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There was no sense in me worrying about Chloe at school. The best I could hope for was a feeling, an inkling that something had gone wrong. I was depending on our “twins’ thing,” our shared telepathy that had been with us since birth, availing itself at times of extreme sensations, such as pain, or ecstasy, or both. Unfortunately, it wasn’t always dependable, it didn’t reveal itself with any pattern of regularity, and there were times when as a child Chloe would skin a knee, or ride a carousel, or kiss her first boy, or lose a friend, and I would feel something, a variance in the wind, a twinge in my neck, and sometimes it was pronounced and I could “see” her fall off her bike, but other times it was just a passing thought, and I noticed a shift, but the Earth remained the same, tethered to my soul, in its cycle of break and rejoin, break and rejoin. Don’t get me wrong, the “twins’ thing” was as real as night, I simply couldn’t pinpoint it, it teased me as a darker cloud promises rain before drifting to the horizon still fat with drops. There was no telling the hows and whens, it only served to remind that we were in thrall, forever children with hands outstretched, awaiting our gifts, the day either joyous celebration, or a nothing lump of coal.

Now don’t misunderstand, the telepathic deliverance of news of my Chloe’s skinned knee never delighted me, in the plain knowledge of Chloe’s physical suffering, for I loved my sister with all my being, even when we were at our most combative. But therein lies the heart of the matter. I felt so much privilege and joy when her feelings were revealed to me, I rejoiced so wholly in the sharing of any of her life, that my immediate response to feeling her reach out to me regardless the missive was an unabashed swelling of my thoughts, and I wished a warmth to shoot through me like a drug, even if her original sensation was slight, and even if her original sensation was indeed unwanted, promising me only shame.

Allow me to remind you of an example with which you are familiar. Remember when I happened upon Chloe in woods, as she straddled James, before that fateful time on the rock face? This was surely the most profound impression that I had ever received from my Chloe, it struck me physically, in a way that’s difficult to imagine, for it requires a body in full order, something which presently, at the time of this writing, I most distinctly lack. I hesitate to divulge the impression’s true base nature, but I imagine that you, dear reader, can surmise its ilk from its source, coming as it was from Chloe’s heinous act of copulation, something so shockingly new to us both at that time, and hence the reason I had never felt such sensation before, telepathic or otherwise. But here is a perfect illustration of my point then, as Chloe acted upon urges so vile, so offensive to me and my precious imagination of James… but what did I feel? Ecstasy. Pure and simple. I felt her sex (there’s no other word for it). And I liked it. Disgusting.

Well, dear reader, we have come to the point in our story that I have alluded to in the title to this chapter. We have indeed come to an impasse, for there are events and exertions that are about to occur in our chronology that bear much import upon the destinies of all involved, and therefore must be conveyed to you, as I’m sure you eagerly, hopefully justifiably, await them. But there’s a paradox quite simple, as I’m sure the more alert amongst you have already perceived, for there is precedent already in our account, though it did occur some pages ago. I refer to when Chloe, in her normal living state, told the tale of herself and Clarissa at the cheerleading practice, back in that chapter I called, amusingly I hope, “The Cheer Thing” (for of course, I would never set foot near a cheerleading practice, and anyway it was Chloe’s story to tell).

And now, as last we saw Chloe in her latest incarnation, as she disappeared from my view walking away from the car toward the Griffin Hills High, I know that I couldn’t ever possibly deny you, my reader, the details of what befell Chloe on that first day she impersonated me, Anna, at school. But how am I to tell this story? The problem is much more confounding than the earlier cheerleading chapter, for although Chloe in all her resplendent beauty now as then indeed sits beside me as I write, it is impossible for her to recall with any accuracy the events of that day, for in her virgin zombi state, her mind was too new, too young, too fresh, for any memories to take foot. The simplest analogy is one of youth, for Chloe had not yet in her new life attained a state of self-awareness, much like a baby or a very young child. We must wait then to hear from her, and I can tell you that Chloe herself is nodding her consent beside me now, smiling so lovely, and now embarrassingly as she has read what I have just written about her. How I love her so!

So how am I to surmount this impasse at hand? The answer may surprise you, as I have employed the services of another character within this history, an individual whom indeed I most certainly esteem, and trust in the whole with the retelling, as he is a man wedded to the scientific process, administering his recitation with a sort of athletic adherence to the truth, in a fervor as well that befits a man of his exceptional acumen. I have made of him a very thorough query, and he has thus passed his notes onto me, and I transcribe them here dutifully, with only minor alteration, so as to flow seamlessly within the current narrative. He will speak to you as I do, in the first person, and he has made a few gentle requests upon me regarding his chronicle, which of course I will honor in full, as you shall see. Let us proceed without further ado.


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