candee chautin {two} finished

You all look so similar. Blue eyes, blonde hair (but god forbid you ever look artificial, sickly-sweet). The thought falls on your tongue, sour and powerful. Your nose scrunches up and you gag, much to the delight of your sister who laughs (so perfectly, so delicately, it almost makes you sick to see her in all of her grace) and you both smile. All the other girls can gloat and brag, but no, not you two. You sit in your quiet bond, secretly scoffing at them all. At home you'll prance about on long legs and swish your long hair back behind your heads, paint colour across your eyelids and lips and mock them until morning.

When the stars are out you'll lie across one of your beds and list your favourite things about the other. "I like your shoes, and your clothes, and your crazy-curly hair in the mornings," you'll recite. "Basically you have great everything and it's really not fair, because you got the good genes." She won't see your expression fall, the light in your eyes so bright now slowly fading away with the weight of harsh secrets that rests upon your shoulders. A scoff and a pillow meet your words and you squeal against her protest. "What? It's true."

"Don't be daft, Can" she sighs. "I'm a giant with an afro." Her hair is spun from gold, you're sure of it - yours a dull hay colour you can find in picture books of District Ten. Everything about Bette is beautiful. She denies she sees it, but deep down you think you both know that she does. (Who would deny it other than her? Nobody, of course.) If she were colours, she would be metallic and gold, priceless and adored. You would be the dull, pale shades only used to highlight pictures that paint a thousand adoring words. Bette and envy are your best friends and you greet them every day as she appears in your view, with a heart of gold and beauty just as precious.

How much it hurts to know that your blood does not run in hers is indescribably bittersweet.

You are loaded with self-doubt, blood laced with the need to impress. Perhaps if you spent your efforts being something extraordinarily you people would like you more. And it's not that they don't - but you just don't see it. You see your sister, and all her glory, all her friends and admirers, perfection next to your attempts at wonder. You are blinded by your own drive to be something you created in your blundering jealousy. To be you is not enough, to be you is nothing special.

So you busy yourself with chores, jobs, anything that involves organising. For someone who's spent a lifetime striving to be perfect and thinking she's failed, you sure know how to put on a marvellous show. This is where you truly excel, perhaps you've found your calling that Bette failed to hear. Bossiness bleeds from your mouth - although unintentional, it irks people. A nasty glare cuts you down and you're back to square one, wishing that you had Bette's caring words and compassionate touch.

"Why don't you just run your own damn birthday party!" you screech at her, and she blinks back at you and says "Can, that's not fair." She's right, of course. She's always right. It isn't fair, you're being irrational and overdramatic and the pressure's gone to your head. You get the job done anyway, and it's fantastic. People will talk about it for days, but their words about how beautiful your sister looked will be falling off of tongues for years to come.