Identical Hazel Eyes

Your dark hair moves with the wind; its stiff hairspray breaking bonds as it did so. The dark lines that encase those hazel eyes trickle down your flat cheeks, dripping off your face and disappearing into the night as they fall, their dark salt staining the cement below. Your bracelets clang together as you angrily grip the Polaroid in your hand. Manicured nails threaten to pierce the face of yourself smiling happily up at your now saddened one. Your twin, smiling too, was next to you, both of you in your swim trunks on some exotic beach. Sunglasses adorned your young face, hiding your sadness from the photographer. Even your twin didn't see past the facade that day- it was all easy-going and slow relaxation in the warm salty water.

Now, he is in the hotel room below, some girl entertaining him long enough for you to go through with these depressing thoughts. Taking a long, angry last look at the dreaded teen in the photo, your own blood and soul, you slowly unclench the manicured hand, letting the happy memory float down fifty-seven stories, a dark blotch landing on your brothers face, staining the white smile.

Your Etnie's peak over the ledge, saying Hello! to the pavement below. Metal clanged as your thin arm falls to your side. Your chest heaves with emotion and your nose flares, the slow stream wanting to become a raging waterfall. Your small frame shakes with a strangled sob.

Hazel eyes scan the city, looking for salvation in something other than your brothers taken arms. The dank, empty city loudly proclaims it holds nothing. The world moves on, as if you weren't standing on the ledge of the Tokyo Hotel, waiting for Death to come and take your slow ticking life.

Death closes in, engulfing your world and beckoning your off the ledge... But not into the welcoming darkness below. No, Death's hand around your wrist pulls you back, off the ledge and onto the solid roof. Thin arms wrap themselves around your convulsing body, holding you close to their identical form. Their scent, almost your own, brought the waterfall forth, the white shirt pressing to your face, collecting the staining black salt.

Your own arms snake their way around the thin, baggy clothed form before you. Gripping him to yourself, you're afraid to let go in case he abandons you again. And that's all you need to break down, to let out all the pent up emotions you held inside for the last four years of your life. And your other half presses you closer, too, like he's as afraid as you are to lose that special bond only you two have.

Your taller frame is held by his smaller, cradling your fragile soul like it was going to shatter in his hands. And it was, it was so near breaking state that you felt like he left half of it over the edge to be crushed and molded in Death's hands.

Your eyes, so wet with salt that they hurt to blink, press into the light fabric of his over sized shirt. He calms you with a circular motion of his hand on your back, the warm appendage spreading itself apart. You body shakes as your skin rises with the chilling air. The dark clouds above come together, forcing the pent up water to come crashing down around you both.

He pulls you away; whispering comforting words to let you know that you have to go inside, back to the hotel room so that you don't get sick. It was typical, him always looking out for you like that. He had that quality from Mom; she was always making sure you didn't get sick. After all, it was your duty to sing nightly and give the kids a show. Without you up there, singing you heart out to live, there was nothing. No show. No fans. No band.

His hand gripping your upper arm, he pulls you to the door you came through when you thought this was it, this was your ending until the next time. He tugs you inside, out from the rain that has penetrated your clothes, dampening your cold skin and sticking to you.

Ten flights of stairs and a long hallway later, Tom drags you into his hotel room. You stand awkwardly in the kitchenette, not wanting to feel needy by trailing behind him. You watch as he moves about the room, grabbing at things here and there, as if he was searching for a long since misplaced item and was just now getting around to looking. He continues his search, now moved to his suitcase resting against the wall opposite his bed. You watch him dig through the clothes, crouching down in concentration.

Metal clangs once again, this time your hand comes up to wipe at the drying trails, the salt sticking to your skin and lashes like a sticker upon a car. He gave you a glimpse at the sound, pulling out an old and battered piece of clothing from he depths of his suitcase. Instantly, you recognize the article without even a glimpse. You almost smile at his thoughtfulness, but the river spilling from your sore eyes interrupts such an action. Your face pulls down the corners of your mouth, creating sad lines upon the rest of you.

Tom knows this reaction; it's just like every time the old fabric is brought in sight. Even a color similar, leading other to believe you have a weird OCD reaction, make you wince as your eyes water.

You almost didn't want to touch it, afraid you would ruin the color with your tears. Tom forces it into your hands, pressing the cool cotton diligently until you take hold. Realizing this is just what you need, just the comforting item to bring you back down, you force out the smallest of smiles in thanks.

But it made you want to leave more- be with the former owner of this shirt. Maybe there the pain of a relationship gone bad will subside and you can smile and laugh like you used to do years before the band and the style change.

He would view it differently now, though. As if your step-father forced you into this business at such a young age, forcing you to grow up quicker than others your age. "The profession requires mature adults," he'd imitate, "Acting childish is a thing of the past, now, boys. Grow up."

Of course, he didn't know that if was truly his fault you began to write- expressing yourself the only way acceptable. This all resulted because of his mistake, nothing more.

But maybe now he's come to accept this and come to terms with his two boys silently from above. Just maybe.