After My Brother Died, I Became Him

1
My twin brother was murdered, dismembered, in our own home. I was the only witness.
But I couldn't remember a thing.
The doctors called it traumatic amnesia. They said the memories might never return.
My parents refused to believe it.
They tried everythingelectroshock therapy, hypnosis, experimental drugs...
None of it worked. All it did was leave me with the same crippling depression that had haunted my brother.
After my ninth suicide attempt, my parents finally broke. Their eyes were bloodshot as they screamed at me.
"Stop trying to be him! Every time you fake it, you make us sick! You will never replace him!"
"If you really wanted to atone, you'd tell us what happened that night!"
They threw me out of the house.
I was wandering aimlessly along the riverfront when a mysterious man stopped me. He held out a photograph of my brother.
"I can help you relive that day," he said softly. "But the price... is your life."
I looked at the photo, then down at the dark, churning water below. A bitter smile twisted my lips.
"Deal."
After all, to me, forgetting was a fate worse than death.
I just never imagined that when the images of that night finally played out in the tribunal, the first people to break would be my parents.
The light in the Memory Tribunal was a sterile, unforgiving white. The gallery was sparsely populated with a few observers. They told me the entire procedure would be recorded as a landmark case in deep memory extraction.
The man whod found me by the river, my brothers best friend, Quentin, stood silently by my side. I could see a flicker of conflict in his eyes.
"It's not too late to walk away," he murmured, his voice low.
I glanced down at the latticework of scars on my wrists and shook my head.
Just then, a side door burst open and my parents rushed in, their hair disheveled as if theyd run all the way here.
My mother's eyes locked onto me instantly. There was no concern in them, only a raw, overflowing agony and resentment.
"What are you doing here? Do you think this is some grand gesture of redemption?!" her voice, sharp and piercing, echoed in the vast chamber. "Your brother he died so horribly! You were right there! How could you forget? How dare you forget?!"
My father didn't cry. He just stared at me, his eyes a spiderweb of broken blood vessels. "We tried everything to help you remember! The shocks, the hypnosis and what did you do?"
"You knew how much he suffered, and yet you had the gall to fake depression just to be like him?!"
"And now this? A Memory Tribunal?"
"Do you think this makes you look tragic? Do you think it makes you more like him?!"
A low murmur rippled through the observers in the gallery.
My mothers chest heaved. "Were we not good to you? You were the younger sister, we always worried you'd feel left out! But him?"
"He was so considerate, always looking out for you, protecting you! And in the end in the end"
She broke down, sobbing. It took her a long moment to regain her composure before she pointed a trembling finger at me.
"Did he die protecting you?! Did you get him tangled up in something terrible?!"
"Is that why you won't talk?! Is it?!"
I stood frozen, a chill creeping up from the soles of my feet, turning my limbs to ice. In their eyes, was I really that worthless?
Quentins hand came to rest on my rigid shoulder, a silent comfort. "Your brother wouldn't blame you."
I turned to him, saw the pity in his eyes, and asked softly, "If I go through with this, the truth of what he went through will come out, right?"
Quentin was silent for a few seconds before giving a nearly imperceptible nod. "The memory feed will be broadcast live. Every hidden detail will be exposed."
"Then let's begin," I said.
Quentin's brow furrowed as he gestured toward the chilling metal chair in the center of the room. A gleaming neural probe was suspended directly above it.
"That's the Lumina Probe. It will pierce your skull and reach the core of your brain."
"The older and more traumatic the memory, the deeper it has to go. And the more it will hurt."
My gaze drifted past the long, cold probe to my parents in the gallery. My mother was still weeping into her hands. My father had turned away, his chest rising and falling in ragged breaths.
A small, quiet smile touched my lips.
"It's okay. I'm not afraid."
"As long as my brother can rest in peace, as long as Mom and Dad can know what really happened it doesnt matter how much it hurts."
Quentin watched me for a long moment before finally nodding to the lead technician.
The technician stepped forward, his expression grave. "Mr. Quentin, once the memory extraction process is activated, it cannot be stopped."
"Upon completion, the subject will suffer irreversible brain damage, resulting in brain death."
"As per protocol, the next of kin must be informed of the ultimate risks."
"No!" The word escaped me before I could think.
I looked at Quentin, my eyes pleading. "Please don't tell them. Not yet. Can you do that?"
In the gallery, my mother lifted her tear-stained face. My father looked over, his eyes still burning with anger.
Quentin's jaw tightened. "Fine," he said to the technician, his voice hoarse. "I'll take full responsibility. Begin."
Two assistants guided me to the cold metal chair, strapping my arms and legs down securely. The probe overhead whirred, adjusting its angle to target the crown of my head. An anesthesiologist approached with a sedative.
But just as the needle was about to touch my skin
My father shot to his feet, his voice trembling. "Wait!"
2
A flicker of something stirred in my numb heart. A tiny, pathetic ripple of hope.
Were they worried about me?
My father's next words shattered that fragile illusion.
He looked at the lead technician, his gaze sharp and cold. "I've heard anesthetics can interfere with the clarity and authenticity of the memories. Is that right?"
The technician paused, taken aback. "Theoretically, there can be a minor impact, but for the subject's well-being"
"Then don't use any."
My father cut him off, his tone absolute. "She wants to remember, doesn't she? This way she can have a good, long look."
My mother flinched, a flicker of pity crossing her face. But it vanished as quickly as it came. She turned her head away and added her firm agreement. "That's right She said she forgot. Let's make sure she sees it all clearly this time."
A dead silence fell over the tribunal. The observers exchanged shocked glances. Someone audibly gasped.
Quentin surged forward, his face a mask of disbelief and rage. "Do you have any idea what you're saying?! The pain of this procedure is unimaginable! Its"
"Quentin," I called out, stopping him.
My eyes were fixed on the two faces in the gallery, so familiar yet so alien. "Fine," I said quietly. "No anesthetic."
He whipped his head around to look at me, his eyes wide with shock. "Phoebe! The pain is a thousand times worse than being flayed alive! You you can't handle it!"
"I can," I interrupted, my gaze unwavering. "Let's begin."
"I want to see the truth just as much as they do."
Quentin opened his mouth, but seeing the resolve in my eyes, he said nothing more. After a long, heavy pause, he signaled for the technician to proceed.
The probe overhead descended, drilling viciously into my skull.
"Ngh!"
A blinding, white-hot agony shot through me. I bit down hard, clamping my jaw against a scream.
On the large screen, the first memory began to surface.
I was in a loose-fitting hospital gown, curled into a ball on a bed, staring blankly into space.
Bang! The door to the room slammed open.
My mother stormed in, her eyes a hysterical red. She lunged for the bed, her hands grabbing my shoulders, shaking me violently.
"Phoebe! Look at me! Tell me what happened that night!"
"Who was in our house?! Your brother how how did he die?!"
The world spun. Tears streamed silently down my face as I shook my head over and over. "I'm sorry, I don't know I really can't remember I'm so sorry"
"How can you not remember?! How can you?!"
My mothers sanity finally snapped. She shrieked, her hands closing tight around my throat.
"That was your brother! Your twin brother!"
"You were in my womb together for nine months! You grew up side-by-side!"
"He was right next to you while someone was how could you forget?! How DARE you forget?!"
Suffocation and a tidal wave of guilt drowned me. My face turned purple as I choked out broken whimpers. "Sorry so sorry"
My father stood in the doorway, his eyes burning.
My mother suddenly released me, screaming, "What good is saying sorry?! I want the truth! I want the killer!"
The scene abruptly shifted.
Now I was strapped to a metal chair. Electrodes were stuck to my head and body.
"Final session, Phoebe. What did you see that night?" a doctor's cold voice asked.
I shook my head in terror, tears gushing from my eyes. "I'm sorry I can't remember I really don't know"
The moment the words left my mouth, a violent current shot through my body.
"AAAAAHHH!"
A scream tore from my throat as my body convulsed uncontrollably.
"Did you remember anything?! Did you see something?!" My mother's sharp voice came from behind a glass panel.
My mouth gaped open, but all that came out were strangled gasps and agonized moans as I continued to shake my head.
"Increase the voltage!" my father commanded without a hint of hesitation.
A more powerful shock slammed into me. My body arched against the restraints, saliva and tears streamed down my face, my pupils dilating from the sheer agony.
"Have you remembered yet?! Say it!"
"No nothing AHHHH!"
"Again! To the maximum! She remembers, she's just not talking!" my father roared.
"No please just kill me kill me"
"AAAGGGHHHHH!"
As my scream ripped through the air, the screen went black.
The memory ended.
The tribunal was utterly silent.
Suddenly, my father's furious voice shattered the quiet.
"What was that?!"
"Is this what we came here to see?! We want to see what happened that night!"
My mother shot to her feet, crying out at the stage. "Keep going! Dig deeper! Skip all this useless garbage! We want the truth!"
Subdued whispers and stifled sobs could be heard from the gallery.
Quentin looked at me, drenched in sweat and trembling, his brow furrowed in deep concern.
The lead technician took a shaky breath, his voice strained. "First-level surface memory extraction is complete. The subject is conscious, but her vital signs are fluctuating."
"I will state again: forcibly extracting memories without anesthesia may lead to sudden cardiac arrest and death."
Before the technician had even finished, my father yelled, "Keep going! I told you, whatever the cost! We want the truth!"
3
The technician looked at me with pity in his eyes. I gave a weak nod, forcing the words through gritted teeth.
"Continue."
He took a deep breath, his hand trembling as he keyed in the command. The machine whirred to life again, the probe resuming its relentless drilling into my brain.
"AAAAAHHHHH!"
The pain was so intense I couldn't stop myself from screaming. My body started to twitch and writhe in the chair.
My parents looked over, the sound of my agony seemingly the first thing to register as real. But a moment later, the screen lit up again, and their attention was stolen away once more.
The image slowly came into focus.
This time, the memory was of a simple barbershop.
In the mirror was a boy in a plain white t-shirt. His jaw was sharp, his eyes clear, and his bangs fell softly across his forehead. His face, his entire demeanor he was the spitting image of my brother, Leo.
In the gallery, my parents both held their breath. Quentin froze, his fingers tightening on the control panel.
In the memory, the boy in the mirror looked up, revealing his full face.
It wasn't my brother. It was me.
My shoulder-length hair was gone, replaced by a short cut identical to Leo's. I was wearing one of his old shirts, a light-blue striped button-down that hung loosely on my frame.
My parents' eyes, which had been lit with a flicker of impossible hope, went dark the moment they recognized me.
The memory shifted. I walked out of the barbershop and went home. My parents were sitting on the living room sofa.
"Dad, Mom, I'm home."
I pitched my voice lower, trying to mimic my brother's cadence.
On the sofa, they both jolted, their heads snapping in my direction. As they saw the figure in the doorway, my mother's eyes flew wide.
"L Leo?"
My father shot to his feet, his pupils constricting as he stared. But as their eyes adjusted, as they truly saw my face, the light in their eyes died.
"Chlo e!"
My mother shrieked my name. "What what is this?! What are you trying to do?!"
She rushed forward, grabbing my arm, her questions frantic and wild.
I was terrified, stumbling over my words. "I I just wanted to make you feel a little better"
"I thought I thought if I looked more like him, you wouldn't be so sad"
"I'm sorry, I'm just trying to atone"
SMACK!
My father's hand cracked across my face. He was shaking with rage, his eyes crimson. "Atone?! You think dressing up like Leo is atoning?!"
"Phoebe, let me tell you something. This isn't atonement. This is disgusting!"
"You want us to forget him completely so you can take his place, is that it?! Huh?!"
My cheek burned. I clutched my face, shaking my head frantically. "No! Dad, no! I never wanted to replace him!"
"I I really was just trying to atone"
My mother shoved me away, her voice rising into a hysterical wail. "You want to atone?! Then tell us what you saw that night! Find the killer!"
"What good is playing dress-up?!"
I collapsed onto the floor. Faced with their fury and accusations, all I could do was repeat the same useless words over and over.
"I'm sorry I'm sorry I really can't remember I'm so sorry"
My father leaned down, his bloodshot eyes boring into mine. "It's not us you should be sorry to! It's your brother, Leo!"
"If you really want to apologize to him, then why don't you go do it in person? Go to hell and tell him you're sorry"
The final image of the memory was the living room, late at night. I was kneeling ramrod straight on the floor, my forehead a bloody, pulpy mess. The tears on my face had long since dried, leaving only a numb, hollow emptiness. Facing my brother's portrait, I slammed my head against the floor again and again, whispering a ceaseless mantra.
"I'm sorry, Leo."
Thud.
"I'm sorry"
Thud.
"I'm sorry"
Thud.
The dull impacts, punctuated by my apologies, echoed in the silent room.
The screen went dark.
My mother's broken, screaming sobs pulled everyone back to the present. She pointed at me, tears and snot streaming down her face.
"Phoebe! Do you even have a heart?!"
"Who are you showing this to?! Are you trying to get sympathy?!"
"We want to know how your brother died! The truth! Do you hear me?!"
My father's face was ashen, a vein throbbing in his temple. "Skip this self-pitying crap!" he roared. "Keep digging! Keep going!"
I watched them, their faces twisted with rage, and fresh tears welled in my eyes. My lips moved on their own, a familiar, desperate whisper.
"I'm sorry I'm sorry Mom and Dad I'm sorry"
"I'm sorry Leo I'm sorry"
With every "I'm sorry," the probe in my mind seemed to twist deeper.
"Ugh!"
After the last apology escaped my lips, a spray of blood erupted from my mouth.

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