What Remains.

They say he had drowned at dusk and they found him at dawn.

They didn’t use the word “him”, though. Just “the remains”. What remains of Ali.

“Remained”. Past tense. That which is destined to decay and disintegrate into nothingness. 

He wants... he had wanted to be buried under there. Under the oak tree behind the swimming club. “When I drown”, he says. Used to say. A joke. Just a joke. His jokes suck. 

I hated him.

I hate him. 

I will not hate him anymore. My hatred is rotting faster than his... remains. 

One more thing to beat him at. I hope his bones are rolling in their grave. 

I was the fastest among us. The better half. The best swimmer. Not the best in our silly little club. None of us ever won a tournament. We weren’t fast enough to compete with the big boys. But I was the fastest among us. And that alone mattered. It mattered so much we were willing to die and kill each other over it. I wish I was even remotely exaggerating. 

It’s a twins thing, I guess.

Sharing a womb and a whole life with an exact replica is bound to stir existential dread. I think we wanted to find out which one of us was the replica. The cheap imitation. Somehow, we needed to. 

Why swimming, though? Why not anything else? Anything that didn’t have the power to suck the literal life out of us? Anything that could have mattered to anyone outside of our universe of two?

We chose the measuring stick and made up the rules. And no one intervened. No one in our family cared about swimming. The friends who cared were not impressed by our swimming. No one consoled us for our many losses or celebrated our few wins. It never occurred to us to care.

Both of us needed to function as orbits around the sun called "Us". But each of us wanted to be a supernova.

When Ali had enough, when I scorched his pride too many times, and he got sick of my gloating (my childish, ugly bullying), and could no longer rival my antagonism in force or intensity... he left. Left our little universe. Left me. Went to a whole new town and started over. Just fucked off and left me.

Two years later, I followed him.

He was working in a tiny, cozy-looking shop at the heart of the busiest street market in Morocco. The air was coated with the smell of spices and perfumes. The heat was oppressive. The streets sizzled with the buzz of brimming noises, each noise trying to devour all the rest. He still spotted me across a sea of swirling, scrammed bodies, and when our eyes locked he recoiled as if my mere existence stung him. Then he ran to crush me in a tight hug. I was too stunned to hug back. I had the next five years to do it. I didn't. It felt like a defeat. A surrender.

My replica was less glad to see me and be around me with each passing day, but not once did he tell me to leave. His little jabs and spats remained little. I had no fight left in me. I simply took it. Afraid of... what? I could not recall.

My mind is still cracked, you see. I'm trying to remember, but my heart is a stone submerging in an ocean of pure numbness. The unclaimed emotions are sirens commanding me to say their names.

My other half told me - reassured me - he had no intention of running away again. He made a new life for himself in this.. in that new town. Not what I would call a life. Or what the old version of my twin would call it.

The change frightened me. Ali was closer to me in the two years he was gone, the only time we've been apart, than he is now standing shoulder to shoulder next to me. I never knew that emptiness could feel so tangible, so bottomless, until then.

I found myself invading this new life of his. Moving into the same apartment complex. The very next door, even. Working in the same shop. Going to the same places and befriending the same people. Ali took it oh so well. My insides were marinating with unease. Not even one stalker joke, Al? There's no way these past two years, the blank page in our history, the gulf that could not be bridged, had skinned you out of the twin I once knew.

The shopkeeper shook our hands one day and told us were the best coworkers he ever had. That we worked together like two identical bees. Hard-working and perfectly in sync. "How can you tell us apart?", I asked, hiding the sliding sweat on my forehead with a brush of my hand. "Is it the clothes? The voices? The mole under my eye?", I give him options, looking comically desperate. He blinked, "Ali is the older one, right?".

Ali bellowed with laughter.

"Oh, yeah. Sure. I raced him out of the womb", he said.

You're enjoying this, little brother. Me being your second shadow for once. You're up to something. I think. Forgive me, but I can't trust your gentle hands or your soft looks. We were bonded rivals for too long; we can't just slip into the role of brothers. But we can play pretend if that makes you happy. If it can make you laugh. I have found out that I quite enjoy your happy laughter. You sound so silly.

With too much Shisha in his lungs; Ali smiles and says he had missed me. That he's starting to like me. His words slur with a foreign fondness and his gaze drink me in. As if I had changed too and he's meeting me anew. "I think this might be the start of a beautiful friendship", he says - tears welling his eyes - repeating after the movie star at the Cinema Rif. He puts a hand on my shoulder as we leave, anchoring his steps with mine. I welcome the familiar dynamic with pathetic eagerness.

I lead us, lead him, to the beach. A splash of water jolts him awake. I splash his face again until he's soaking wet. His hazy eyes slowly sharpen into focus.

He recognized the old taunt.

"Wanna go for a swim, little brother?", was all I had to say.

I beat him, splendidly. I raced so fast ahead of him that I was already done taking off my clothes by the time he reached the finish line, panting like a fish snatched out of water. I rolled on my back in the warming sand, raising a fist to the midday sun, laughing harder than Ali had ever laughed.

We never raced again. The lesson was loud and clear. But he swam alone every day after work. Kept practicing, over and over, even when the tides were too strong and his body was too exhausted to fight back and stay afloat.

I will never know if it was a mere accident or.....

Nevermind.

Ali is dead, but he's right here now.

I can see him, he's right here. Here. But my vision is blurry. There is dampness in my eyes and cheeks. Just seawater, I think. The waves are beckoning. I feel if I reach out, just long enough, I can pull my twin out of my daydream and touch his ghost. Hold him.

I will not let go.

He will let me go. The tide is shallow and weak.

But in my dreams, I am drowning and my better half is clinging to me. Or I am clinging to him. It no longer matters. In my dreams, we are brothers, embracing. We are one.