Part 2

“Put your shit in the back and get into the car.”

I did precisely as I was told, wordless, breathless, waiting. Would Dad say anything else? Dear fucking God, I hoped not.

The crimson blazer that I was wearing was too much for the warm sun that was currently beating down onto my already tanned skin, but I had no intention of taking it off, not until I reached home safe and bruise-free. I gently fingered the embroidered Holy Trinity Academy emblem, the one traced with gold thread that rested on the left side of my chest. More out of boredom than anything else. I needed to give my hands something to do while my eyes were looking everywhere but at my father.

Ah, Holy Trinity. It’s the farthest school that my parents could have sent me to without managing to cross over into another state, and for that I was slightly grateful. It would make the car ride with Dad less unbearable. I had Mom to thank for that one.

I shoved all of my bags into the back of Dad’s midnight blue sedan. Quickly. No dallying of any kind. Dad wouldn’t like that. The last thing I fucking needed was a blow to the head before we even pulled out of the school parking lot. I slipped into the front seat and avoided glancing at Dad’s tight jaw, the jaw that said, “I wish I didn’t have to fucking do this.” I sympathized. I didn’t want to have to do this, either.

The only good thing about leaving the sanctuary that was Holy Trinity was that I was going to see my baby brother, my little prince. I hadn’t thought about Simon all that much during the long grueling months of being locked up, but I had to admit that I missed the attention, affection, the adoration that Simon gave to me on a daily basis. It was nice feeling like a god among men, and that was certainly the impression that Simon gave with the way that he looked at me with those large, sparkling doe eyes. You know, I find it weird how identical twins can be so different. People have told us how our eyes look nothing alike even though they’re exactly the same. I kind of agree with them. Simon’s glance always looked endearing and innocent to me. It’s one of the reasons why I loved him so much. When I looked into the mirror, all I could see was ice. Not sure why Simon seemed to revel in my glare so much. He probably just liked the attention.

Without waiting for Dad to give me any more instructions, I fastened the seatbelt across my small waist and broad chest, the chest that had grown (along with other parts of my body) since arriving at Holy Trinity. With my charming penchant for getting into trouble, I had spent many nights working away the waxing and waning moon doing manual labor for the school’s janitors as a means of punishment. There were other, more extreme forms of punishment that I had had to endure during my time as a student, but that was the one that seemed to be placed upon me most often. In retrospect, the manual work was probably a good thing as it encouraged me to get my body into shape. I wondered if Simon still retained the trim, waif-like form that we had shared before my near excommunication from the family. I hoped that he did. Simon wouldn’t look right all muscled-out.

“Your mother will be happy to see you,” Dad grunted. I nodded, acknowledging that I had heard my father’s words, but said nothing. After years of honing in on my skills of translation, I knew that what Dad said was not the same as what he meant. When Dad uttered, “Get me a beer,” he really meant, “Get me a fucking beer or I’ll slap you upside your disobedient little head.” When he said, “You boys are being too loud,” he was really saying, “Shut the fuck up or I’ll beat the both of you until your ears are ringing so much you won’t even need to make a damn sound.” And when he grunted, “Your mother will be happy to see you,” what he was really telling his oldest son was, “If it weren’t for your mother, you’d still be at that damn school.”

I wasn’t sure whether I should thank or curse Mom for her influence when we finally got home.

“Tell me,” Dad huffed after one hour in the car with his apparently disagreeable son, “you still queer, boy?”

“Yes, sir,” I replied automatically. I had been waiting for that question. It came every. single. time. “I’m still queer; God hasn’t fixed me yet.”

Part 1

He was coming home, and for that I couldn’t have been more excited. It had been almost eighteen months since I had last had the pleasure of resting my obnoxiously doe-like eyes on my older brother. Although, “older” wasn’t exactly the best terminology that could be used to describe Samuel Marzo. After all, Sam was only about three minutes older than me, so could older really be a proper term? Sam had always thought so. When we were younger, Sam was constantly reminding me of his superiority and of my peasant-like status among the family. That is until Sam got sent away so many months ago for reasons left undisclosed to the majority.

Dad had finally decided that Sam should be allowed to come home for the summer vacation and spend time with the family that had cast him out (under strict orders from our patriarch, of course). The decision to bring Sam back probably wasn’t made by Dad alone. I think that he was heavily influenced by the university botanist wife that had been pleading for the acceptance of her first son back into the family. Clara Clefton-Marzo, the mother of myself and my twin, had found her heart broken and crumbled the day that Dad had deemed Sam a disgrace and danger to his prized possession: me. I think that it was always my parents’ natural disposition to place themselves at opposite ends of the pole no matter what the disagreement. Maybe they decided a long time ago which kid would be their favorite and who would be the “other.” I really don’t know. It’s impossible to ever truly know what your parents are thinking. I don’t think I’ll ever ever really get the parental mind. Dad’s decision had been difficult up until Sam’s transgression, at which point he decided that I would be the smarter investment, while Mom, for whatever reason, found that she could never abandon her eldest son’s side.

The year and a half that I spent without having Samuel by my side was nothing less than miserable. It seemed like without Sam, I was nothing but a mere shell, a shy and timid creature locked inside of the mental box that I had hidden myself in when my brother had been torn from me. No one was there to tell me what to do, to instruct me on how to live my life. Well, save for my father, really, but as a tribute to Sam I never really did listen to the overbearing, pig-headed curmudgeon. The day that Sam left, shipped away to a Catholic boarding school filled with pedophile priests and sexually frustrated nuns, my life pretty much ceased to progress. School was nothing more than a hobby to pass the time, and a dull and slightly infuriating hobby at that. Filled with boys who did not know the difference between a compliment and a complement and who wanted nothing more than vodka, drugs and pussy (or cock, if that was their preference), I was constantly condemning my peers for their lacking intellect and preoccupation with the profane. Not that I was any kind of saint, but fuck, I was definitely superior and leagues above those whom I was forced to interact with on a daily basis. The only person that ever truly made me feel lowly and pathetic was Sam.

Fuck, I missed that feeling. I was addicted to it. Everyone has a vice; Sam just happened to be mine.

And now that my twin was coming home, I could feel the gears begin to creak with titillating anticipation. Sam would blow the dust from the stagnancy of my life and things would become exciting once again. Parties. Alcohol. Drugs. People. All the things that I had stayed away from since Sam’s departure would once again become commonplace to me. Everything would be the same as it always was.

Just a few more hours, and I would know who I was again. I needed Sam to remind me of my forgotten identity.