"I'm going to the bathroom," I growl at the bastard, who is now curled up on the floor, clutching his side.
He just gives me a pained smile as I step over him, "W-wow Feli, you... you hit pretty hard"
"Mio Dio Antonio, what the hell is wrong with you?" I pause for a second debating whether or not I should stomp that stupid smile off his stupid face. How dare he call me that. Antonio, of all the rest of the bastards in this fucked up world, should know the difference between me and my fratello. Deciding against it, I march into the bathroom, jaw clenched, and lock the door behind me. I always lock the door now, especially when I'm in the bathroom. I don't need that Tomato bastard barging in and asking me if I need help. "Like hell I'd want you to help me take a piss."
My hands slam against the cold counter top, making them sting slightly. I stare angrily at them. That hurt way more than it should have. After all the years I spent growing tomatoes with that Spanish bastard, my hands have calloused from having hit him so much. But its not like I hit him just for haha's; it's because he deserves it for saying something idiotic and corny or trying to 'harvest' me. The longer I stare, the more things I find that are wrong with my hands. They seem smaller. And a lot paler than I'm used to. "Ah, but what do I know? Not like I study my hands under a god damned microscope."
I run my unfamiliar fingers through my hair, which I noticed is also a lot lighter than I thought it was. I raise my eyes to the mirror, just to show myself that I'm asking too many stupid questions. An unconscious shout burst out of my mouth and I stumble back, tripping over and falling into Antonio's big ass bath tub. I shout again, this time from anger rather than shock, at the fact that his tub is filled with water and turtles.
It doesn't take long for Antonio to appear. He breaks the door down, after realizing its locked, and comes in declaring something about how he will save 'the cute little Italian from drowning in the tub'. Moron.
I don't react when he lifts me, dripping wet, out of the tub. When he throws a large towel on my shoulders and starts to dry off my hair, I just stare straight ahead, to shocked to protest. He could pull on my curl and I still wouldn't do anything. Somewhere in my mind I've exploded and can hear myself unleashing hell on him. Ranting about how I'm, a grown man and can take care of myself. But the voice is faint. The rest of my attention is focused on the reflection in the mirror. I know it should be my reflection looking at me thought the glass, but it's not. The person being reflected, copying my every move, is my twin brother, Feliciano.