My Twin Cousin, Pieta

Kay. This is messy. My stories are always messy (literary, not literal). There's probably grammar errors EVERYWHERE and the rhythm would probably get boring after paragraph two. God knows how many typos there are (maybe he doesn't even know). It's rushed a bit, but I guess it'll do. Pah.

Kay. I'll write a chapter for every 500 page views. I'd feel like I was wasting time if I didn't do it like that. So if on the basis of view popularity, I'll write chapters until the story ends. Could be two chapters. Could be ten. Could be till when I get too busy and cut off the plot.

Enjoy, or try to. <3

9.13.2k8 - Ch. 1 up.

9.18.2k8 - Ch. 2 up. -- It sucks balls, compared to chapter one. Sorry.

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Pieta is my mirror image. It makes me happy when I tell her, "Eta, you're so pretty," because it makes me feel beautiful too. When I look at her, I can see the fire of her crystal-blue eyes reflecting mine. Our black hair holds the same obsidian luster, our skin the same paleness. Even our figures are alike, as if we were two dolls assembled from the same mold... but we aren't. I suppose, you could say that our molds are twins, even if we aren't. You see, her daddy is my daddy's twin brother. Her mum is my mum's twin sister. It's no surprise we cousins came out so similar.

And yet... we were so different. Her confident, never-fading smile and her graceful gait were so different from my every insecure motion, I couldn't help but place her as my own ideal future. Deep down, I knew she was more beautiful than anyone I've ever seen, and as an artist, it was enthralling to watch her as she went about her life. There were times when I wanted to somehow capture her on a fresh canvas as she dribbled a soccer ball down the field... but I was too afraid. Maybe not 'afraid'. I was too enchanted by her existence to ever dare imitate the brilliance. There was absolutely no possible way I could paint anyone so flawless, so I was content to be her best friend, stealing glances from time to time whenever her eyes fall away from mine.

It was last summer that I broke up with my boyfriend. He had a whole variety of wonderful qualities (for instance, being the president of the school's chamber music club.) He always treated me nicely, and was always very polite. There was something missing from our lives though. I had accepted his request to be his girlfriend because I was hopelessly in love with the idea of being in love. Even though I'd known that, I couldn't bring myself to miss the opportunity to have someone to call a lover. After a year, I still couldn't feel my chest flutter or burn when he held me. His face didn't bring about euphoria, and not once had I ever become distracted by thoughts of him. The idea of romance slowly drained away from my body and left me barely warm. To put it plainly, I had exhausted my false affections. All I had left were memories of our private mome