Standard disclaimer applies.

I saw your facade break off today.

It was exhilarating, you know, to see you so vulnerable. Call me cruel, but it's true. You never looked as human as you did today (what with your blood staining the white sheets). That carefully placed mask chipped off from your face, one by one. Your cool broke down like the shattered glass right in front of my eyes (what a waste of perfectly good orange juice!). I relished every moment of it. It made me feel powerful.

You are weak; such a shame. Even the doctors, you could not resist. Even the tranquilizers, you could not fight. Even your anger at me, you could not quell. Even the dwelling emptiness, you could not pacify.

What more of a demented shadow?

You once told me I was beautiful. That I made your life... colorful. I'm your twin, aren't I? We're two halves of the same being. I know your secrets, and you know mine. I was the friend you never had. When did it all change? Perhaps when you deliberately chose to forget I even existed?

Or was it when I ran him over with your car? But he would ruin you if you lived. I only did that to protect you.

I'm the M to your Alice. I'm the devil (an angel, I tell you!) looming on your shoulder. I'm the dark voice haunting your dreams. But is that who I really am? JUST who I am?

I'm your twin, remember? You are me. I am you. We are one. We share the same blood, the same mind. We share that same pulsating feeling coursing through our body, racking our chest with a dull throb. I'm the face you see when you look at the mirror each day.

The face you kept on insisting was yours, and only yours. But I beg to differ, my dear.

I held the upper hand. You were never aware that I can crush your dignity like a cockroach on the floor. I can overpower you. I can finally get back at you for keeping me void; for keeping me locked away from the world. I hated you, and you know it.

I can crush you, and we both know it.

You always blamed me for his death. But whose hands was it, which turned the wheel and sent him to his doom? Whose head was it, which barely turned as the vehicle accelerated backwards, even as the man (a boy, heavens!) in the rear view mirror coughed up his blood as he tried to stand up? Whose lips was it which curled to a sick smile as crimson pooled on the ground? Whose eyes was it which sparkled as the life drained from his? Whose arms was it, which carried his lifeless body towards the trunk of your car, through the wildflowers (such pretty, pretty flowers) and down to the murky deep?

(You know that thud when you hit him? It was satisfying.)

I could not, for the life of me, figure out how on earth you managed to blame me for his death when in reality, it was also your fault. Maybe if you accepted the fact that instead of being captive behind bars, you're safely hidden in a white room, you would not have injured yourself with broken glass. Maybe if you were grateful enough, you wouldn't have wasted orange juice just now.

I know how he got there. And it was not all me. It was also you.

A/N: Summer vacation once more! I is back! :) I hope the atmosphere of this piece did not confuse you. Haha! BTW, yes, this is a matter of a multiple-personality disorder. I wrote this long ago, but I slightly modified it to fit the character of Eugene's murderer. Thank you for reading.