Our Disturbed Reality

Bandit Way is strange. Twisted. Messed up. She knows it hurts her parents, but she really couldn’t care less. Let them lament over all the mistakes they think they made in raising her, she has more important things to do. Like going down to the river and wondering what it’d feel like to drown in it, sitting on the old tire swing she found in the woods and singing softy to herself, comparing cuts with Miles, who, to both his and her parents horror, has become a lot like her over the last year and a half. She hears Frank come over sometimes, to talk to her dad about it. Sometimes she eavesdrops, hears things them saying things like ‘It’s like they think it’s a fucking fashion statement’. Sometimes she hears crying. She tells Miles about the stuff their dads talk about, and it makes him laugh. They’ve got it all wrong, of course. Both Bandit and Miles know self harm isn’t a fashion statement, they do it because they’re crap at finding better coping methods, but they’re both so far gone they’ve learnt to embrace that part of themselves. If they didn’t, they’d be even worse, Bandit is sure. Not like their parents see it that way. They even tried to separate them at one point, but it swiftly proved impossible. A ban on seeing someone only works if you respect your parents’ wishes, after all. They might think that they know what’s best for Miles, but they’re wrong. Only Bandit knows what’s best for him.
“Could you sub me some money, Miles? The parents’ have figured out what I’m buying and stopped giving me pocket money.”
“Sorry, mine’ve done the same. They must be planning things behind our backs or some shit again.”
Bandit groans. She needs some new blades, fast. Her old ones are so blunt she has to practically lean on them to make the smallest incision. Some part of her knows this is a good thing – she has enough scars already – but it is a small part, easily defeated by her overwhelming urge to cut.
“Can’t you get some money off Cherry or something? Say it’s for like, clothes or some shit. Just don’t give her the slightest hint it’s for me.” Both the twins hate Bandit with a burning passion. They blame her for the shape their brother’s in, but in reality, if it weren’t for her, Miles probably wouldn’t be alive. At least, that’s what she tells herself, when she feels guilty about pulling Miles into her mad little universe.
“Yeah, of course.”
Miles is silent for a few seconds, and Bandit realizes it’s one of those days. The days when Miles lets himself get carried away, imagines a time when both of them didn’t rely on their own, twisted, version of normal that keeps them feeling sane, even though they both left the realms of sanity a long time ago.
“Bandit, do you ever wonder –“
“If maybe, if we tried, we might be able to sort ourselves out?” Bandit finishes his sentence for him. “Yeah, I do. I do a lot. But whenever I’m about to talk to someone, my brain switches around again and convinces me not to.”
The younger boy sighs. “I can’t help but think, though, that maybe we could find someone who could help. I know it’s impossible, but still...”
“It’s not impossible.” Bandit puts her arm around him, and kisses him gently. No, they’re not together, but they passed social boundaries a long time ago, and kissing has become as natural to them as breathing, an easy way to comfort each other. “Just very improbable.”
“Maybe one day, it won’t be so improbable anymore.” Miles mumbles as he pulls Bandit into a hug. Holding him tightly, Bandit can’t help but wish Miles never gets up the nerve to ask for help, because she knows she never will and the idea of being alone scares her more than anything. As long as Miles is as messed up as her, she’s still, ever so slightly, sane.