Chapter 1The Parasite

My sister and I share a body, and we've been mortal enemies since birth, desperate to kill each other.

She calls me the parasite, the monster who ruined her life.

I always thought it was just her vicious curse—until I found the medical records our mother had hidden.

It turns out, everything she said was true.

* * *

My sister and I were enemies from the moment we sparked into being, fighting for dominion in the dark of the womb.

If she pulled on my umbilical cord, I hammered my fist against her skull.

If she hogged all the nutrients, I sank my gums into her flesh.

After we were born, our misshapen connection became the original sin for which we could never forgive each other.

She’d deliberately knock over a kettle of boiling water, scalding the skin we shared. In return, I’d wrap my hands around her throat and squeeze until she passed out. She once used a stolen pair of scissors to try and snip through the bridge of flesh that bound us; I responded by throwing myself down a flight of stairs, landing us both in the ICU.

We were like two rabid dogs chained together, desperate to tear into each other’s flesh, to drink each other’s blood.

Then yesterday, I found the medical file Mom had hidden in the attic.

A faded sonogram, dated three months into her pregnancy, showed a single, healthy baby girl.

Olivia.

I didn’t appear until the six-month scan, a distorted tumor of flesh clinging to her side. I had leeched her nutrients, forced my own developing organs to fuse with hers.

The doctor’s notes read: “Rare parasitic twin, suspected genetic mutation. Termination of pregnancy is advised…”

I stared down at the jagged, scarred flesh that joined us, and a sickening understanding washed over me.

I wasn’t her twin. I was a mutation, a monster.

I had violently torn her normal body apart, destroying the happy life she was supposed to have.

I was the original sin, the mistake that should have never existed.

All this time, Olivia had been right.

I was the parasite. I deserved to die.

…

At dinner, Olivia turned her head away, a familiar act of defiance.

I knew what she was doing. She was trying to starve the parasite out.

We shared a stomach. If she didn't eat, I didn't eat. It was her favorite and most effective form of revenge.

Her lips were a thin, tight line, refusing every spoonful Mom offered. Broth dribbled from the corner of her mouth, running down onto the shared expanse of our chest, a messy stain between us.

Mom’s voice was frayed with exhaustion. “Olivia, honey, please. Just eat something. Do you want to end up back in the hospital? Do you want the feeding tube again?”

My body tensed. The memory of that tube, thick and abrasive down my throat, was enough to make me gag. No, I didn't want that.

I was about to take the fork from Mom’s hand and eat for the both of us when Olivia’s arm shot out, knocking the utensil to the floor.

She glared at me, her eyes like poison-tipped daggers, and the look carved me up inside.

“I won’t let you eat,” she hissed. “Starve, you leech. Starve.”

Our shared stomach cramped, a hollow, clawing ache that made my entire body feel frantic. A wave of frustration and helplessness washed over me. Why should I have to starve just because she was on a warpath?

Deliberately, I grabbed the bottle of lemon juice from the table and took a long, defiant swig.

Olivia’s face instantly contorted. She hated anything sour, and on an empty, acid-filled stomach, the shock of it was brutal. A violent spasm seized our midsection. The hunger intensified tenfold, and she started retching, sour saliva flooding her mouth.

Her eyes shot fire at me. “You little roach! Always pulling these tricks!”

I ignored her, pouring more of the acidic juice into my mouth.

Her complexion grew paler, sicklier.

Finally, she broke.

She stared at me, her eyes red-rimmed—not with tears, but with pure, unadulterated hatred. She snatched her bowl and began shoveling food into her mouth, swallowing whole chunks without chewing, a savage motion as if she were tearing into my own flesh.

“Eat yourself to death, you monster!” she choked out between mouthfuls. “I hope you burst! I hope you die, die, die!”

Warm food filled our stomach. The gnawing hunger subsided, but my heart felt like a gaping wound, a cold wind howling through a space that could never be warmed.

I had been planning to tell her. I was going to tell her that I would agree to the separation surgery, that I wanted her to be a whole person.

But watching her force food down while cursing me, the words caught in my throat like fish bones.

Forget it.

If I told her now, she’d just think it was some new, twisted game.

It was better this way. Let her keep hating me.