The building where I was supposed to spend the night was surrounded by police cars, so that wasn't a good sign.

I prayed to all the gods whose names I knew (one of them must be the right one, right?) that they weren't there for me. I considered sneaking inside through the same window I had exited the previous evening, but then my common sense convinced me to give up.

I slipped between one patrol car and another to reach the main entrance when one of the officers grabbed me by the arm and eyed me reproachfully.

The scattered police officers around the building were summoned, I was thrown for the second time onto the back seats of a police car, and the whole committee sprang into action simultaneously to leave that run-down place.

They took me back to the station, which I was less than thrilled about. They ushered me into a small sitting room and closed the door behind me. At this point, I was willing to just let events unfold. Between the sleepless night and the fact that my mind was still slightly fogged from the weed, I decided to approach one of the couches and collapse onto the plush blue cushions.

I was afraid of what they would answer if I asked what was happening. Would they say some bullshit like, "You're about to meet your mommy, aren't you happy?"

And no, Christ, I wasn't fucking happy. In my mind, my mommy had enjoyed a long and happy career dancing around a pole for the last seventeen years. She was happy, I was happy. Everyone was happy. Why did we have to ruin this wonderful balance?

The door opened, and I struggled to sit up like a real Homo sapiens and focus on the image of the woman who had just entered.

I screamed at my tumultuous heart to calm down; that wasn't my mother, if I were half-Asian, I think I would have noticed.

The lady sat on the couch opposite mine. She had a nice smile, her black hair pulled back into a bun, and a notepad tucked under her arm.

"Good morning, Drake. My name is Kanya Tao, and I handle psychological assessments for the juvenile court, do you know what that means?"

I shook my head. It definitely meant I was in trouble. That's usually what it meant when I didn't understand something.

"It means I'm going to ask you some questions, and, keeping in mind that there are no right or wrong answers, I'd like you to answer me as honestly as possible."

The lady smiled, and my brain went into meltdown as it always did when I had to deal with a woman.

Females made me slightly uncomfortable. It had always been just me and my dad, a deadly cocktail of testosterone. Our house smelled male, the only feminine traces ever passing through there were the girls my dad brought to his room on Saturday nights. But they never stayed long enough for me to talk to them.

In elementary school, boys avoided girls, that's how it's done. And later, when my asshole classmates started taking an interest in the fairer sex, I was too busy staring at them and their assholes. 

I could say with absolute certainty that I had never spoken to a woman for more than five minutes, not counting the occasional bitches who always wanted to give me a failing grade.

"So, Drake, you received some very important news yesterday. How do you feel about it?"

I stammered out a sensible response, I think, while trying not to stare at her chest. Why the hell was I staring at her chest? I didn’t even like boobs. It's always like this. When you know you shouldn't think about something, that's the only thing that comes to mind.

Like that time I was introduced to a guy in a wheelchair, and throughout that stupid conversation, I kept repeating to myself NOT to call him handicapped.

And what was the only thing bombarding my brain at that moment?

H A N D I C A P P E D

"What can you tell me about your relationship with your father?"

What could I tell her? I don't know... he's a retarded asshole, but we love him. He can't keep two pennies in his pocket to save his life, but occasionally he manages to hold down a job for more than two weeks. He's a simple guy, one of those who goes around the neighborhood shirtless like a gorilla in heat when his favorite team wins.

"But... as far as you're concerned? What kind of relationship do you have?"

What kind of relationship did we have... what do I know? It's okay. He's not the kind of dad who attends parent-teacher meetings, but who wants a dad like that anyway?

Does he support me? Well, yeah. He sometimes hangs out at my gigs, even though he does it more for the free beers and to pick up girls at the bar than to support his son's passion.

He was disappointed when he found out I was gay, but only for, like... five hours, the time it took him to get drunk like a Russian and then sober up. He couldn't wait to start talking about women with me, telling me all his tricks and stuff. But he got over it right away, I told you, he's a laid-back guy. He handed me a box of condoms with a nice 'go and screw, my son'. And what was I supposed to do? I obeyed. I'm a diligent son, I am.

I was sure I nailed that interview. The lady never stopped smiling warmly, so everything must have been okay.

"Um... when can I talk to my dad?"

"It's difficult to give you a precise answer at the moment. If there's something urgent you feel you need to tell him, why not try writing letters? It'll help you organize your thoughts."

Writing letters... yeah, I was going to write with a pen on a piece of paper about my feelings, like in the Middle Ages. Whatever.

"But I mean... tomorrow? Next week? Are you really going to send that asshole to prison?"

For the first time, the lady lost part of her smile: "Drake, do you realize how serious what your father did is?"

"Yes, but are we sure he really did it? I'm still pretty sure you got the wrong guy."

The lady opened her mouth to respond, and the door burst open with a bang.

"I told you you have to wait a little longer!"

"Wait?! I've waited sixteen years! Don't you dare lay a hand on me, you don't want me as your enemy, I assure you. Move aside."

A policeman was pushed into the room, followed immediately by a woman.

She was dressed in a beige suit and wore a pair of heels that made an annoying tick-tock sound with each step. Her brown hair was pulled back into a tight bun, she had a line of eyeliner, and barely visible lipstick.

She saw me, and her shocked expression made me jump to my feet. Slowly, her hands came to her chest, and her eyes began to... oh, fuck... she's crying. No. Abort. Abort. Get out of here.

But the woman was standing in the doorway, blocking the only way out. I could jump out the window, come on. The third floor wouldn't kill me, right?

"Thomas..."

Tick-tock, tick-tock, she took three steps forward.

Behind her, I saw another man peek into the room. He was as thin as spaghetti, dressed in a jacket and tie. Someone should tell that guy people stopped getting that haircut when Nazi Germany fell.

I wasted too much time staring at him; the crying woman had reached me. Before I could escape, I saw her arms open in slow motion, as in movies where the trigger is pulled, and you see the moment the bullet leaves the barrel, knowing that whatever the protagonist does, he will inevitably be hit.

Her arms enveloped me, squeezed me, trapped me. She had sprayed too much perfume on herself, that sweet smell gone bad invaded me. Her sobs next to my ear echoed in my brain.

She kept repeating Thomas, Thomas, but who the fuck is this Thomas?!

I was formulating a tactical strategy to slip away unscathed when a fourth person entered the room.

I saw him over the crying woman's shoulder; there he was, with his head down and hands in his pockets.

He was wearing the exact same suit as the spaghetti guy, and he had the same haircut. His dark hair had been combed to the side and flattened with a lick of gel.

When he finally lifted his eyes to meet mine, I found myself facing my own face. He had a thin mouth, an aquiline nose, ears that stuck out too much, and a ridiculously high forehead.

It was my fucking face! What the hell was that asshole doing with my fucking face on him?!

The panic of finding myself in front of a clone with a haircut like a choirboy finally gave me the strength to tear myself away from the sobbing woman.

I didn't even have time to point him out for witchcraft, that the officer's words came back to me. He said I'd understand everything once I saw my brother.

My brother.

My twin brother.

Fucking hell.

I dodged the crying woman and dodged the Asian one who tried to block me.

I elbowed aside the spaghetti guy, slid past my own copy, and away, out of that madhouse.

An officer grabbed my wrist before I could reach the exit.

"You can't hold me here against my will! I haven't done anything! Let me go!"

The man's face was crossed by a moment of indecision, which I took advantage of by twisting my wrist out of his grip and fleeing at full speed.

I threw myself against the door and started running. I heard the door banging close behind me, and then opening again.

I turned back already out of breath and saw that sort of failed experiment following me. What the hell do you want?! Go back to my worst nightmares and stay there.

I started walking briskly, no longer paying attention to the unsettling figure tailing me. As long as it didn't come into my field of vision...

We were in the upper part of the city. It would take me a lifetime to get back home, and that would give me time to think.

He really did it. That idiot kidnapped a child, tore him away from his crying mother, and kept him for sixteen years. Who does something like that? It seemed... cruel.

Dad was many things, but he wasn't cruel.

And suddenly, I didn't want time to think anymore. I wanted not to think at all; I wanted to be elsewhere doing anything else.

I stopped just for a second. With trembling hands, I rummaged in my pocket to fish out a cigarette I had bummed from someone and a lighter I had stolen from someone else.

"Hey." The clone caught up with me. For fuck's sake...

"W-what are you doing?" He asked, looking anxiously over his shoulder.

"What does it look like I'm doing?" I took in as much nicotine as possible in one breath and immediately felt a bit calmer.

"Uh..." He seemed about to say something, something I definitely wasn't interested in hearing, so I kept walking without waiting for him.

I saw his image flicker to my right; he hurried to keep up with my pace. It was strange... if we were really twins, we should have the same height, but he seemed a bit shorter. Maybe it was because he was hunched over, closed in on himself.

His carefully knotted tie fluttered in the wind, and he hurried to straighten it out. In that moment, I noticed a tag on the side of his jacket, VLTN.

This guy was walking around with a Valentino jacket, which probably cost more than the car my dad and I didn't have.

It annoyed me to no end.

"Um... where are you going?"

"To mind my own lavish fucking business. You and those two pompous assholes can go back to fucktown where you came from."

He widened his dark eyes (my dark eyes) and stammered a pathetic: "W-what do you mean?"

I hate people who stutter. If you don't have the courage to speak clearly, then don't speak at all.

I quickened my pace.

And the little bastard kept up with me.