Body of Lies

She had never felt so completely lost in all of her life. Not even bitterly unpleasant memories of hazy nights spent in drunken stupors or temporarily losing reality in darkened rooms filled with pungent smoke and the sighs of drug-induced relief could fill her with the level of anxiety that she was being attacked by in that damn closet. Such a stupid thing, she told herself, to be intimidated by clothing. But the unimaginable collection of regal blouses and flowing skirts, elegant pant suits and expensive jackets all seemed to taunt her with their vast selection of combinations, fabrics, and styles; screaming about how unworthy she really was to be enveloped in their cost. It was suffocating. An absolutely claustrophobic nightmare of designer labels and cleaning directions. And the shoes. Oh, God, she couldn't even bear to stare into that abyss of carefully arranged straps and heels. Bridget had never had a remotely comparable sense of fashion to Siobhan's. Even before marrying Andrew her sister had always maintained impeccable taste.

"This is ridiculous," she grit out through the tightening in her throat as she pawed her way through the colorful array of scarves in the drawer. No one could ever understand just how strange, or how surreal her situation was. The twins were near perfect duplicates of one another. To the casual observer or the untrained eye they were virtually the same. They looked alike, sounded alike, even smelled alike with the same pouting smile and sad soulful eyes. But for every similarity, there was another stark contrast between them.

Siobhan carried herself with a perfect air of grace. All of her mannerisms were thoughtfully calculated by a shrewd eye for detail. Her facial expressions alone were a masterful artistry of production meant to sway the opinions of others; something that Bridget could only mimic by years of practiced experience. So much like the yin and yang, everything that Siobhan was and had been, Bridget was not. And yet, there she was, slipping into her sister's life by the grace of purposefully neglected existence.

Rolling her eyes upward to the ceiling, towards whatever higher power her mantras taught her to seek, she caught her reflection in the mirror. Bridget had thus far managed to restrain herself from giving in to the swelling in her chest. She wouldn't allow herself to cry however ready she was to burst, but the telltale pink tinge to her eyes accentuated by a slight puffiness only served to encourage the guilt hidden just beyond. It wasn't really the clothing driving her anxieties. It was the life that came with them. Her sister was gone.

After all of the destruction and chaos that she had brought into their lives, all of the careless mistakes and reckless abandonment for the well-being of those around her, for her family, Siobhan was her only connection to the world that she had left. Sure, they hadn't spoken for years before their meeting ending in the impromptu and ill-fated boat ride; something that Bridget understood because given the option she probably wouldn't acknowledge herself either, but she had always known that Siobhan was still out there. She was still her sister. Her flesh and virtually identical blood. That was something that she could hold onto, and it was gone without so much as the courtesy of a body to bury for closure.

And there Bridget found herself once again, taking over that life that she knew she didn't deserve. At the time she had felt that it was her only option for escape. Escape from certain death by the hands of a vicious killer for no other reason than her talent for being in the wrong place at the wrong time; for being the wrong person and seeing the wrong things. Her sister hadn't been dead a day and Bridget had stolen her identity. She had moved herself into the swanky home with all of the creature comforts that anyone could ever imagine. She had positioned herself to take over the sizable fortune, the adoring friendships, the perfect husband however dysfunctional Siobhan's marriage had been. And the devoted lover that she had forced herself away from being consciously unable to push herself that far into hell. What kind of person did that make her that she could do that sort of thing? What brand of evil lurked within her that she could so easily sully her sister's memory and life that way? The kind that would have inevitably driven her to escape her life whether there had been a threat to it or not.

Bridget's life experiences had made a professional liar out of her. She could convince almost anybody of anything that she wanted, which she had frequently done. But she couldn't lie to herself. Not for long anyways. She had coveted everything her sister had from the moment she first saw her again, witnessed all of the material wealth and the pretty things that she would have wanted for herself. Bridget wanted so badly to say that without a cold-blooded murderer looming over the horizon she wouldn't have made the decision to swipe Siobhan's driver's license and credit cards, but honestly, she couldn't force the words all the way over the barrier of her lips no matter how hard she tried. It would just be one more lie to add to the growing pile that she was making in that closet.

She wanted to be anything, anybody but Bridget. She wanted to not be liar. She wanted to not be an addict. She wanted to not be alone. She wanted to not be a stripper, and a sinner, and a pathetic excuse. She wanted...

The easy life. Bridget scoffed at the thought. Every morning she woke in the plush bed of her dead sister proved to her that Siobhan's life was anything but easy. That package hadn't come with a much needed warning label.

"Hello, my name is Siobhan Martin. It's so nice to meet you," she practiced in the mirror with a false smile of plastic intentions. "Hello, my name is Siobhan. My name is Siobhan. Siobhan. Siobhan. Siobhan," she repeated to herself, rolling the name off of her tongue in an attempt to make it sound natural.

Responding to the name hadn't been an issue. Bridget was still fairly used to being called by her sister's name from all the times that they had been confused for one another as children. But the name, like the silky swaths of clothing, came with a life that didn't belong to her. "Siobhan," she whispered.

Liar. Fraud. Phony.

"Siobhan," she croaked out with a half-cracked sob. "Look at what you've done," Siobhan would have said had she been there. "Look at the mess you've made. Why do I always have to fix your life for you? Why do I always have to clean up after you?" She may not have been there to clean up another one of Bridget's "mistakes" but even in death Siobhan had managed to fix her life for her. Kind of. "You know, this is why we can't have nice things."

"My name is Bridget," she rasped to her own reflection, needing the truth and grasping at straws for her own identity before drowning it in her sister again. She wiped away the tear that threatened to ruin her perfectly applied mascara wishing that she could wash it all away and see herself in the mirror. Siobhan didn't cry. She never would have allowed herself the indignity of it.

Siobhan had to be strong. Siobhan had to have a ruthless will of iron. Ambition. Direction. Purpose. Siobhan had to have reason and drive because she was needed. Siobhan had people that counted on her. Even if it was just for the dry cleaning, she was needed.

Bridget wasn't any of those things and Bridget never would be. Hell, Bridget had managed to kill her pet goldfish when she was six earning her another well-deserved chastising by her sister whom even then had been the levelheaded adult of the two trapped in a child's body. A faint smile curled in the corner of her mouth for the memory. Bridget needed Siobhan. But she wasn't there and she never would be again.

Bridget still needed Siobhan. She needed her sister enough to become her. Yes, she would let Bridget die so that Siobhan could keep going. For her husband, for her best friend, for all the socialites and fashionistas, for her bratty, delinquent stepdaughter, and most of all for herself. She would make it the way that it should have been as though life were never interrupted.

"Siobhan, what are you doing in here?" Andrew inquired from the closet doorway with narrowed eyes. "We have reservations in half an hour," he noted, tapping his watch face with irritability in his voice.

"I was just trying to decide what to wear." Truth. Finally. Bridget surprised herself a little with the strength that she had instantly mustered with that one little thought.

The briefest flicker of some unidentifiable emotion crossed his features before Andrew sighed contemptuously. "You've never had trouble with that before." His expression remained one of frustration, but his tone had softened considerably, almost akin to the subtle coaching that she had received from her sponsor. She should have flinched. Should have blinked. Should have felt a surge of adrenaline rush through her brittle veins to accompany a pang of fear that he somehow knew her dirty little secret. The feeling was more frighteningly absent.

Siobhan and Andrew hadn't always had the most happy of relationships but he was still her husband. He knew her inside and out, backwards and forwards, upside down and right whether he admitted as much or not; whether Siobhan knew about his observations or not. He might not have known exactly what the cause of her recent change in behavior was but Andrew knew something. Something that would forever go unspoken between them as was their way.

"You've always favored the red," he said evenly, pulling an evening gown from its hanger and a pair of strapping heels from the rack with a touch more of casual leading.

"Thank you." She didn't miss the drop of his eyes to the floor for the most fleeting of seconds, and he hadn't missed the genuine gratitude in her thanks. Siobhan never would have thanked him for making a decision for her that way. Siobhan never would have needed the help in the first place. Andrew kindly ignored the slip; pretending to pass it off as nothing more than another episode in her recent possession.

"Siobhan, is this tie straight?" And he was off again without a hitch. Andrew appraised himself in the mirror, adjusting the knot and smoothing over the rich black silk while he awaited her scrutiny.

"Here," she motioned to take the cloth in her hand, hesitating for a fraction too long before gripping the tie and steadily making it more uneven. Andrew released a puff of breath from between his tightly frowning lips and maneuvered her fumbling hands away. To anyone that might have been watching the move would have seemed as though he were batting her away, continuing in his charade of obstinate frustration, but in the truth of the moment his touch was gentle.

Looks like I'm not the only liar around here, Bridget thought to herself as she watched him walk away with crafted tension in his shoulders. Andrew paused just beyond the closet doorway, keeping his back to her but turning his head ever so slightly. "In case you've forgotten, the necklace that goes with that dress is in the black case, third drawer on the left," he nonchalantly tossed over his shoulder before making a hasty exit.

Bridget located the aforementioned box and retrieved the necklace. Turning back to the mirror she slipped the delicate chain around her neck. "My name is Siobhan." She closed her eyes, willing Siobhan to be real. To be the truth. "My name is Siobhan Martin."

Maybe karma had finally come around to bite her in the ass because Bridget would have rather been rotting in a dank jail cell than be in that closet at that moment. But she wasn't. She had escaped Bridget. Escaped her miserable purposeless existence and cheated death just like she had wanted. Instead, the facade of Siobhan had become her prison.

"Be careful what you wish for," she muttered under her breath as she closed the closet door behind her. Bridget would be left behind in the darkness of the wardrobe because her punishment was living in a world only big enough for Siobhan. She would be forced to find her atonement in her lies. She would pay for every crime, every sin with each kiss, hug, smile, and touch of her sister's body. Maybe someday she could find her redemption and come out of the closet again, but until then Bridget would have live her crime. Her own personal hell in her body of lies.

The end.