Ollie Sikes

31 August 2022
EN 245-01
Furuness
Diagnostic Story I: Reflection

Most times, a person can tell a set of twins apart by some miniscule, though not invisible,

detail. A mole, perhaps, or a birthmark.

This was not the case for the Williams twins.

Indeed, when the twins were born, Gwendolen Williams had no clue of how she would

remember which was which. Worse, she hadn’t even expected twins; rather, she had prepared for

one baby girl. Her foolish doctor had proven only part of his prediction to be correct.

This second baby was a thorn in her side. A parasite.

“What shall we name the other one?” her awestruck husband Joseph asked.

Gwendolen subtly glared at him. Though he said nothing, it was clear that Joseph wasn’t

going to give up this second baby. The tone in his voice made him sound like he was almost

excited to have two little girls instead of just one.

Gwendolen had dreamed of raising a girl since she was little. Girls were polite, quiet,

obedient. A girl wouldn’t soil her stockings by splashing in the mud. A girl wouldn’t steal fudge

from a candy shop. Girls were easy.

And best of all, a girl could find a rich man who would bring fortune to the family. It

wasn’t her responsibility to earn money. If her husband lost his job, that was his fault, not hers. It

would be his family that would face humiliation.

But Gwendolen knew she could only raise one girl. If another girl entered the picture,

then one of the two was destined to shame the family. That’s how all siblings are. Where one

succeeds, the other fails.

 Gwendolen had prayed as much as a woman could pray that this would never happen to

her. And yet, here were two babies in her arms, one with a name and the other without. She

hummed.

“Perhaps I should just name them both Aster.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Joseph said. “We must have some way to tell them apart.

Otherwise, everyone will be confused.”

Gwendolen sighed. As always, Joseph didn’t understand what she was trying to do.

If Gwendolen was going to raise two girls, and indeed she would have to, curse her

husband’s softness, then she was going to raise them as though they were one. That way, there

was no chance that one of them would ruin her reputation.

But it appeared Joseph wasn’t going to back down. So, Gwendolen would have to settle

for different names and ensure her husband interfered with nothing else.

She looked closely at the tiny creatures swaddled in cloth. One’s face looked peaceful,

angelic. The other was scowling in her sleep. Gwendolen’s eyes narrowed. She knew right then

that the scowling baby was the unwanted child, the twin, the one who would be difficult to raise.

“I’ll name the left one Aster,” she said, “and the other one…Acacia.”

“Acacia?” Joseph parroted. “That’s a rather odd name, don’t you think?”

Gwendolen looked down at the second baby with a sick smile.

“I think it’s perfect.”

Nobody could tell the Williams twins apart. At least, not physically.

Gwendolen had indeed taken the highest drastic measures to make her twins look like the

same girl. Whatever dress Aster wore, no matter how expensive or elaborate, Acacia would wear
an exact replica of it. The girls’ dark brown hair was always styled and cut the same way. They

would wear the same shoes, stockings, and every other accessory imaginable.

Their physical features only made them look more similar. Their voices sounded exactly

alike. They always shared the same height, right down to the centimeter. And their eyes were a

pale blue. Not a single soul in all of England could tell them apart. Looking at them was like

looking at a girl carrying a large mirror.

However, those who knew them could separate them by their attitudes and reputations.

Aster was the golden child. She could learn any new skill absurdly quickly, much to the

delight of her teachers and parents. She was especially known for her singing, her music teacher

even calling her “turtledove.” And she was popular, always surrounded by chatty girls and

smiley boys in the courtyard. Nobody could ever be mad at her; she was just too perfect.

Everyone wanted to know her, to be her.

Acacia, on the other hand…was something else.

No matter how hard Acacia tried, or how much her mother punished her, she could not

pass her classes like Aster. She could not sing like Aster. She could not make friends like Aster.

She didn’t have the knowledge to uphold a conversation nor the jokes that made everyone laugh.

She didn’t have the motivation, the passion for learning. And because she knew not the secret of

being a perfect girl, the universe made her suffer.

For fourteen years she tried to live in the world as herself, believing that, if she just

worked hard enough, she could be like Aster. But, at the end of each day, she would find herself

alone, writing in her diary. Her mother despised her, her sister never noticed her, and her father

was always away, working tirelessly at the hospital. She had nothing, and no one.
 Acacia hated her sister. She absolutely hated her. She hated her entire existence, how it

made her life miserable.

One night, after fourteen years of suffering, Acacia knew what she needed to do.

It was an abnormally cold and stormy night in October, close to midnight. The poor souls

trapped out on the streets would surely freeze to death. But inside the Williams mansion, where

no wind would ever dare to sneak inside, it was uncomfortably warm. The fire roared ceaselessly

in the fireplace, warning the family to keep a careful eye.

Acacia silently slithered down the hallway to her and Aster’s chamber, eyes darting

across the house for any sign of her mother. Her father wouldn’t be a problem, for he was always

asleep by this time.

She didn’t try to keep the door from creaking as she entered the room. Aster was,

naturally, slightly alarmed, but when she saw it was her sister, she smiled brightly.

“Oh, hello, Acacia. You startled me.”

“Hello, Aster,” Acacia replied. “What are you reading?”

Aster grinned. “Macbeth. I’m at the scene where Lady Macbeth is overcome by her guilt.

‘Out! Out, Damned spot!’ she says. What an exciting play.”

“Yes, indeed,” Acacia said, though she had never bothered to read it. She approached

Aster slowly.

“At least you’ll die having done something you loved.”

Aster looked up from her book. “What?”

But it was too late. The knife was plunged into Aster’s chest before she could see Acacia

pull it out. Her screams of pain were drowned out by the monstrous thunder outside.
 It was done.

Dark blood had soiled Aster’s cotton white nightgown, but the river water would wash it

away.

She always liked to be clean.

It was easy to take Aster’s identity. Having all the same clothes and accessories ensured

that no one would ever find out the truth. All Acacia had to change was her disposition. She

would endure being pleasant if it meant she would finally be loved.

Except the world didn’t treat her the way she expected.

The morning after, Acacia had run into her parent’s chamber, crying with great

exaggeration, and covered in muck that she had smeared herself with just minutes ago.

“Acacia! Acacia! Oh, sweet Acacia!” she cried. Her parents jolted upright from their bed.

“What on earth happed?!” her mother asked. She sounded almost angry.

“Oh, Mother! We were playing in the river when Acacia fell in and was swept away by

the current! She…she drowned!” Acacia cried.

Her father gasped, then burst into tears, crying out in agony. This Acacia had expected.

Her father was never the cruel one; he was just always away from home.

But then her mother, after pausing for a moment, started crying too. Mother had never

cried for her before.

Surely it’s just from shock, Acacia thought.

But days upon days passed, and still her mother was in deep mourning. Acacia would ask

her mother to knit or sing with her, and she would say: “Not now, dear…I’m writing a poem for

Acacia,” or, “Not now, darling…I’m still feeling ill over the loss of your sweet sister.”
 This was unprecedented. Ridiculous, even. Mother had never cared for her. She hated

her. So why was she suddenly thinking about Acacia every minute of the day?

Acacia thought that, perhaps, she would at least find refuge at school. She would finally

know what it was like to have friends, and teachers who liked her.

Except when people walked up to her, fully believing that she was Aster, they asked and

talked about Acacia.

“Did she die quickly?”

“I wish I had tried to befriend her.”

“I can’t believe she’s gone.”

It was so absurd that Acacia wanted to scream. None of her peers had ever bothered to

talk to her. Her teachers barely acknowledged her presence. Since when did anyone at her school

care about her? Why did they only care now?

It was when a boy she liked, David, came up to her one day that Acacia finally lost her

temper.

“Hello, Aster,” he said quietly. “I just wanted to give my condolences.”

“Oh, David,” Acacia said, voice cracking. “Um, thank you, but…could we talk about

something else?”

David sighed. “I’m sorry, it’s just…I wish I had talked to her. She seemed like an

interesting person. I would’ve liked to be her friend.”

Acacia, upon hearing these dreadful things, snapped.

“Are you joking?” she cried, her fists clenching. “You never cared about her! If you did,

you would have tried to be her friend when she was alive! Why do you care about her now?

What about me? You’re supposed to care about me!”

 The silence that followed clenched her body.

David looked at her with a mix of shock and disgust.

“Aster…I thought you would be more upset that your sister died. I…I thought you were a

good person…but I guess not.” He looked sad now.

Acacia’s heart shattered into tiny, weeping pieces.

Without a word, she ran out the school and all the way home, fighting the tears pouring

out from her eyes.

It was night. Acacia had locked herself in her chamber for hours now.

The knife hadn’t been returned to the kitchen. Instead, it lied under the bed, hiding.

Acacia was seeing blood. Big, dark pools of blood spreading like fire across the

bedsheets and the floor. But that was impossible. She had cleaned up the blood, every drop. No

spot of blood had remained.

“This can’t be happening,” she whispered to herself. “Why is this happening? They’ve

always cared about Aster, not me. Aster is dead!”

“Odd…I thought you were the one who died.”

Acacia’s eyes widened and her blood froze. She turned to the sound of the voice,

trembling.

It couldn’t be.

But it was. Inside her mirror was a river-soaked Aster, her dress torn and drenched with

mud. Her skin was a ghastly grayish white, and her braids were wrapped around her neck like a

noose.

“No…” Acacia said. “You…you’re dead.”

 “And you’re a murderer,” Aster replied.

“You—you can’t hurt me!” Acacia cried. “You’re not real!”

“Oh, I will hurt you,” Aster said, voice low. “I’m going to torment you for the rest of

your life!”

“No, you won’t!” Acacia screamed. You’re just a reflection!”

“Oh, Acacia…” Aster sighed. “Don’t you understand? You’re the reflection.”

Acacia felt a nasty shiver crawl up her spine.

“…What?”

Aster grinned.

“You poor thing…Did you really think killing me would change your life? You fool. You

will always be hated, no matter what you do, and I will always be loved.”

Acacia didn’t fight back tears this time.

Aster’s voice was nothing but a dark whisper now.

“No matter which side you’re on, you will always be a reflection.”

Acacia fell to her knees, tears staining her dress. The entire house was silent.

“Oh,” Aster cooed. “My poor, poor sister.”

Acacia sniffled.

“You know what you have to do now, don’t you?”

The sun was setting. The turtledoves were singing.

Acacia nodded.

Joseph sat in his reading chair, his clothes a wrinkled mess. He had large bags under his

eyes. Gwendolen walked past him only to pause and turn back.
 “What are you reading, dear?”

“Acacia’s diary,” Joseph said. “This is one of the few things we have left of her. I want to

read and cherish each page.”

Gwendolen glanced at the book. “I see.”

Joseph turned the page. He had reached the last entry.

October 27th, 1824

Dear Diary,

I’ve done it. I’ve killed her.

After fourteen years of being in Aster’s shadow, I finally decided to end her reign of terror over

me. It happened so suddenly, I had no time to plan it out. I just grabbed a kitchen knife and

attacked. All that’s left to do now is fabricate a lie. Perhaps I will tell everyone we were playing

in the river, and she (or rather, I) drowned.

Seeing as I will take her identity, it appears I no longer have use for you, Diary. Thus, this will

be my last entry, the last thing I will ever write under the name Acacia Williams. It was a

pleasure having you, Diary.

Today, I start living.

Goodbye,

Acacia
 Joseph read over the entry again, and again, and again. The words did not change. He

wanted to vomit.

Aster was killed by her own sister.

“Gwendolen!” he cried. “We’ve been deceived!”

“What?”

“It was Aster who died, not Acacia! Acacia admitted to killing her right here!” He

pointed at the diary.

He then leaped out his chair and ran to his daughter’s chambers, Gwendolen following

close behind. The door was still locked.

“Acacia!” he shouted. “Acacia, we know what you did!”

There was no response.

It took some effort, but after a few minutes, Joseph was able to break down the door.

He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw what was inside.

There, lying on the floor, was Acacia’s dead body. A bloody knife rested in her right

hand.

“No…” Joseph whispered.

He kneeled before his daughter, his hands shaking as they held her up.

“NOOOOO!”

But it was too late.

The Williams twins were dead.

While Joseph wept, Gwendolen remained silent.