Until Death Do Us Part

Jeff Taylor

“What’s it look like, Bonnie?” Anita whispered anxiously and groggily as they came to in the recovery room. Bonita could just see, in her peripheral vision, a big, crescent-shaped scar from Anita’s temple to her neck. It looked like a huge letter C outlined with metal staples.

C for cancer.

“There’s a tumour, I’m afraid,” the neurosurgeon had said quietly to the shocked family. It was just a few days after their sixteenth birthday. Told at the birth that separation of their twins’ mishmash of melded organs and limbs would never be possible, the distraught parents had been warned that the separate brains might be like two computers in competition for control. One might eventually fail under the pressure.

‘It looks like a big zipper, Nita,’ Bonita sobbed. One of their hands sought the other, and as ever, it was impossible to know who had reached for whom.


This story was a winner in the Micro Mentoring Comp.

About the author: Jeff Taylor lives in Hamilton New Zealand and enjoys writing short fiction. Winner of the NZFFD 2019, published in Best Microfictions 2020, and nominated for a Pushcart Prize.