Fiction Monologue

Can you hear me?

Sorry, that was dumb. I guess I'm not too sure what to say to start off with. So much for my 'talent for words", huh? Everything I can think of sounds sort of fake, and I know you hate that more than anything. You were always good at telling me to cut the drama and just say whatever I was there to say.

I guess I ought to just do that, then. Happy birthday. Happy birthday to us, I should say. You're finally Sweet Sixteen. I don't think they let guys have that title, for whatever reason, so enjoy it as something your annoying little twin can't share. I suppose that technically we aren't quite sixteen yet. One hour and twenty-two minutes until one-thirteen AM, on April sixth of the year two-thousand and six. We should have been born in June: it would be 06/06/06.

Mom isn't here with me. I'm sorry, but...she's not coming. But we both know what she'd be saying in any case, so let's see if I can do it for her.

You're an April person, Cassidy. Always alive, that's for sure: you're the most alive person I've ever met. Your face never stays the same expression more than a minute; your weather is always changing. You could wake the earth up from winter all on your own. You don't listen to anything or anyone you don't want to, and you're stubborn as hell. Somehow you always had time for me, though…even if I didn't move as fast as you.

Now it would be my turn, and she'd start by looking from you to me with this puzzled little look on her face, like she couldn't figure out how either of us ever came from her, much less managed to be twins. Then she'd sigh and smile and shake her head at both of us with the 'what am I going to do with you' face.

She'd always start out with the exact same words for me: "Sweetie, I don't know how you managed to get born in such a wrong month. You're a September boy, you're on the wrong side of the calendar altogether!" I guess that's just my luck, huh? No April showers for me…I like falling leaves better than rain.

But, it's really about you right now. I'll leave soon and then it will be all about me, so right now you can have the spotlight; you like it more than I do in any case. I don't understand why today has to be all about me these days. It was ours to share for such a long time…should that really change? I guess that's part of the reason why I'm here, even though it worries mom and dad.

I guess you can't quite blame them. It's terribly goth, sitting here in a cemetery at midnight talking to a gravestone. Or is that emo? It's emo to say I miss you, I'm sure. Beyond that I can never keep them straight.

I'd love to see someone fit you into a category…or at least see whatever was left of them after they tried. How would you even start? You have so many contradictions, and you seemed to get some sort of evil glee out of confusing people. You'd slap me one minute and hug me the next, and then in another moment forget all about it and be off on some new kick. And just when someone decided that the one word to describe you would be 'energy', you'd flop down in the middle of a sentence and take one of your cat naps that no one who values their life would ever want to wake you up from. Always dragging me outside to do some sort of painful and disgustingly athletic thing, but you hated 'jocks' and refused to play any sort of organized sport. You make no sense, Cas…and I love you for it.

I guess I'm easier to figure out. Quieter, at least…especially since I don't have you to talk for me any more. "Tobias? He's the one in the corner reading, writing or drawing." That's about it: I'm summed up in a sentence. But I figure I still have a few surprises left in me, if only because I know you'd want me to.

You certainly had some that no one was expecting. I won't go into the biggest one, since I'm sure you don't want to hear about it any more than I want to talk about it. I suppose I can tack another sentence onto my description: "He's the one whose sister died from cancer."

There. I said it. And again, I'm back at not really knowing what to say next. You always did: my social awkwardness was no match for your powers of being able to make conversation with anyone and anything, and dragging me along. How were you always so good at everything? At least my knowledge of Shakespeare is better.

"To be or not to be…" Hamlet was always my favorite play—another thing that probably worries mom and dad, now that I think about it. You didn't like any of them. You're definitely one who would "take arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing end them." I guess that's why it was so hard to see you find an enemy you just couldn't beat.

I lost you, Cas. Right when I needed you more than ever, you left me all alone. How is that fair? I find myself still saying 'we' sometimes, and it hurts when people look at me funny and I can't just explain "We're twins." I'll make some excuse, mumble something or make a joke about multiple personality disorder…and then leave before anyone notices that I'm trying not to cry.

Guys aren't supposed to cry. Who the hell made that rule up? Yeah, we're supposed to swear, too. You never paid much attention to "supposed to"s, and I bet you're rolling your eyes at me right now and wishing you could give me a good smack on the back of the head. But I just…I get so tired of it. Of everybody. This is starting to sound like a Health video about peer pressure.

I guess…that's part of the reason I'm here. When I needed help, I came to you…and I refuse to stop now. And you? In the end, when it really mattered—fuck, I'm crying—you wanted me there. Me, to help you be strong. And sometimes I need to remember that, and remember you, who right about now would be hugging me and would then yell at me until I realized that I could deal with it after all. And…I think I can.

Ten seconds to go. Nine, eight, seven…happy birthday, Cas. I need to go: if mom or dad finds out I'm not in bed and asleep, they'll kill me.

I love you. I miss you.