everyday average person; however those adjectives are exactly the reason why I do these things. Why does anyone do anything? Because it’s practical of course. So in my understanding, it’s practical to spend one’s life working to earn paper to use to acquire objects to put in their little shelters and occasionally show these objects off to jealous onlookers. However the more things they want the harder they have to work to get them and the less time they spend using the things they want to acquire.

Sure, perfect sense right there.

I continue. At this time of day in many parts of the world, the sun might be peeking up over the horizon, its rays slowly creeping across the Earth. It might even bring warmth, birdsong perhaps- although it’s more likely they would have started migrating south. Here in Western Canada it’s pitch black. There isn’t snow, as most coastal communities don’t tend to receive much, but it has probably rained. It might even still be. I can’t hear it.

The curtains in my room are shut tight and the lights are off. Some nights I just can’t stand even the soft glow of a lava lamp- this is one of those times. Turning on the lights now would hurt my eyes terribly; but I have a strategy to slowly adjust since it’s likely the sun won’t be coming up until I’m out the door. As I leave my bedroom I flick the lights on quickly, squeezing my eyes shut for a few seconds as I turn and head to the bathroom. The light from my room in the hallway is dimmed as I close my door blindly until only a few centimetres of it reflects on the wall. I reach the bathroom and turn on the hallway lights behind me. Squinting at my reflection, I make a few adjustments. I make an effort to do everything in a different order than usual, finishing with brushing my teeth. Once I am back in the hallway my eyes have adjusted: I cross the hall to my sister’s room. Her alarm won’t go off yet. It probably already had gone around four or five in the morning, but everyone in the house has adapted to it; it doesn’t wake up anyone anymore, no matter how loud it is.

I crack open the door and peer around it; I have been lucky so far in choosing appropriate moments to make my entrance- never once have I had to regret invasion of someone’s privacy, but I’m careful all the same. Julie is exactly as expected: so predictable. Sprawled out and perfectly still under the covers like a hung over spider after some experimentation with bug spray, she obviously had no intention of waking up.

This is the fun part.

I like to consider myself climactic at times. I start by whispering.
“Julie…”
Nothing.
“Julie, this is your cosmic twin brain powers speaking… Zach wants to communicate with you…’
Still nothing. Time to touch some nerves.
“Julia.”
A twitch, but only an unconscious one. She hates her full name.
“Julie,” my voice is at speaking level. It sounds obnoxiously loud in the dark.
Silence. Perhaps a few threats might work.
“Oh look. An article of clothing,” I pick up a shirt. “And, wow, a conveniently placed can of ginger-ale.”
Weak, I know. I didn’t expect a response. The can was empty anyway.
I walk a little awkwardly on my toes to the foot of her bed and take the corner of a sheet between a finger and my thumb. I drag it gradually along, stopping every so often. Finally I grab the corner in both hands and yank; like a toddler with a cat’s tail. Only I’m not covered in dirt and jam or whatever children put their fingers in.
“GOD DAMNIT ZACH.”
Ah, finally some audible language.
“GET THE HELL OUT OF MY ROOM.” She has cocooned herself in blankets now. Not a chance of me getting through that using muscle. Ah well. Even I have last resorts.
Most siblings have lived with each other long enough to know their weaknesses. I don’t believe that fraternal twins are any more special than normal siblings (Other than the fact that they’ve managed to share a womb in addition to everything else without killing each other).
I sigh, defeated. “Oh well. The waffles won’t eat themselves.” Too bad there aren’t any. I turn to leave, but as I go, I flick on the lights.
Howls of agony follow me down the hallway. Oh well. It seems to be the only way to get her out of bed; blasting music normally would work but she seems to have built up an immunity to it recently. I hate to do it, honestly. I am well aware of any consequences.
A/N Sorry for the abrupt ending but I’ve got an English memoir to work on. Agghh. Perhaps I’ll finish this up later. It’s meant to be a short thing. XD