I knocked softly on my sister's door, and it swung open with a creak, revealing Michelle; the once familiar warmth in her eyes was now replaced with a glimmer of panic. We locked eyes, an unspoken recognition hanging heavily in the air between us.

  It had been months since we last connected, ever since Dad passed away.

  Michelle stepped forward and wrapped her arms around me, her body trembling slightly. “Thank you for coming,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

  I hugged her back, absorbing the familiar scent of her hair, a fleeting reminder of our childhood.

  “Where is he?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper, fear creeping into my chest.

  “He’s on the dining table,” she replied, her gaze shifting towards the room behind her. “He’s still breathing, but I don't know for how long.”

  With a heavy heart, I stepped into the dimly lit room, an unsettling silence hanging in the air. Michelle's once-inviting space now resembled a chaotic battlefield; furniture lay strewn haphazardly, as if caught in the throes of a storm.

  The sheet draped over the dining table was now stained and torn, repurposed as a makeshift bandage to stop the flow of blood coming out of Max’s body. The dim light flickered, casting eerie shadows that danced across the walls, amplifying the sense of dread that enveloped me.

  My eyes landed on Max’s frail body sprawled on the once-polished oak table, which was now being redecorated in crimson red. The stark contrast of life and stillness was a brutal sight; his chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, an unexpected miracle amid the despair that enveloped us.

  “There is also one thing you need to know, Eva...” Michelle's voice pierced the silence, heavy with dread. “He thought I was you.”

  I paused, my mind racing. I wanted to brush it aside; after all, we were twins, sharing features and an unspoken bond. It wasn't entirely shocking that Max might get confused in his delirious state. Yet, the weight of her words lingered in my mind, adding complexity to an already unbearable situation.

  “It doesn’t mean anything. We're twins after all.”

  As I leaned closer to Max, I remembered something that Michelle had mentioned earlier that didn't quite add up.

  “You said he was missing an eye. But he still has both his eyes,” I pointed out, trying to make sense of the chaotic scene.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  “Sorry,” Michelle stammered, her voice shaky. “I meant his friend lost an eye.” Her eyes darted nervously around the room, filled with shame and anxiety.

  I scanned the apartment. “Well, where is he?” I pressed, feeling a creeping unease.

  “He’s in the bathtub,” she said, barely above a whisper.

  “He’s where?!” I yelled, the shock snaking through my voice as I imagined the worst.

  Michelle’s face blanched, and she swallowed hard, panic spilling from her lips. “I didn’t know what to do. I thought about taking him to a hospital, but then the thought of a Ripperdoctor crossed my mind. Even then, I had no idea how to explain it… So I panicked and brought him here.” Her words tumbled out in a rush, illustrating her frantic state of mind.

  I opened the creaky door to the bathroom, and there lay Henry in the tub, sprawled out and eerily still, water pooling around him in a faintly blood-soaked hue, the left side of his face drenched in his blood. Where his left eye should be was nothing more than a crater.

  “I’ll take him to a ripper; they might be able to keep him alive,” I said, my voice taut with urgency.

  Michelle, her face pale and eyes wide with disbelief, nodded silently. I quickly stepped forward, gripping Henry’s legs with a sense of both dread and determination, while Michelle carefully took hold of his shoulders. Together, we maneuvered his lifeless body through the cramped bathroom door and down the narrow hallway.

  Once outside, we laid him gently in the back seat of Michelle’s car, the faint scent of antiseptic and dampness lingering in the air. I slid into the driver’s seat, my palms clammy against the steering wheel. As I turned the key and the engine roared to life, I glanced over at Michelle, who stood in the driveway, her face etched with concern.

  “Everything will be okay,” I reassured her, attempting to inject a note of optimism into my trembling voice. She nodded slowly, tears brimming in her eyes, before turning back to the house to check on Max. I took a deep breath, the reality of the moment settling heavily on my chest, and pulled away from the curb, plotting the fastest route to the nearest Ripperdoc.

  As we hurried into the sterile, brightly lit examination room, I turned to the doctor, desperation evident in my voice. “I need you to help this man,” I implored. Carefully, we lifted him into the cushioned operating chair, his frail body slumping slightly as he settled against the headrest.

  The doctor regarded Henry with a critical eye, his brow furrowed in concentration. “What do you want me to do with him?” he asked, gauging the situation.

  “Just make sure that he’s alive!” I shouted, my heart racing with anxiety, the urgency of the moment weighing heavily on me.

  The doctor focused intently on Henry’s missing eye, assessing the damage with practiced precision.

  “I can replace this with a new one,” he said, nodding thoughtfully, as he prepared to outline the next steps in the procedure.

  “Well, get to it!”

  The doctor checked and scanned Henry’s vital signs, “He’s lucky that the bullet didn’t go all the way through, as if that were the case, he would be dead.”

  The doctor pulled out a pair of disposable gloves and proceeded to shine a light on Henry’s left eye. Before he started, he grabbed an inhaler that had a tube of Black Lace inside and took a hit.

  Once he took a hit of Black Lace, he started working on Henry’s left eye.

  The doctor looked over to me, “This may take some time...”