CO
The universe takes what it wants and never gives back. Didn’t want me. Chewed me up and spat me out. As a special souvenir, I got a nice case of chronically fucked hearing as well as all of my twin sister’s clothes and stuffed animals. Included in the package deal was a nice case of PTSD and survivor’s guilt. Why Dad tried to kill himself with Marina and I in the car will always be a mystery. I don’t remember it, save for bits and pieces. A raspy deep voice on the radio and an acoustic guitar. My head tipped against the fogging window. And waking up in the intensive care unit wearing teddy bear scrubs, nursing a pounding headache and immediately tugging at the IV embedded deep in my wrist. Marina wasn’t there. They say when you’re a twin you have some sort of special connection, a sort of sixth sense. It was mostly likely because I was nearly gassed to death, but I will tell myself until I die that it was my spidey-twin-sense connection to Marina that dug the hole in my heart and dried the moisture in my throat as tears sprang to my eyes, immediately, and I knew something went terribly, terribly wrong. I don’t know why Marina died while I didn’t. We were identical twins -- nearly exactly the same in weight, height, genes, whatever the fuck is a factor in whether or not carbon monoxide kills you or not. The only conclusion I’ve got is that the universe only had room for one Morrison twin in its back pocket, and poor Mari got the short straw. I digress. This isn’t Mari’s story; it’s mine. I suppose it’s Dad’s story, too, because I am to visit him today. He survived the attempt after Mom found us gassing up his Ford Fiesta when she got back from the grocery store, and he resides in a maximum security psychiatric ward on the edge of the state. After Dad recovered from his attempt, the jury found him guilty, albeit, fucking crazy, so instead of prison he was indefinitely shipped to the loony bin. Can’t tell which is worse. Anyways, Mom refuses to see him. I don’t blame her. I did, too, for a long time. But this is the part in the story where the scorned daughter decides she wants some closure from her disgraced father. Mom wasn’t too pleased with the idea, but supportive nonetheless, after I got the sign off from my shrink. As I pull off the intersection into the rest stop, I remember her words to me before I left. *“Don’t expect some heartfelt apology and a bucket of tears, Tasha. He’s probably so looped up on meds that he won’t even remember your name.”* Bitter and venomous, her words almost dissuaded me from making this whole trip altogether. Almost. The sun is beating as I step out of the car to pump my gas, and I take a moment to wipe the sweat from my brow. Even at 7:00 AM, August in the south is brutal this time of year, and I can feel the sweat soaking through my sports bra and staining my shirt. Lovely. Great first impression. As I remove the pump from my car, a voice interjects my train of thought from the pump next to me. “God dammit.” It’s husky and warm, laced with rasp. “Stupid fucking card.” I turn to him. He’s tall and handsome, clean cut brown hair and warm brown eyes. He’s wearing a perfectly fitted tuxedo -- a foil to my gym shorts and sweaty tank top. He aimlessly shoves his credit card into the slot once more, grumbling to himself. He looks panicked and frantic, wiping his sweaty hands on his jeans as he murmurs. “Come on, come on, I gotta go!” “You okay?” I ask him. He whips around to face me. “Ah, shit, I’m late. I’m getting married today and forgot to fill up my tank last night, dammit. My card keeps getting declined. This is a disaster, I have to be at the alter in thirty.” I think it’s a bit strange that he was heading to his wedding all alone, or that a well-dressed man in a shiny Range Rover couldn’t get his card to process. But hey, shit happens, and the butterflies in my stomach as I near the psych ward tell me I need some good karma today. Gas isn’t cheap, but it’s his wedding for God’s sake. I can splurge a little. “Don’t worry,” I say. “I’ll spot you.” I walk over to his kiosk and jam my card inside, as he waits anxiously beside me. I can feel his breathing down my neck and I shudder, despite the beating heat. Nerves, I tell myself. “Oh God, thank you,” he exclaims, his face meer inches from mine as he exhales. I punch in my pin as he diverts his eyes. “You’re a lifesaver. Can I get your name, so I can let the wedding party know who saved my marriage today?” I slide the card out of the kiosk and tuck it into my wallet. “Natasha. Don’t worry about it. Congrats on your marriage!” I turn to walk back to my vehicle, when suddenly there is a crushing weight against my waist as the man pulls me into his side. I feel something small and metal poke my back as he whispers into my hear. Drops of his spit land on my neck as he crouches to my level. He begins to drag me to the back of the car, as my feet follow, skidding against the asphalt. “Get in the car and don’t move.” “What the fuck?” I exclaim, wriggling, but a sharp pain stops me in my tracks as he knicks my right flank. I feel warm blood pool in that spot as I wince. My eyes frantically scan the gas station, but there are no other customers in sight. A car whizzes down the left lane as I open my mouth, but it’s already gone as my voice returns to my throat. *Fuck no, I’m not getting kidnapped. There are people inside. No second location for me.* “HEL-” I begin to shout, but I am interrupted as a sweaty hand clasps over my mouth. The silky fabric of his tuxedo grazes my stomach as I wriggle in his grasp. In a fluid motion, the man pops open the trunk and nearly *throws* me inside, slamming it shut. *Fuck. This is pretty bad. If this is the universe’s way of fucking me over, it can suck a dick.* I realize that I left my phone in the car as the man pulls out of the station and careens left back onto the highway, picking up speed as he merges to the left lane. Fucker doesn’t put on his blinker, either. Typical. Panic rises in my throat as I begin to beg. “Please,” I gasp, “don’t do this. Let me go. People will be looking for me. I won’t tell anyone. Please just let me go.” The man sighs from the driver’s seat. “It would be wise of you to stop talking, Natasha.” I saw an episode of Grey’s Anatomy where there was a shooter running amuck in the hospital, and he spares some doctor after she starts babbling about her childhood and growing up on a farm. Round two. Relate to him. “Please, I have a family. My name is Natasha Morrison. My mom calls me Tasha. I had a sister, but she’s dead. Her name was Marina. I’m studying to be a high school guidance counselor. I have two more years left in school. My dad tried to --” “Enough,” says the man, and the malice in his voice is enough to cut me off my tangin. “I don’t like chatter. I don’t care who you are.” I realize another thing, as I begin to smash my foot into the trunk, like I saw on TV once, hoping to punch out a headlight. This dude let me see his face. He’s probably going to kill me. I’ve seen enough Law and Order to know that if you see the dude’s face, you’re fucked. I say nothing more, but tears begin to fall down my face as the car settles at 80 mph, passing oblivious folks in the right lane. “Why are you doing this?” I whisper. The man glances back at me through the rearview window. “You’re pretty. Pretty and stupid. I like pretty and stupid.” He did not elaborate. The universe takes what it wants, and never gives back. I think of my mother, and how she’ll have lost both of her twins in a matter of hours. Maybe the Morrisons are cursed to die in fucked up ways. Maybe Dad will get shanked by some schizo in the psych ward, just for shits and giggles. Out of tears and nearly out of screams, I curl into a ball on the floor of the trunk, trying to catch my breath. I’m tired. Damn tired. So tired that I don’t notice the car beginning to swerve in and out of the left lane until a loud *honk* brings me back. “Christ,” the man murmurs. I groggily sit up and glare at him, as he rubs his eyes with his left hand, keeping a steady right hand on the wheel. “I’m fucking tired.” He closes his eyes, for a second too long as the car shifts again and slows, and blinks them open once more to put his foot on the gas. “You okay?” I murmur, but my voice is softer than I intended. “Shut up,” he gasps, as he steadies his hands on the wheel, clunkily merging to the right lane. Getting kidnapped is surely terrifying, but it is the laugh that rattles my bones and chills me to the core. Scorched but sweet, raspy but young, it is a high-pitched giggle laced with poison. It sounds like something is scratching against the esophagus, riddled with broken glass. I turn to the source of the laughter, and cannot help but scream. A young girl sits next to me in the drunk. Her skin seems plastered onto her body, bones nearly breaking the surface and popping out. Chunky vomit dribbles down her chin, crusted in some places, fresh in others. Blue eyes glazed over and bloodshot, as if obscured by a dirty mirror. Her long, low ponytail hangs over her shoulder, doused by some sort of sticky substance that cakes the broken ends together. She’s so skinny her eyes appear sunken into her skull and her collor bone juts out of her neck, as if it would cut you if you got too close. She’s a horrifying sight, but a sight I have always known, from my birth to today. She is me. She is… “Marina?” I say, raising my hand to reach for her. Her laughter ceases as her dull eyes flit over to me, looking me up and down. A wide smile graces her face, touching her jutting cheek bones. A cold hand makes its way to my thigh as I gasp at its touch. Her face is all I know before I tumble back over, a pounding headache suffocating me as the car skids, spins, and fumbles off the highway. … When I wake, I immediately go for the IV in my arm, only to be stopped by my mother, who rests a warm hand on my wrist. “Don’t, Tasha,” she warns. She looks older than ever, wrinkles sprouting on her thin face, hair raggedy and untamed. I groan as a horrible headache nearly splits my skull. Mom sighs. “You’re lucky to be alive. Couple of broken ribs and you shattered your ankle, but the doctor says you’ll make a full recovery.” “Marina,” I gasp as I find my voice. “I saw Marina.” Mom’s eyes soften. “Hon, Marina is dead. It was probably a hallucination from the carbon monoxide poisoning.” “What?” “Detectives are still trying to put the pieces together, but the man who took you… his car was flooded with CO. He… he passed out. Car went flying off the road and smashed into a guardrail. Flipped and landed on the edge of the woods. He died, they say instantly.” She laughed. “You’re staying away from cars from now on.” “No,” I murmur. “Marina was there. I saw her. She was *real*.” Mom’s eyes well up with tears. “Oh, Tasha.” We sit in silence, the only sound a steady beeping from my heart monitor. … I lean my crutches against the table as I sit across from my father. I had almost forgotten what he looked like, but as soon as I see him, it all comes back to me. The shaggy blonde hair, striking blue eyes, the mole on the bottom of his right cheek. He has gained some weight, and looks as if he aged nearly fifty years, but he’s still Dad. The hospital is gloomy and cold, and I shiver as I cross my arms over my chest and jiggle my leg under the table. “Thank you for finally seeing me, Natasha.” His voice is hollow. I exhale slowly. “Why’d you do it? Why’d you put Marina and I in that car?” Dad looks up at me. There are several beats of silence. “I didn’t want to go alone.” The words hit me square in the chest. I don’t know what to say. Finally, the words come out. “I saw Marina, in the car. She saved me. No one believes me, but it’s true.” Dad does not hesitate. “I believe you.” His head drops low again. “I’ve… seen her too. I’m… sorry, Natasha.” I place my hands on the table, slowly. Dad gingerly rests his on top of mine. We sit in silence. And maybe I’m crazy, but I feel a third set, fingers lacing between both of ours, three heartbeats as one.