This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.
The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/No-Glass-3279 on 2024-10-20 12:37:17+00:00.
My sister and I have always been attached at the hip. Literally.
Being conjoined twins is like being in a life-long three-legged race, except your partner is both your best friend and your worst enemy. You move in sync, but you also fight over every decision—left or right, fast or slow, now or later. There’s no escaping it. We share everything. Our movements, our thoughts, even our heart.
We’ve always done everything together. There was never a choice, for better or worse. But what happened on that fishing trip… that was something I never imagined we’d share.
It was a sunny day on the lake, the kind of family outing that felt ordinary. Peaceful. Our parents had brought us out for a relaxing afternoon—fishing rods, sandwiches, the works. Mom was setting up lunch on the picnic table, and we were helping her, passing plates and cutting bread, one of us holding the knife, the other steadying the food. It was a routine we had perfected over the years.
That’s when the fox appeared. At first, it seemed curious, sniffing the air around our picnic. But then it lunged. I didn’t even see it coming, but my sister did. It clamped down on her arm, snarling, its teeth sinking deep into her flesh. She screamed—a sound that echoed through me like a thunderclap. I tried to pull her back, but we’re connected, and there was nowhere to go.
It bit her again. And again. By the time Dad shot the thing, its teeth were stained with her blood.
The hospital trip was a blur. Doctors stitched her up, while I sat there, numb, tethered to her by our shared flesh, feeling her pain as if it were my own. They talked about rabies, about shots that would protect us both. But we share a heart, a circulatory system, parts of our nervous system. We’re not like other people. The treatment didn’t work.
Days passed, and my sister started to change.
At first, it was small things—restlessness, twitching. She complained of feeling hot, then cold. Her eyes became wild, darting around as if they were tracking something I couldn’t see. I could feel the heat radiating off her, our bodies connected, her fever coursing through me. I got tired, but not like her. She wouldn’t sleep, her muscles tensing, her breath coming in quick, shallow bursts.
Then came the violence.
One night, while we were alone in our hospital room, she turned on me. It was as if something inside her had snapped. Her eyes, once so familiar, now gleamed with a terrifying, primal madness. Before I could even call for help, she lunged at me, teeth bared, her fingers clawing at my skin. We fought, struggling against each other, but I couldn’t escape her—not when we were bound together, our bodies tethered by flesh and bone. She bit me twice before the nurses rushed in, sedating her, pulling her back just enough to keep me alive.
Now, I sit here in this cold, sterile room, waiting. The doctors say she has rabies, and it’s too late for her. They’ve tried every treatment, every sedative, but nothing seems to calm the animal inside her for long. She’s dangerous. Violent. She’s not her anymore.
They’ve separated us as much as they can—horizontal cushioned bars attached to the hospital bed, fabricated to fit between us safely and securely. The dense, padded plastic presses against our upper torsos, snug around our ribs. Soft enough to protect our skin, yet firm enough to keep us apart. It’s an unyielding divider, designed specifically to restrain her without hurting me, a desperate measure to contain the growing madness.
I can still hear her, though—low, guttural growls, her shallow, rapid breaths. Sometimes, she laughs—a twisted, hollow sound that no longer belongs to her.
I can feel the infection inside her, pulsing through our shared heart, our connected blood. The doctors check me constantly, waiting for any sign that I might be next, but so far, I’ve remained lucid. Every day, I watch her through the bars, her eyes wild, her body twitching in its restraints, and I wonder how much longer I can hold out.
She’s been sedated for days now, slipping in and out of consciousness, but even in sleep, I can feel her presence gnawing at the edges of my mind. Every now and then, her body jerks violently against the restraints, the metal rattling as if she’s trying to break free.
The worst part isn’t the separation—it’s the waiting. Knowing that I’m losing her, knowing that she’s still there but no longer the sister I’ve always known. The doctors tell me she’s gone, that the rabies has taken her mind, her soul, everything that made her my sister. But we share a body. I can still feel her. I can still feel the rage, the hunger, seeping into me.
They told me I should say goodbye, but how can I? We’ve shared everything, every moment, every breath, for as long as I can remember.
How do you say goodbye to someone when you're not only losing them, but losing yourself too? When every word sticks in your throat because you’re not just letting go of your sister—you’re saying goodbye to your loved ones, to everything, before you even have the chance to mourn the loss of yourself? How do you face the end when it’s not just hers, but yours too, creeping closer with every breath? Every time I feel our heart beat, I feel weaker.
I whispered to her today. I told her I loved her, even though I know she’s not really there anymore. I told her I’m sorry, that I didn’t know how to save her.
I’m typing my final goodbye, searching for the right words. The room is quiet, except for the faint hum of the machines around us. My hands tremble, the weight of everything pressing down as I try to let go. But then I feel it—a subtle, disturbing shift beside me.
I glance over, and my blood runs cold. My sister’s wide, bloodshot eyes are open, staring at me through the cushioned bars. Her lips curl into a maniacal smile, teeth gleaming in a way that makes my stomach twist. She doesn’t blink, just keeps smiling as her body jerks harder, the restraints straining under her movements.
I freeze. The words on the screen blur, my hand hovering over the keyboard, forgotten.
My sister is awake.