AN: I did not intend to upload this, but I realized I hadn't updated this poor thing in ages.

It was just an experimental piece I wrote on my blog. It should be pretty obvious what song it's based on.

I stared in wild confusion as he buttoned up my shirt—though, it was not my shirt. It was one of his own. He smiled, but something was wrong with that smile; at the sight of it, I felt sick. My heart felt like it was sinking. Something was wrong. "What are you doing...?"

"I'm lending you my clothes, okay?" he replied softly, tenderly; almost in a low whisper. In contrast, the unusual noise outside was growing louder. What was it? People? People yelling? I tuned it out in order to better hear his quiet voice. He continued, "And I'm going to borrow yours."

He opened one of my wardrobes and pulled out a familiar article of clothing; my favorite yellow dress. As I watched him slip it on, I began to realize with a painful, creeping horror what was happening.

"Wait... wait, no, you can't...!!" I tried to protest, tears stinging my eyes, but he shushed me and placed a gloved index finger against my trembling lips. With his free hand, he pulled a rubber band out of his hair. His flaxen locks fell loosely, framing his cheeks. He reached for my hair and transferred his hairstyle over to me. I weakly pushed at his chest, but my arms were shaking too violently to exert full force, and he did not move. "Don't... don't..." I sobbed, unable to find any other words at my disposal.

"It's okay," he murmured, gathering my hands into his own. I looked up at him, and saw through the blurry tears that his smile was still in place. "We're twins, so no one will ever know."

I savored the warmth of his hands around mine for another moment, but our time together was ended abruptly. My bedroom door crashed open, and the noise—the yelling, the screaming, the insanity—was suddenly here, tangent, and quickly drew closer. He left my side and was willingly ensnared their cruel, brutal grasps. Even as they crushed his thin arms in their hateful hands and dragged him away, I could still see that patient smile gracing his lips. Even though I added my screams to their own, they paid me no mind.

Now, I stand in the cold, clutching an old, wool cloak around my shuddering frame. I drift through a buzzing crowd, wondering if I can find him among these harsh, unfriendly streets.

I follow the throng's gazes upwards, and standing against a red sky,

a guillotine


up into

the air.

I realize

that in the guillotine

is him

and in a loud and even voice, he utters:

"Ah, it's snack time."

My old catchphrase

in my clothes

with my hair

but his smile.

The blade drops.