by M. Billiter
The Divided Twin
M. Billiter
Kyle Thomas
Contents
A Note to Our Readers
1. David and Me
2. Branson
3. Aaron
4. David and Me
5. Aaron
6. Branson
7. David and Me
8. Branson
9. Branson
10. Aaron
11. Aaron
12. Aaron
13. David and Me
14. Aaron
15. Aaron
16. Branson
17. Aaron
18. Aaron
19. Branson
20. David and Me
21. Branson
22. David and Me
23. David and Me
24. David and Me
25. David and Me
26. Branson
27. Aaron
28. Branson
29. Aaron
30. David and Me
31. David and Aaron
32. Branson
33. David and Aaron
34. Branson
35. Branson
36. Aaron
37. Branson
38. Aaron
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About M. Billiter
Tangled Tree Publishing
Blurb
Everyone has a voice in their head. Mine is just a little louder.
* * *
Identical twins Aaron and Branson Kovak are in their final year of college—Aaron’s in Ohio, while Branson remains in their home state of Wyoming. There’s also the third twin, David, who only exists in one of their minds.
* * *
Despite the distance between them, Aaron and Branson are united by a turbulent childhood they survived together. As they enter adulthood, David comes out of the shadows to wreak havoc on the real world—his idea of fun.
* * *
When their mom is diagnosed with cancer, the ties that bind the twins incite David to tear them apart at the seams.
* * *
Will they stand or fall together, or separately?
The Divided Twin © 2020 by M. Billiter | Kyle Thomas
* * *
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any written, electronic, recorded, or photocopied format without the express permission from the author or publisher as allowed under the terms and conditions with which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution, circulation or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.
The Divided Twin is a work of fiction. All names, characters, events and places found therein are either from the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to persons alive or dead, actual events, locations, or organizations is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.
For information, contact the publisher, Tangled Tree Publishing.
www.tangledtreepublishing.com
Editing: Hot Tree Editing
Cover Designer: BookSmith Design
Formatting: Justine Littleton
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-922359-02-5
Paperback ISBN: 978-1-922359-03-2
Created with Vellum
Everyone has a voice in their head – mine is just a little louder.
When I began The Divided Twin, I always knew the one person I was writing to—my oldest son, Austin Thomas.
“Austin, my Austin” is what my mom, your grandma, called you. Of all her grandchildren, you reminded her most of my father. You have his wonderfully round, Charlie Brown–shaped head and contagious smile, and when you laugh, it brightens the room. When you were little, you climbed—everything. You were fearless. If I turned around, you’d be on the backyard fence or on the highest rung of the jungle gym. What I didn’t realize was just how far you’d climb. From studying abroad to earning a double major in college, there is no height too high.
As the firstborn twin, if only by a minute, you have always taken charge and worn the mantle of responsibility for your brothers and sister proudly. You are the protector, the overachiever, and one who leads with his heart. You fearlessly approach life with drive, compassion, and strength with an unending spirit that never gives up.
Austin, you are my hero.
And I couldn’t have written this book without you. When I was diagnosed with breast cancer, you were the child who tried to make my life easier. My sweet son, from the depths of my heart—thank you.
Parts of the letter you wrote me when I was diagnosed are included in this book. How could I ever write anything better or more heartfelt?
You would make any parent proud. I’m the lucky one who gets that honor. And being your mom is the greatest gift I’ve ever been given.
Keep climbing.
Austin, my Austin, I will love you forever and ever.
—Ma
Mr. Mike Allred
* * *
When in the process of creating The Divided Twin, I often had to reflect on the emotional and physical traumas that I had experienced with my battle of mental illness. Throughout my life, I have had many people help me through these issues, but someone who has remained etched in my mind was my 5th grade teacher in Etna, Wyoming—Mr. Mike Allred.
When I was in his class, he taught me many things that have stuck with me throughout my life, but the most prominent of these lessons was that everything was going to be okay. At the time that I was in his class, I had already been experiencing many symptoms of my illness, and as a teacher, he picked up on these tendencies almost immediately.
I will never forget the words he told me as I was taking a math test during his class. He would notice that whenever I was in a stressful situation, I would cough every couple of seconds. During this test, I was coughing quite frequently, and he came over to my desk, put his hand on my shoulder, and whispered in my ear, “You are okay, and I promise you that there is nothing to fear in my class.” Those simple words of encouragement have carried quite a weight throughout my life, and I will never forget the man who inspired me to get through the day and remember that everything is okay.
This book is an escape for all that I have been through with mental illness. However, it remains a work of fiction. Writing allows me to share the emotions of mental illness. The actions that these characters take are not from personal experience; many of the emotions, though, are.
I dedicate The Divided Twin in its entirety to a man who helped me feel safe through troubling times. Thank you, Mr. Allred.
-Kyle Thomas
A Note to Our Readers
While there are similarities to our journey through mental illness, this book is a work of fiction. In writing The Divided Twin, Kyle and I thought, What if…? and let our imaginations run free. The gift of fiction is that it allows the what-ifs in life to live, if even for a moment in time.
If you struggle with depression or another mental illness, you’re not alone. Please reach out to someone. Help can be found at the National Institute of Mental Health (NIMH) or by calling their help line: 866-415-8051
1
David and Me
A photo of three girls wearing nothing more than silver ski jackets, furry boots, and smiles while huddled beside me in an ice bar surfaced on my laptop.
I leaned forward, and the tip of my baseball cap tapped the touch screen, bringing the image into greater focus. A blonde, a brunette, and a redhead—the trifecta of hot—cleaved to me for warmth like an alcoholic clung to their bottle. Damn, I looked good. Not that I should be surprised. David always looked out
for me. He was the only one who told me that, with my beard and messy hair, my style was on point. Hell yeah.
I skimmed the comments on my Instagram page and grinned.
#pimp
Just hoes and tricks, man.
#icebarbitches
I scanned the other pics on my page, each one showing me with a different girl in a different city. I kept my account private from prying eyes that wouldn’t understand—like my mom. If she knew what I did with her tuition checks, she’d lose her shit. But let’s get real: when I followed David’s suggestions, I was the life of the party. Besides, he wouldn’t have my ear so much if my family wasn’t so pathetic.
I cracked my neck, and a loud pop followed. My health teacher in high school always told me that cracking my neck or any joint was bad for my body, but fuck that; it relieved pressure.
“I mean, why wouldn’t you do something that feels good?”
Agreed.
I opened a Word document, cracked my knuckles, and let David direct my thoughts.
* * *
A Killer’s Journal
* * *
This journal will comprise the thoughts, feelings, and actions taken by an individual who has had killer tendencies. The individual has never killed or seriously harmed anyone before but has the natural instinct to do so. This journal is meant to be left anonymous and to be used for research purposes only.
* * *
I was about to continue when the tip of her tail brushed my elbow.
“Bonita.” I stroked her neck and down the length of her muscular body. Her almond-shaped eyes closed and purring ensued. “Yeah, yeah, I know.”
Her long legs lingered along the edge of my chair, and then with one graceful hop, she situated herself on my desk beside my laptop.
“Bonita, I have work to do.”
When her large ears pointed up and her strikingly blue eyes peered at me from behind the chocolate mask that covered her face, I was putty in her paws.
“That’s the only reason I took you home. I didn’t even know what a Siamese cat was.” But Bonita reminded me of someone I once knew. What I didn’t expect was that a cat craved more attention and affection than my identical twin brother, which I didn’t think was humanly possible.
“Okay, okay, let me get back to work.”
The beauty about Bonita was that she didn’t speak.
“First time an animal opens their jaw and starts to talk, they’re as good as gone.”
Agreed.
I returned my attention to the screen and resumed typing.
* * *
I feel like most people don’t remember the moment or times of insanity. I, however, recall every excruciating minute and feeling of those times of loss of sanity and judgment.
It all started with the abuse of my family. I’ve discovered through all my college readings that many theorists will tell you—or rather theorize—that tracing the subject’s history to their past will find the answer to a majority of mental health issues. Abuse, whether mental, physical, or sexual, often leads to some sort of problem in the future.
I’ve never been sexually abused, but I have been physically abused and witnessed physical abuse, which theorists believe leads to mental abuse as well. I don’t remember all of the times my dad hurt my mom, but I do remember one certain instance.
* * *
Bonita purred and her tail swayed, which sent fur in the air that I knew would instantly stick to my black shirt. I was forever picking Bonita hair off my clothes. I brushed my sleeve.
“Stupid fucking cat.”
And just as quickly as Bonita had appeared, she left.
I returned my focus to my computer entry.
* * *
My brother and I were in our rooms listening to the lovely night conversations of our parents. It was typical chatter with yelling, screaming, and the occasional punches. After a little while, we went to investigate to make sure Dad hadn’t gone too far. We went downstairs after hearing Mom and Dad in their room having a “discussion.” We patiently waited for the chatter to die down, but all we could hear was the increase in our father’s voice. Shortly afterward, our pregnant mother came out of the room with our father close behind. While my mom made her way down the stairs, our father came behind her and gave her a rather sturdy push, which sent my pregnant mom tumbling down the staircase.
But it wasn’t like a light fall. My mom’s pregnant belly made her top heavy, so she flipped head over heels a few times before she caught her balance—if she really ever did. My brother got hit by my dad for interfering and telling my old man to stop, and I was forced to watch. I remember locking eyes with my mom and realizing how hopeless our lives were as she bled from her lower body.
It wasn’t like a gush of blood, but my mom held her stomach as if she could stop the slow trickle of blood that stained the carpet and her hands. No matter how much she tried to save the life seeping out of her, she couldn’t.
I ran to the neighbor’s house to get help, but as I rang the doorbell and beat my knuckles against the door, no one answered. No one came. Except my father. He picked me up like a sack of trash he had forgotten and took me home.
I remember that I was not full of fear during those moments but rather curiosity of what it would feel like to inflict pain on others. Was it joyful, fun even? I believe I was five at the time when these questions bothered my every waking moment and I wanted to explore this understanding.
* * *
I leaned back until I teetered on the hind legs of the chair and rocked while I stared at the screen. I knew what came next—fuck, it was my story—but I wasn’t sure I was ready to reveal it. But David’s voice in my head was too loud to ignore.
“Get a grip. This is child’s play.”
Hearing voices wasn’t anything new to me or my family. For that matter, neither was schizophrenia or schizoaffective disorder, which dropped a dose of depression into the equation. All it took was one past event to taint my family on the downside of the disease. And I guess in some respect, I understood. I wasn’t a fan of Trevor, a command hallucination that fucked with all of us. Ticktock, my ass. Trevor was gone. His days of ticking and tocking anyone’s clock were through. We all made sure of that.
That was why no one knew about David. No one knew because David was different. I was sure that was what every schizo claimed, but David was different. He wasn’t like Trevor, and he never would be.
But to be clear, David wasn’t some alternate personality like in the movie Split. It pissed me off when people got schizophrenia or schizoaffective mixed up with dissociative identity disorder. Even when I first suspected I may be schizophrenic and then learned about schizoaffective, I was never stupid enough to think my disease was like having multiple personalities.
“Idiots.”
Agreed.
And don’t even get me started on the depression. I could handle all the other shit if I didn’t get so bummed out. I could be watching anime and suddenly start to tear up.
“How fucked up is that?”
Very fucked up.
I glanced behind me.
“Where’s the cat?”
Dunno.
Anyway, when I heard David, it was like having a conversation with myself. I wasn’t taking on the role of some new identity or different character. Schizo was messed up on its own without adding multiple personalities into the mix.
But just like most things, people attached themselves to one word, like hallucination, and automatically associated schizophrenia with split personalities when the two couldn’t be more different. Someone with DID had a complete alternative personality, but with schizophrenia, it could be a visual or auditory hallucination.
I didn’t see shit, but I did hear David. It was like hearing myself, but instead of talking to myself out loud—because who did that—I talked to David. That was what I called the voice when I first started hearing it, because it just made sense to give him a name.
Again, David wasn’t my
other personality or some alternate identity; he was just a voice—a voice in my head that I couldn’t ignore, and I didn’t want to. Everyone has a voice in their head. Mine was just a little louder.
David had always helped me see things differently. And as usual, he was right. This journal and what it revealed was child’s play. Harmless. Besides, no matter what David thought I should write, I knew it was nothing more than a journal that no one would ever read, so I let him finish his thoughts.
* * *
A year or two passed, I remember seeing a bird’s nest outside of our house. The birds chirping sounded pleasant to anyone else, but to me it was painful and irritating. I grabbed a rake and proceeded to knock down the nest and watch as the baby birds frantically scurried in hopes of returning to the shelter of their mother. I watched for thirty minutes until the last of the babies stopped squirming. This action did not bring me joy, hate, sadness, or anything a normal person might feel while watching something die. Instead, I felt excitement. To me, the witnessing of something dying was a rush and brought me adrenaline in a world that seemed so boring.
