The beginning, so they say, but there was never really a beginning at all. The beginning of my life cold have been when meeting Henry, as that was the day my eye sockets gaped, protruding into a world of color and hysteria -a step out of Kansas.  Was it as I lazed, ambition-less, aimlessly in the womb of my mother? Or was it even before that? I shrug at the idea of life itself, and it’s purpose on the most selfish species. I mean, in my belief, all we’re here to do is reproduce (an inconsistent purpose however, as it contributes to this over-populated shit hole) then die to be born, then born to die. Contradicting everything, so what’s the point of it? It’s not as though we’re keeping other species alive because of a massive benefaction in a food chain. Thoughts like that give me the creeps. Some things you have to question, knowing you’ll be unanswered.
There was something definite however, Penelope was the first human being I had encountered. Some people believe that we had the luck of the leprechaun, because no matter what went wrong I’d always have Penelope, that we’d never be alone because we were perpetually together. I stand to negate this foul statement. Penelope was meant to be an only child, the spoiled lonely princess (not that my existence prevented such castles in the air), they only planned for one, she followed the plan. The only explanation I have for why I’m here, is because I’m a cell complication, a flaw that had to be ridden. I grew from that sapless cell. Today stand on barely two feet. Â All those people line up merely to place their two cents in the jar labelled “Thoughts-On-The-Gray-Twins”, lining up to value my Penelope, more than they value her sister. People expect me to fix myself, as if I had antibodies to defeat the antigens of my bad thoughts.
I liked secrets. The more you told, the more people wanted to be your friend, the more people cared about you. I was a good liar, a good storyteller. But how wrong I was. Disclosing whispers sicken you, shifting you from a healthy friendship quickly into a lethal feeble one, weakened on its death bed. Smiles peeling back into vindictive  smirks. Those thumb-stamped secrets become a hazardous zone, a haven for revenge. That was the game we played. Never once did I win. I composed hateful of-the-moment threats but at no time did I execute  Penelope the way she did for me.
Penelope chased me through the woods, and I’d climb the trees, as buttery as my fingers are, that’s something I can do and Penelope can’t. Her patience increases in proportion to her anger, adrenaline feeds her generously. Â I’d hold onto the smallest amount of happiness that was at near extinction. Held on the branch, for if I let go she’d get me.
There’s a point where you have to let go of yourself, where you can’t captivate all the deathly thoughts. You have to cry, because eventually all your swallows taste sour,  and sometimes people see. Penelope witnessed this and laughed, laughed. I’d tell her a secret out of confidence, a reach for help, my most extreme measure. Everyone risks hitting the bottom -breaking-  it’s people like Penelope that wait for this to happen, and when it does, they use that person. Extracting all the energy from them, converting it to self beneficial power.
Whenever she claims affection over me, never is it out of emotional gain. She feels responsible, and believes I am capable to cease my self from the world. Penelope can’t get the blame, there’s a law against bullying, and that the bully can legally be pointed guilty. Penelope didn’t want that ball and chain. Penelope’s love for me was as strong as Gacy’s remorse. Penelope takes everything too far. I slept on her bed, the next morning I was in my own, with black and blue arms coated in maroony dried blood. She’d break all but one bone in body and outburst with laughter at my struggle, at the pleads of desperation.
The most hurting part of it all, is, that as much as I hate Penelope, I love her more than I love myself. Because the truth is, the self love I have will never be reciprocated, as much as I try.