Bear the Pomegranate

By V.T. Wes

When in contempt for the other, they will sit across from each other in an isolated room on leather sofas. The room is minimal in use. A radio fills the atmosphere with static as frost collects on the chilled window. A portrait hangs above each person, catching the little light melting inside. Besides the two sofas, there is a rectangular lilac table and a china tea set beside the doorway.

The first twin has her cat perched on her lap. Her knee is bent over the other, so her ankle sways back and forth. When the angels see her, they whisper and say her hair glows white because she stood in the Andes until her soul could not bear it any longer. 

Her portrait centers around an elm tree with a single apple hanging on its branch. Its branches are limp and try to reach for its children on the ground. Other fruit is scattered underneath on the scorched land- maggots eat the rotted flesh of the fruit. The elm continues to grow high in the sky, weeping over its dying seed.

The second twin sits with her ankles crossed, as her cat naps on her feet. Since birth, she has been unable to see. The angels’ gossip that it’s mercy for her duty to Earth. This will be the last time the angels gossip and the last time this is mentioned. They do not care how her hair, which is always kept back in a tight knot, matches the midnight sky. She keeps her hands in her lap and directs her eyes towards the lighter shades in front of her. 

Her portrait hangs much lower but catches more light. It is a spiral knot attached to the beak of a crow hatchling. The crimson shadows seep through the dark browns and blacks of paint, almost as if the sun is melting the canvas.

The younger says, “It has only just taken its first breath.”

The elder notes, “Who are you to be so kind towards them?”

A child has just been born and it awaits for the twins to make a decision on its inevitable fate. It is a creature, a thing compared to its species. Its ears are spiked and rigid and the nose has just begun- same with its lungs and toes and sex. Which is all matched with whiskers and fur growing in patches along the spine and knuckles. It is an abnormality; A mistake made by nature;  A clarification on the duties placed on the twins.

“You allowed it to breathe, is what I meant.”

The eldest draws her nails against the skin of her white cat, “a mishap caused by the ignorance of humankind.”

“Whatever the reason, it is still alive because of your assumptions.”

“I tried to stop the inevitable. But they found ways around it- Medications, predicted surgeries, hope… whatever have you.”

The younger leans back and her black cat jumps off her feet. It stretches and makes its way up onto the couch. It rests on the arm, pocketing its limbs underneath its body. 

“Perhaps, it will overcome its struggles with such things.” 

“The probability is low. And even if it does, pain will be its partner. Why must I be the one to do the deed then? It is your mistake; You must fix it now.”

The eldest looks away, “It will meet you soon enough. Why drag the painful wait?”

“My duty is not to correct your miscalculations. This is not my deed to fix,” The younger’s voice trails in and out with the radio’s static, “It is yours. This creature, this child… its torture is not of my doing.”

The first few snowflakes fall from the white sky. The wind drags its weight along the outside walls, relishing in the creaks from the wood floorboards and paneling. Soon enough, the valleys will drown underneath the frost and snow. And it will be the duty of the twins’ to light the fireplace, though that too will be discussed on whose duty it really is.

The eldest brushes her thumb across her cat’s head: “Every life has a series of trials which must be faced before fate hands them to you. Who am I to judge it before it even has been given its purpose, sister? Triumph is a possible outcome for any life, even for the sufferers.”

The static and crackle of the radio grows heavy in the silence between the twins. 

The younger twin’s cat stirs, looking towards its opposite. The white cat is already staring at it, its eyes gleaming under the candlelight. 

“Trials and triumphs,” the younger mutters, “Our time is not spent worrying about trials and triumphs. Those are for them. We are meant to keep the balance of mortality; To keep the scales from tilting. The more it lives— the more it tries to cry from agony— the more the scales tip. All because of sentimental value.”

The eldest stares at her twin, “Your cruelty smells like mercy. You cannot hide such things.”

“And your mercy is hidden cruelty. Call it what you will, but it will all end the same- For every soul.”

“I wish it was not so.”

The younger shakes her head and looks away, unable to shift her breathing back to a steady pace.

The eldest hangs her head, as she strokes her cat’s beard. Then she swallows her thick saliva and pulls the pet close to her lips. Brushing her flesh against its head, the animal closes its eyes. When she brings it down onto the table between the twins, it is limp. The spot where she kissed is damp from her tears.

Somewhere, far from the storm of wind and snowfall, a struggle comes to a gentle end. The scales shift and equal out. The radio static quiets and the wind drops to a soft whisper. 

She does not look up.

Neither speak but they both have the same sentiments: “Our choices are the same. My action is yours; Your action is mine. This is our eternity, sister.”

The other cat jumps off the couch and onto the table. It searches for its opposite, sweeping its tail against the white belly. The cat brushes its nose against the other’s before leaping off onto the floor and parting ways. 

Our voices allow us to understand the world in such a unique way. But for V.T. Wes, like many, speaking has never been easy. Up until the age of ten, very few could understand what she was saying. It stunted her growth and interest in life. But when she discovered writing, it changed her entire perspective on reality. It helped her not only get her words out to people, but it supported her in making sense of the challenges surrounding her. Now, after ten years, she has been writing any chance she can get. With a cup of hot chocolate and her dog beside her, she will sit for hours in order to make sure her words are never misunderstood again.