My name is Zavier Douglas, and I was born into this world as an experiment. Strange, I know. I wasn’t the only one, either. I’m a twin to a brother, Benjamin. Ben is the youngest, born 3 minutes past me, technically. While being a twin is unique, that is not what has made us special. Our parents, Trinity and Westen Douglas were genetic scientists. Their life’s work was in research and experimentation in genetic mutation and DNA bonding. In short, they studied and experimented with naturally occurring gene mutations in familial bonds. More specifically, twins.
Years of research led to discovery of a gene mutation that only happens in identical twins. This mutation was dubbed the Bonded Extrasensory Gene, or (BE) Gene. (BE) Gene is responsible for the extreme connection identical twins experience. This isn’t just any twin bond. This is much different. Most twins can sense each other’s feelings and thoughts. This is beyond that.
Ben and I are bonded in how we were born, but also because of the Gene and DNA experiments wrought by our parents. Their results yielded biological children, as twins, where one experiences phenomena and the other experiences the effect—lovingly nicknamed “Cause” and “Effect.” Ben is Cause, and I am Effect. Records from the delivery show I was born healthy and without issues via cesarean delivery. Ben, on the other hand, was born in crisis. Upon pulling him from the womb, the doctors found the cord wrapped around his neck and body. The pull to free him had tightened the cord and begun to strangle him. Although I had been fine 3 minutes prior, I declined rapidly. My breathing had stopped, my face turned purple, and my heart rate plummeted. Somehow, Ben was fine. He didn’t cry, gasp, wheeze, or make a face. He was born wholly silent and alert, although being strangled to death. Nurses frantically attempted to stabilize me while the doctors worked to free Ben. After a few moments, Ben was free. Seconds later, I gasped loudly and became stable. Life-saving attempts were no longer required, and the phenomena were documented for further research on behalf of my parents.
Our life was interesting, to say the least. We did what was expected of kids; play time, snacks, naps, school, etc. In between those normal activities, we were a part of an ongoing experiment. Every Monday, our parents would take our vitals, draw blood, and perform a test. Every test was different in some way. Ben and I would sit at opposite tables, and each of our parents would stand by one of us. The test was done, and the results were documented. Early on, I learned to hate Mondays. That may have been one of the few normal feelings I shared with society.
The incident at birth was isolated until we were about six years old. Until then, the tests Ben and I would go through were easy. Eat this, drink this, or tell me about this. Sometimes there were intelligence tests where there were multiple-choice questions. Other times there were physical tests, where we would run a treadmill or do strenuous exercise for a long time. One morning, during the usual blood draw, our parents were surprised. As our father inserted the needle into Ben’s arm, I cried out and clamped at my arm. Our mother grabbed my arm to inspect the trouble. I had a bleeding needle mark on the same arm as Ben’s. It couldn’t have been mistaken for anything else.
“Westen, it’s happening.”, our mother said with excitement. She looked at our father, who had stopped his work with Ben. He had put down the needle and tube and picked up a band-aid. “This is wonderful. I knew that if we just gave it a little more time, we would see the real results.”, he said while applying the band-aid to Ben. Following suit, my mother placed a band-aid on my arm and then walked away. They had moved to the counter at the side of the room and spoke in low voices. I looked over at my brother, who was innocently kicking his feet over the side of the table. I wasn’t sure what had happened or why our parents were so excited at the time. I was terrified, sitting there on the cold steel table. Ben was unphased as if nothing had happened. After a few moments, I heard our parents conclude their conversation. “We have to run more tests. We need to have more data before moving into the following research phase.”, our mother said. “Whatever it takes.”, they both agreed. Mondays were never the same after that, and life changed drastically.
Blood draws were done differently. Instead of simultaneous tests, mine would be first, then Ben’s, then I would have mine done again. This was because my brother’s blood test would forever become mine. The other tests were…more aggressive. Harmless tests became painful and terrifying. One test left me with a permanent scar on my left thigh. Our mother used local anesthesia to numb Ben’s upper thigh. From the other side of the room, I stared at my father, who was preparing for what was coming. He had recently installed restraints on the tables. I hadn’t noticed until he was strapping me down. I lurched against the straps unsuccessfully. “Calm down; it’ll be over quickly. It won’t hurt as bad as you think.”, my father said with a stone face. He was loving and kind when he wasn’t working. We spent time together outside of the tests. He doted on us often, surprised us with gifts, and celebrated birthdays and holidays. Our mother, however, was hardly a parent. To me, at least. She enjoyed time with Ben, but not often. She was absorbed in work mostly. She carried a stiff attitude toward me and was never affectionate. She started working with my brother on the tests instead of me at some point. I had overheard her telling my father that she couldn’t handle my crying and complaining anymore.
A timer went off, and our mother picked up a scalpel from the tray nearest her. My head snapped to the side to see Ben playing his handheld game. Not a bit of concern or hesitation on his face. Stone cold. Her hands moved to his thigh and began an incision. Slow, steady movements revealed pink and red layers inside and blood leaked from the fresh wound. At the same time, I wailed as a bleeding incision appeared on my own. I thrashed hard against my restraints and screamed. I begged my father to let me go, but he didn’t budge. He scribbled some notes on a pad of paper while inspecting my leg, ignoring my pleas. I looked back at my mother, hoping she would feel something from my cries. She cleaned the wound she left on Ben, preparing to close it. She purposefully avoided my gaze. Ben continued to play his game, and father worked on closing my wound. He was kind enough to use anesthesia before stitching, at least.
Tests like this happened more and more frequently. I had come to know our mother as cruel and heartless. I knew I couldn’t count on our father, either. So, I tried to lean on Ben for support. I tried to express my suffering to him but was met with a stern look and silence. We had been close at one time. We did what twins do; played tricks, understood each other, knew each other’s thoughts and feelings, etc. After the tests became worse, he started becoming more like our mother. He would counter my complaints with a steely gaze and turn away. I couldn’t get through to him. Any other time, we were okay. As kids, even as twins, you argue and fight. As our parent’s tests continued, we disagreed more often and grew apart. Small fights turned severe, and actual harm started being threatened. Ben had come to understand the situation and weaponized it against me. If I didn’t agree to his terms on a game, he would grab something sharp and shove it toward his body. “I’ll do it. I know what will happen, and so do you. Play my way, and you won’t get hurt.”, he would tell me. I would always give in for fear of what would happen. Eventually, it became his way of tormenting me. He had become something worse than our mother. She was cruel and heartless, but he was a monster. Sometimes I did get hurt. I would get brave and refuse his demands, only to have him slice us open. He never cared if it did any harm to him, just that it would hurt me. This would all end when I turned fifteen.
I can’t explain how right now, but I got out. I escaped and found a way to hide for the past seventeen years. It wasn’t easy, and I was severely hurt when I got away. “Don’t follow me, and don’t attempt to hurt us.” This was the last message I texted to Ben before I left for good. The earlier events would probably make him think twice about ending us.
Nothing happened to me afterward. For seventeen years, I have lived peacefully with my wife, Raina. Along the way, we had a son, Carter. He will be eight here in a few days, and I’m filled with dread. I had been working on my car in the garage two days ago. Carter was playing in the driveway, and Raina was nearby in the yard. I was leaning in to look at the battery terminals for corrosion when I suddenly felt light-headed. When I fully stood up to close the hood, I stumbled and hit my head on the corner of the car. I cussed as I went down. “Fuck, that hurts,” I mumbled.
Raina must have heard the thump and my cursing. I felt her hand on my shoulder and her soft voice behind me. “You’re tired, I can tell. It would be best if you lay down for a while after you ice that spot.”, she said, rubbing my shoulder a bit. I complied and went in to take a nap. I felt worse by the time I got to the bedroom. I had stumbled a few more times, banged my foot against the leg of a table, and my head was swimming. I didn’t even bother to take off the clothes I had been working in. I remember thinking that Raina would be livid with me later. When I woke up, it had been nearly ten hours since I laid down. The house was still and quiet. My wife was asleep next to me, softly snoring. I slipped out of bed and headed to the bathroom. When I turned the light on, I met my face in the mirror.
I looked pale and worn. My eyes even looked dilated. I rubbed my face and winced. Something felt off with my arm. I raised my sleeve to find a slight cut above the bend of my elbow. I didn’t think much of it at the time. I was still groggy and wanted to change into something clean before heading back to bed. I went to the closet, tiptoeing, so I didn’t wake Raina. I grabbed shorts and a clean t-shirt and headed back to the bathroom. As I took off my work clothes, I realized my back was sore. Turning my back to the mirror, I found a message. It was carved into the skin of my back that read, “Find me.”
It’s been two days, and I can’t stop thinking about my brother. I don’t know what he wants, and I don’t want to find out. The only trouble is that I just got another message. It appeared on my wrist earlier today. In tiny scratches, it says, “Help me.” I don’t think I can ignore this. Something feels different and off. I don’t know how to explain it, but I think I need to find Ben.