When I was fifteen years old, I nearly died.
Many people have had such an experience but mine was such a stroke of luck.
I'ld like to say it all began with when I was thirteen.
December seventh, that was the day my twin sister Amber died.
She killed herself.
Or so the police records say.
What really happened that evening was even worse than the idea she killed herself.
Amber and I were adopted.
We had once had a loving mother and father. Mr and Mrs Kingston. We lived a very happy childhood up until we were nine and Mr Kingston died of cancer.
After some time, Mrs Kingston remarried to save the family. She had always been a good housewife who had ko further education other than high school, and even then she didn't do so well.
She needed a man to take care of us, and at long last, when we were ten, she was married to Harold Vitelline. He was a decent man when mum was around, for a while at least.
Then the bad things started happening.
Mum started going to nursing school, late at night. Harry started yelling and verbally abusing us.
He was a horrible man, who emotionally and mentally abused us. He made us think we were nothing if we couldn't do chores or cook like housewives do. He told us no man would ever love us. He called us stupid and even worse names until we started to believe it.
But when we told mum about it, she never believed us. And if she did, she just told us to shut up and do as we're told.
We would never win. No matter how we tried.
Telling anyone at school was a no-no. As much as we were hurting, we really didn't want anyone judging us and getting into our business.
At some point, we decided it was best to keep silent and succumb to what Harry was trying to 'teach' us.
Or, well, I thought we would.
Amber was the braver one. She was loud mouthed and often argued back logic which Harry would combat back with ignorant responses.
When we were twelve, Mrs Kingston passed on mysteriously in a supermarket parking lot.
It left us without any love or anyone who would cheer us up when Harry would abuse us. Instead, Harry got a two new girlfriends almost instantly after mum's funeral.
One of them didn't last long with all the rowing and throwing of property they didn't even own.
But Felicia, Felicia was different.
She was a gold digger with a capital on every letter of the term, and held no shame in it. Amber and I assumed the only reason Harry kept her nagging ass around was because she was a good lay.
She cared nothing for us, and didn't give any fucks when Harry started hitting us.
His abuse got worse and worse. Some days pushing us down the stairs and one agonizing memory of him throwing hot water on me while I was asleep.
It was I who finally decided we needed to run.
We couldn't trust the police to have our backs as many times before they'd given us nothing but shade. Harry a higher up on the force and they all thought of him as a good guy.
They were extremely wrong.
So on December seventh, we took our bikes, our bags and bailed.
What went wrong was simple.
Harry heard us leave and quickly chased after us in his car. We pendled like our lives depended on it, of only I had known how much they did.
I was always less fit than Amber, I ate less, did less, thought less, I was always worse than Amber.
If only I were better, than I wouldn't have fallen and been caught by him. I would have been the one he hit with his car instead.
That moment plays on forever in my mind. Me locked in the backseat of his police car, screaming my lungs out, and him pressing the brakes hard at the last second of instant regret.
My twin sister.
My only true family.
The only person I loved in this word
died before my own eyes.
It wasn't a tragedy, it was a murder.
And it should have been me.