By Chef Cheeseanonioncrisps


We were never supposed to be two. There was only ever supposed to be one of us.

“I hate twins.” My mother once said to me when I was four, after seeing two identical little boys on the street. We were standing in an alleyway as she said it, I was crying because I fallen over when she bolted, still clutching my hand, and scraped my knee. She was still standing, but sort of hunched up, like it was only the fact that there wasn’t anywhere to sit that prevented her from curling up into the foetal position. Beside her, dribbling into the drain, was a puddle of the stuff she’d retched up once we were ‘safe’ in the alley.

My mother really hated twins. I don’t want to know why. When I was younger, I used to ask her, now I never want to find out. Whatever happened to her, whatever inspired her hatred, it was potent enough that it affected her whole life- and ours. I’m scared it might infect me as well- I’m terrified that it was me. That something about me and my sister was so horrific that it scarred our mother for life. Continue reading “Twins”

My Best Friend was a Girl Crammed in my Locker

By Chef cryof0zen


//Original Title “My best friend was a girl crammed in my ninth grade locker.”

My best friend in the ninth grade was a girl I met in my locker.

I met her in the middle of the term. Never knew how she got into my locker. Strangely enough, the night before I found her, I couldn’t manage to get to sleep. You see, my area was notorious for being loud at night. Disco parties, car alarms going off, that sort of thing. Dad never managed to find much work, and so we were stuck where we were. That night was especially loud. First was the shouting. That didn’t really scare me, but what did get me was the sound of glass shattering. Screaming followed. Then silence. I was too scared to go to sleep, all I could do was huddle under my blanket. I passed out sometime around midnight.

The first thing I did when I woke up that morning was run full pelt down the staircase. Mum and Dad were in the kitchen. Dad was hanging up decorations to get ready for the Christmas season, and Mum was laying on the couch, fast asleep and snoring.

“Don’t wake her up,” my Dad told me. “She’s down with the flu. No lunch today, mate. You know I can’t cook.”

I got to school just in time for the late bell and rushed to my locker. It was tiny, about the size of a torso. Fumbling with the key, I struggled to unlock it. The lock was old, rusty and the complete opposite of pliable. Finally, I got it open and swung it wide open.

She was crammed into the locker. Her necked look broken, her back pushed against the bottom of the locker and her neck twisting up at the corner. Her thighs were on the opposite side to her head, going up the side, and lead to knees that were impossibly broken, bent in a right angle to run along the top of the locker, then broken again in the middle of the tibia in another right angle.

She looked like an irregular shape out of a demented geometry textbook. It made me sick to my stomach to look at her deformed, crippled shape. She didn’t seem in pain. It surprised me more that she was alive. Stiffly, she turned her head to face me, and blinked.

“Hello,” she said.

I looked behind me. Dozens of students passed behind me. None of them seemed to care. I looked back at the locker. Her eyes were still on me, expectant. Her skin was bleached, her hair a solid dead black, like her eyes.

“Do you need help?” I was still in shock.

“No, I’m not the one who does.”

The minutes ticked by as we stared at each other, in a deadlock.

“My name’s Peter,” I whispered.

She just stared.

“Uh, I’m Peter,” I struggled to think of something to say about me. I struggled to latch onto any memory. My mind had become a haze, I couldn’t focus. Usually, I was good at coping under stress. I said the only thing I could think of, “I have a geography test next lesson that I didn’t study for.”

Still staring.

“You… You look nice.” She did. Despite being broken and battered, crammed into my locker, her face was beautiful. Asian, somewhat.

A smile slowly crept on her face.

“Is it okay if I…” I started, gesturing to the locker door.

“No matter,” she replied, the smile disappearing from her face.

I closed the door just as the first bell for lessons rang.

I did my geography test blindly. Didn’t know a single answer. I didn’t go to my locker the rest of the day either, didn’t see her. I couldn’t keep any books there anyway, and my mind was too hazy to remember anything but the present moment.

The next day, Dad was still preparing the Christmas decorations, Mum was still sick. Dad said if her cold kept up we might have to take her to a doctor.

Before the first bell, I went to my locker once again. I slowly tried to insert the key into the lock. It was like trying to fit a thread through a needle. Gingerly, I swung open the door. She was still there.

“Hello,” she said once more.

I tried to ask her questions. Each time I did, she looked at me like I was speaking a different language. She looked confused, like her mind was as hazy as mine. But she was smiling. Not so much that it was noticeable, but a slight joy seemed to play on her lips. In the end, I said goodbye, closed the door and went on my way.

I aced the test.

First break rolled around and I went back to my locker. No one was around. That was alright, though. Some people had started giving me funny looks as I spoke to her, before lessons.

“Did you do that?” I asked.

Her smile grew wider. She nodded vigorously, to the full extent that her broken, twisted neck would allow.

That was the beginning. I’d ask her for small favours, tests and whatnot. No matter what I wrote down on the paper, even outright silly gibberish, it came back replaced with a perfect answer. She liked talking about me. It made her happy, I guess, to know someone outside her tiny space. Besides, she didn’t know anything about herself. As the days went by, her smile grew wider and wider.

The day before Christmas, I asked her for something special. There was another girl, Sarah was her name. She was really pretty, and I think she liked me too. I didn’t have the courage to ask her to be my girlfriend.

When I told my new friend, her smile, which had become so wide, completely disappeared. My gut wrenched at the sight. I wanted to apologise, but she nodded. I hesitantly closed the door and left.

I couldn’t go home just yet. I had to stay on after school… for something. I couldn’t quite remember what. Maybe it was homework? Did I have detention? No, it couldn’t be that, I was an obedient student. My memory had started to struggle as well. That afternoon was just an indecipherable mess in my head.

Christmas morning. I woke up and rushed down the stairs, burst into the living room.

Dad was hanging by a rope slung across the ceiling fan, his skin a pale white, criss-crossed with dark purple veins, his eyes popping out of their sockets. Mum had been thrown on the couch, splayed out, caked in blood and glass fragments, starting to rot as well. The stench of decay invaded my nostrils, overloading my head. Neurons that were never meant to fire did.

I stood still. Then blinked.

Dad was midway through hanging the Christmas decorations. He stopped to stare at me.

“You all right, chap? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

My eyes darted to Mum. Asleep, snoring. My repressed breath slid through my gaping lips.

“I’m sorry, sport. Ol’ Nick didn’t stop by yet. I have to finish up the decorations, see? He’ll have stopped by once you come home.”

I went to school, dismissing what I saw. My head was still acting up, after all. Minor hallucination, see?

I know, school on Christmas? It was a programme that my parents had enrolled me in. Education throughout holidays. We didn’t have television or anything fun at home, and I really did like school. It was just, these days, my head was felt… strange.

I couldn’t stay scared for long, I had to go see my new friend. I couldn’t get the key in the lock fast enough. I threw the door open, and it banged against another locker.

I fell back on the ground and started screaming. Heads turned, more screams erupted from the flow of people behind me. Books were dropped, people stood stock still.

Her neck crooked around the corner, tibia broken, back against the bottom of the locker. A pool of blood which had stagnated within flowed freely to the floor.


The Mysterious Girlfriend

By Chef Snowstill

I thought to share this here. When I was young, my family and I moved into this neighborhood mostly resided by rich families. It was quite a difference seeing rich kids interact with each other compared to my old school that have very humble kids from humble working class homes. I tried to stay in the background. I did not like attention. I just like to be left alone.

My only friend was this girl, an outcast among the beautiful and the popular. She was a sickly girl, spoke with a stutter, but amidst her imperfections she was very nice and innocent. We ate together during lunch, sat together at the library during study time, and walked home together. Since we had different classes those were the only times we get to see each other.

Anyways, this was not about her or me, but about Paul. He sat behind me in English class. We never spoke to each other except for the occasional nod or smile. I tried to be nice and I tried not to be close to him. He had his own friends, and I was satisfied with one. There was no seating arrangement, but once you sat on one chair, you’re stuck there for the rest of the semester. I sat down first ten minutes before the bell and Paul claimed the one behind me as he just barely made it in class.

In the middle of the semester, as our teacher read lines after lines from Romeo and Juliet, I heard a conversation behind me. I could not help but listen. It was a girl and Paul. She spoke to him so sweetly while Paul was so gentle as if I had Romeo and Juliet behind me. It was adorable and much more interesting.

When the class ended, so did the conversation behind me. Closing my books and stuffing them in my backpack, I was curious to who Paul was talking to. I needed to see who was his Juliet. Given the opportunity, I turned around to put on my backpack and found out that the people who sat around him were all his friends and they were all male.

Dumbfounded by this revelation, I could not understand how was he able to talk to this girl. We were not allowed to move around in class while the teacher was doing his one man play so where or who was this girl?

For days, I found Paul only with his group of male friends. There were a few girls that would linger around them but they were spoken for by his friends. Paul was not interested in any of them. He never once approached a girl or placed an arm around a pretty blonde’s shoulder. He merely regarded the girls equally as if they were his own male friends.

“So you like him?” my only friend asked me after noticing that I kept staring at Paul.

“No,” I replied. Of course I didn’t, he was not my type. I never told her what I heard during English class since she might think I’m a weirdo. She would never understand. She never had. I once spoke to her about this horror movie I watch and she merely looked at me like I was from another planet. Afterall she was a very logical person while she called me the dreamer.

English class once more. He smiled at me and I acknowledge it with a nod. We all sat down and settled because the teacher started handing out our test papers. I was prepared of course since I wanted to keep my straight A’s.

“I know you like me,” said the girl behind me.

“Of course, I’m talking to you, aren’t I?” he told her.

“Then why did you smile at that girl in front of you. She’s ugly. She’s a witch. You would not date a witch, would you?” she said somewhat sinisterly.

“You don’t know her. You know you’re the only girl for me,” he told her.

“Prove it, honey. Prove that you like me a lot. You got that sharp pencil there. Poke yourself with it,” she said.

I could not believe my ears. Why was this girl making him hurt himself? This relationship wasn’t turning out to be a good one. It wasn’t healthy. Paul would not do this just to prove to a girl. He was a good athlete and a very good-natured boy. He never bullied anybody. Everyone liked him because he was a friendly boy.

“Paul!” the teacher called out. “What are you doing?”

All of us were startled by the teacher’s loud voice and immediately got up and ran to where Paul sat behind me. I turned around and was shocked to have found him continuously stabbing his left arm with the pencil. The teacher caught his arm before he could do more harm. Paul’s face was blank, he did not feel pain, but was staring intently at his arm.

“Paul!” the teacher said once more and this snapped him from this trance. He looked around at all of us that stared at him. He then looked at his arm and let out a loud expletive, in pain.

I did not know what came over me and I volunteered to take him to the school nurse. The teacher sighed in relief since he could not leave the class in the middle of a test. He also trusted me, I was one of his A students so he let me escort Paul out.

The two of us were quiet, except for his occasional groan trying to endure the pain. Upon nearing the nurse’s office, I had to ask. I had to know who she was.

“That girl you talk to in class, who is she?” I asked him. He looked at me puzzled at first and when I asked once more his face turned that into fear. “I could hear her. I could hear everything.” I told him.

“No, don’t,” he said trying to shut me up. “You don’t understand.”

“She called me a witch.”

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“Don’t be, I’ve been called many names. I’m used to it,” I told him honestly.

The two of us stood in front of the nurse’s office and when my hand went on the handle to open it, he put his hand on mine to stop it.

“No one can stop her. If I love her enough, she will leave everyone alone. I’m going to end it all.” With that statement, he opened the door and went in the nurse’s office to get his wounds treated.

That was the last I saw Paul. He never showed up in school the days following that. A few days after, we got news that Paul died. He committed suicide, stealing his father’s gun, walking in the middle of a field behind his house and shooting his head with it. No one knew why he did it. He was a popular kid in school, his parents doted on him, and he never had any enemies. No one knew why he killed himself.
Why was I the only one who knew? Why did he try to ‘end it all’ by killing himself? I could have helped him.

A new year rolled along and everything was as it was before. There was a memorial erected in Paul’s memory and everyone hoped no one would do the same thing. As I sat here alone in math class, I had almost forgotten about that mysterious girl. I had chosen to sit at the very back. I never liked anyone sitting behind me anymore. I need to see everything.

The bell rang and the teacher started her lecture. Opening my textbook, I concentrated and followed the teacher’s instructions.

“Do you like me? Because I like you,” said a girl’s sweet voice somewhere in class. I could hear it and no one else. I scanned the room and found no one leaning towards the seat next to them.

“Of course, baby,” said the boy. Then I found him, Jason. His gaze transfixed on the first page of his textbook. There was nothing interesting on it just the title and the editor’s name. His hand gripped tightly on his pencil shaking like a drug addict going through withdrawal.

Oh no! Not again. Why did she have to come back? What do I do? Jason and I did not interact. He was one of the ‘snooty’ kids. You ask why did I not try to help him? How could I when the poor sap refused to talk to a middle class kid.

My family and I moved once more in the middle of the school year. I never knew what happened to Jason or who that girl truly was. I only had my single friend to ask but I lost contact with her after she moved herself. She sent me a letter before she moved, sending her thanks for being a good friend to her, for watching over her whenever she got sick at school or for keeping the bullies away. She mentioned that ever since I became her friend, no one wanted to be near her. If it meant her safety, she did not mind having a ‘witch’ for a friend.

But I have never been a witch. Oh well, that’s high school and their stereotypes.