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Double Identity(Part IV)

But I did see him! And her! In the mirror! He greeted her, in a pleasantly robotic manner. She showered him with much-belated condolences and inquiries- for his health, for his mood, for his living condition(wouldn't that wench just browse the house herself?) and for the weather!? Ha, the weather! He replied absolutely nothing saved that of a constant bow-head and idiotic smile. She was crushed by his idiocy and reticence, and also the fail attempt to display her notorious ardency(Hypocrisy!Idiocy!) Complete noises. He crooked his head somewhat, still keeping that idiotic smile which feigned a pure form of innocence. She was also notorious for her low boredom threshold; she lost the patience to coming to terms of his indisposition so she knocked the table with her knuckles, hoping the loud sound would psych up the numb soul. The escapade worked, for he held his head askew as a dying fish struggling in a net and let out a shriek. A shriek I wished I had never heard unless I was born in hell.

For years I have tried desperately to stop him from making any further scene. I bolted the door, I kept my activities as sedentary as possible, I even tied myself on a chair once I sensed signs of his uncontrollable excitement. But all of those measures still proved to be tragically abortive. You thought the world was the same. You thought you two were of a kind. You thought you could dominate the world, which unarguably included yourself. And things would eventually smooth out in the end, as written in the scenarios.

People have been afraid of me. They claimed to see me wandering around the proximity, like a waif. Gulping down the river greedily at dawn, fawning on dead creatures as vultures when night fell. It was that idiotic smile that frightened them the most. The veiled artlessness which folded up extreme viciousness. So in dribs and drabs people began to eschew me. I had a wrong illusion that world was rumbustious enough to accept people like us, well at least, people like my other half.

So my story ends with me and my alias living happily ever after? Apology, my readers, but I don't think I can ever put up with him, nor can I shake off my intermittent desire to end his life. And end mine. But it can never be that offhanded. I used to be made sit through the grueling family union dinner by my mother. You know that hackneyed process, of people trying to put their fingers into your pie yet water you down all at once. The label of a social inept, the manifestation of social snobbery, all weigh down on me. You feel the repulsion yet the obligation makes you stick to your chair, dealing with those bestial, blood-sucking bastards. The feeling is sort of miserable though, unless you have no souls.

(The End.)

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