Chapter II: In which the first cycle of flashbacks continues.

Sebastian was alone. Again.

There was something unholy about solitude, he thought, as if it was never part of the grand design. When a man is alone, he thinks too much. When he thinks too much, his thoughts turn into things...real, physical things with faces too terrible to describe. And then they make it their mission to beat the dark brown stinky shit out of the man who gave birth to them. This was a phenomenon that Sebastian had experienced far too often but had never been able to name.

He looked out the window and down at the street, where he had parked the old bucket he had been driving for the last few years. Surely there was somewhere he could drive, someone he could find.

Then the strangest thing happened. Something tapped him on the shoulder.

He turned to see a creature he had never seen before. It resembled, in passing, one of the creatures that typically spawned from his excessive thinking, one that would have surely started bringing the pain by now. But it could not have been one of those. This one had a face that was not terrible but gaunt, sorrowful, tired. Its fists were bandaged, and there were drops of blood starting to soak through. Sebastian realized that perhaps its face seemed so downtrodden because it had been fighting someone else for a change. Someone much stronger. It was one of the thought monsters after all, but this time it was weak and alone, just like Sebastian.

"I have a message for you," the thing said.

"Oh yeah? What?" asked Sebastian.

The creature sighed, rolled its eyes and curtsied. Then it said, "I'm a pretty princess, so very meek and small. I'm a pretty princess, I hope I do not fall."

Sebastian stood there for a few moments, not entirely certain how to respond. Finally he asked, "So...is that it?"

"Pretty much," said the thing.

"Weird."

"Yeah. Can I go now?"

"Sure, I guess."

The thought monster turned to leave, and Sebastian noticed it wincing with every step.

"Wait a second," said Sebastian. "Who beat you up?"

"I didn't catch his name," it said. "Tall guy, kind young but kinda old, too. Whoever he is, he's got your back. And he's got a mean right hook."

"Obviously," said Sebastian. He hated when people said "mean right hook." It was so cliche.

And just as it had come, the creature had gone. Sebastian was alone. Again. Except this time he knew he wasn't. He still felt alone, but the feeling, strong as it was, was stuck only to the surface. It didn't dig deep. It couldn't. It was if his greater depths had been cleaned out. There was nothing particularly good there, but there was nothing sinister left either. And that in itself was good. Perhaps this feeling would only be temporary, but at least his mind could be free for a while.

He looked out the window once more, turned and sat down. Then he closed his eyes and rested.

Chapter I: In which the first cycle of flashbacks begins.

It was Saturday. It was February. It was cold.

It was not catch-your-death cold or even freeze-your-nuts-off cold. Just annoying cold. Or at least annoying to those who weren't properly equipped to deal with it. Sebastian himself always liked the cold, probably because he came with his own insulation. There was something he found fresh and invigorating about the thin, dry air of winter, whereas the spring and summer months represented something like oppression (though not exactly that).

Today he was indoors. He was indoors because he was waiting. Soon the doorbell would ring, and two figures would be standing there...one short and round much like Sebastian, one tall and thin like a flagpole. They would enter, axes and clubs in hand, and together the three of them would set out to conquer something uncertain. By the time the sun set, they would know both the sound and the fury. Billy-Boy had been right, though; in the end, it did signify nothing.

It's possible that if Sebastian had been able to look into the future, as some folks do, and see that more than a decade later he would pour out curses on the day he first held his axe aloft and released his full-throated roar into the ether and into the iron cell that was his memory, he might not have opened the door at all. The two figures, puzzled by the darkened windows and annoyed by the cold, would leave. And when they saw him in the halls on Monday, they would stare him down but say nothing, or at least that's the way Sebastian would have wanted it. A cleaner break than the world had yet seen, for nothing had been joined in the first place.

But he did open the door. And the band played on. And Sebastian's heart became glass.

Prologue: In which long-hidden secrets are finally revealed.

Here is the secret: Sebastian Hart was not the Evil Twin.

True, he had claimed to be the Evil Twin many times in the heat of speculative conversation, but this was more a part of a larger effort to mythologize himself than anything else. So here it is, the Truth laid out on the table, waiting for the hammer to fall and nail it down tight...he was not the Evil Twin. He had never been the Evil Twin, and he wasn't even sure if the Evil Twin existed in the first place.

But here is another secret: it did exist.

It was not an exact doppelganger, for to be one would have defeated its purpose. To the worldly eye, it was superior to Sebastian in many ways. It was thinner with shorter hair and more fashionable clothes. It could play the guitar and sing better; it wrote better songs. It faithfully posted on its web journal at least every other day, and it never had to resort to sensationalism or outright lies in order to gain readership. It had more friends than Sebastian, and it had been on more dates. It never got tongue-tied. It never went out of its way to offend people. It never embarrassed itself.

Truly, a cursory glance at the Evil Twin would have probably led one to believe that it was actually not the Evil Twin, especially if one knew of Good Twin Sebastian and all his flaws and foibles. But make no mistake, it was most certainly the Evil Twin. It was the Evil Twin because unlike Sebastian, it actually knew of its counterpart and used this knowledge to siphon for itself all the good things that should not have come its way. And the Good Twin, his vigilance blunt as a beach ball and his goodness now in question, was left to wonder why he felt so inadequate.

So here is the final secret: the fault lay with the Good Twin.

Invoking the Muses: A Canticle

"I am your friend, you know me well
I clearly have no lies to tell
No bitter bill of goods to sell
No crooked branch from which I fell
No weakness for your tragic spell
No feather-minded doubts to quell
No need to stop the ringing bell
...
Muses, you can burn in hell."