Revenge of the Cursed Soul

My name is Jane Sharpe, and I have a twin sister, Anna Sharpe. The day my mother gave birth to us, the old locust tree in the yard bloomed twice as richly. The neighbors all said that twins are a double blessing, a sign of good fortune, and that the Sharpe Family would surely prosper from then on. Father smiled so broadly he could not close his mouth, holding my sister and me tightly, promising to give us the very best. In those days, even the air seemed sweet. Anna Sharpe and I looked nearly identical; strangers could scarcely tell us apart. We would fight over the same piece of candy, hide in the closet whispering secrets, and chase butterflies together in the yard. Mother always said we were carved from the same mold, even our cries looked identical. But those good days lasted only half a year. That afternoon, when the sunlight was just right, Anna Sharpe and I sat on the doorstep playing with stones. An old monk, clad in a gray robe, passed by our doorway and paused. He gazed at Anna and me for a long while, his brow growing ever more furrowed. Father returned from outside just then, saw the old monk watching the children, and, thinking he had come for alms, hurried inside to fetch some dry food. But the old monk waved his hand, and his words fell like a block of ice upon the hearts of every member of our family. He said that among the twins, one was the Lucky Star, bringing prosperity and honor to the family; the other was the Calamity Star, destined to ruin the entire household. Father's face instantly drained of color, and the vegetable basket in my mother's hand clattered loudly to the ground. Mother grasped the old monk's sleeve, tears nearly spilling from her eyes in desperation, begging him to reveal which was the Lucky Star and which the Calamity Star. But the old monk only shook his head and murmured, "The secrets of heaven cannot be revealed," before turning and walking away. No matter how much Father pressed, he never once looked back. From that day on, the atmosphere in the house changed. Father no longer played with Anna and me as he once did, and my mother's gaze upon us grew increasingly hesitant. They began to secretly observe every move Anna and I made, as if searching for traces of the Calamity Star. At first, I did not understand what was happening. Until one mealtime, my mother placed the only egg from the bowl before Anna but served me only half a bowl of plain congee. I looked at mother in bewilderment, but she turned away and said that Anna Sharpe was thinner than me and needed more nourishment. Yet that very morning, Anna and I had weighed ourselves together, and we were clearly the same weight. From then on, such differential treatment became increasingly apparent. Anna always wore new clothes—pink dresses, blue little leather shoes—all deliberately bought by Mother in the town. As for me, I wore hand-me-downs from the neighbor's children; the cuffs were worn through, and the pant legs shortened by a good margin. At mealtimes, Anna Sharpe had braised pork and scrambled eggs set before her, while my bowl held only vegetables and plain rice. Sometimes, when there was little meat left in the pot, my mother would even take the few pieces from my bowl to give to Anna Sharpe. I asked my mother why, but she merely sighed and said that as the elder sister, I had to give way to my younger sister. But Anna Sharpe and I were twins; I was born only minutes before her. Gradually, I became like a transparent presence within the family. When Father came home from work, the first person he sought was Anna Sharpe; he would pick her up and ask if she had enjoyed her day. Even if I stood right before Father, he would only cast me a cold glance before turning away to fetch snacks for Anna Sharpe. Mother devoted all her attention to Anna Sharpe. If Anna wanted a doll, my mother would go to the town the next day to buy it for her; if Anna refused to attend school, my mother would ask the teacher for leave and stay home to play with her. But if I wanted to buy a new pencil, my mother would say there was no money left at home and tell me to use the one Anna had discarded. There was a time when I had a high fever, burning so fiercely that I was delirious and longed for my mother to bring me a glass of water. But my mother was in the next room, sitting with Anna Sharpe as she painted, and only called out through the door, "Just drink more water and you'll be fine," never once coming in to see how I was. I lay in bed, my whole body aflame, tears streaming endlessly down my cheeks. I could not understand why, though we were both her children, Mother's treatment of Anna and me was so vastly different. Could it really be that because of the old monk's words, I was destined to be the unloved Calamity Star?