Hello.

I am here to give a funeral speech. One for my sister, Madeline. My unidentical twin. I don't think that us unidentical twins get enough attention; all of those identical scammers running around, pretending that they actually pretend that they pretend to be each other. I see them on television all the time- with "different" personalities and everything; you can tell that they are pretending to pretend that they pretend to be different. They're all the same. And people here; all of you think that I was the same as Madeline.

Well, screw that.

I'll tell you what Madeline was really like. She was my opposite. Perfect in every way, popular, intelligent, athletic, not to mention blonde with blue eyes- like one of those Barbie dolls, only not so plastic. I'm here, standing before you, and you can see plainly that I am not that blonde bimbo. She always got all the attention. It was always "Madeline and her sister", or "Madeline and Celia" or even, "Madeline and What's-her-name". She got all of those achievements without even trying; sports captain, form captain, valedictorian, Art prizes, Poetic achievement, Mathematics at university level; they were even considering letting her take her A- Levels two years early. But not me; not Celia. It was as if I didn't exist, as if I wasn't good enough. Mum and Dad; oh, they were the worst. When Madeline came home on report days, she was showered with praise and adulation for all of her straight A*s; whilst I, mediocre I, stood in the shadows, trying desperately to feel good about my B-s. Oh, they tried. They tried to make me fit in. But I never did. It was always her, with her big swollen ego, that dominated everyone else.

She had anything that anyone on this damned planet could ever want.

She wasn't happy. Oh, no, she wasn't content with pushing me out of her little circle of friends. She had to alienate me at home as well. Grandma and Grandpa were only interested in her; on Grandma's deathbed, all she wanted to know how that stupid race went. A marathon, which, of course she came first in. She always came first in my grandmother's heart- even if Madeline wasn't there for her death. But I was there, with her. I had put off a sleepover with one of my few friends; my only friend, of whom I promptly lost afterwards to her. I stayed there, I cared. But it isn't good enough, is it? No. Nothing Celia does is right.

She complained about everything; homework, school, her multiple boyfriends, the lack of nightclubs, her figure, her clothes, my clothes.

Of course, this annoyed me, but did my parents listen? No, they took her side. Every. Single. Time.

"Stop teasing your sister. She hasn't done anything to you."

What did I do wrong? Maybe; maybe if I copied her, maybe if I were like I didn't want to copy her in her suck-up attitude; like with the teachers. Yeah, she had all of the young male substitutes drooling after her. One click of those slender, well proportioned hands of hers, and they'd let her off of all of those detentions that she deserved.

She got top in those tests, too. I'm sure that they fixed her grade. They must've. I never saw her study, and she never let me see the results that she cherished so much. Oh, I saw her after the tests, giving her hang-dog face to the teacher. I saw her re-reading it, giving that little satisfied smirk on her perfectly even, oval face.

And she must have cheated in those races. I swear I saw her eating some energy tablets before them. She claimed that they were just "Polos, Cee" but I saw them. I know.

Why would I want to be like that?

I remember the last time that I saw her; all perky and excited about a skiing trip with her boyfriend. My parents would never let me go on a ski trip; even if I had friends to go with. And with her boyfriend? Oh, yeah, she'd be careful. What about road safety? No problem; his father would drop them off. Everything went well for her. Not a sad day in her life, not since the day she was born.

Except for that day.

We had some fight about her distinctly disgusting nasal habits. I wouldn't want to go into details now, but I know for a fact that she picked it. She denied it, of course.

A raging, torrenting, frenzied discussion of the minds. More of her screaming, actually. She had a wonderful loud voice, just as our music teacher so frequently reminded me.

"I hate you!"

She yelled, glaring at me, before slamming our bedroom door in my face.

Always had to have the last word, didn't you?

You stalked off, into your boyfriends arms, who, I notice, isn't coming to your funeral.

You had to make me guilty, didn't you? You couldn't just die of a disease or old age, like a normal person would. It's been pushed into my face, just like that door. If it weren't for me, you wouldn't have drunk yourself stupid, would you? You wouldn't have died.

You never had those last words that you wanted, the dramatic final exit. You practiced it in your Drama class, didn't you? Dying bravely in your lover's arms, with a tear-stained face and mesmerizing calmness.

You died a slow death, trapped underneath the snow, suffocating painfully. They found your body, your face, contorted in a last effort to survive. You gathered what consciousness that you could summon, after that rather heavy beer, and tried to break free. There was a mask, wasn't there? It was so cold that your breath and your tears became frozen, mixed up in your emotions, your final emotions, and covered half of your face in a bleak, icy, dark slate.

I am past shock, past anger, past denial, past guilt; now, all I have is an empty nothingness. Just as barren, just as unforgiving as the snow must have seemed to you. Do you know the sick feeling that you get when something has not gone the way you wanted it to be? And the sense of relief when it's over? I'm still waiting for that.

I hated you. I wished that I could rip you- rip you away from my family, my friends, my life. I wished I could be the only competitor for the adulation; 'cause I know that even if there were some-one to take your place that was half as good as you, I'd still lose.

Hell, why not make that a third?

You loved the theatre, didn't you? And all things cultural. Never have I seen a sixteen year old girl talk about Shakespeare or Beethoven with such eloquence. Eloquence that I couldn't match. You used to talk about the irony of his words- twisting and turning the characters into such miserable webs that they couldn't hope to possibly escape. Like flies. You were the spider, weren't you?

You know the irony? The humour in this miserable fest? The sarcasm that will no doubt leave all of the leeches, those who are just here for a "will" of a sixteen year old, in this room fidgeting and guilty? You don't know what I'm talking about, do you Madeline?

No?

You want me to tell you. The first thing that I know, and you don't. I feel so happy- jubilant even. Maybe I should tease you- not let you in on the secret, like you did with all of your friends about me. You turned them all against me, didn't you? Even my best friend. I saw the two of you laughing. Laughing at a private joke that immediately stopped when I entered the room.

Alright, I'll tell. Your last words to me were,

"I hate you"

Remember, in the fight? The one that we had? The one that you started? And now, you don't even get to apologise. You wriggled out of it; wriggled out of the blame, wriggled away, out of my grasp like the snake you really were.

"I hate you"?

What kind of a thing would make you say that? Undoubtedly your sick, twisted mind that stopped you from admitting that I was right, and you were wrong. I'm always right when it comes to you. I know you too well. Knew you.

I could get inside your head- I knew what you were going to do before you did it. I knew that you'd stalk off into his arms, to seek refuge from your mad sister. Then you'd come back, and it would all be blown over, and you'd forget about it.

"I hate you"?

I hate you.

That's going to put you in hell.

Where you belong, for putting me through the guilt of your death. I see your face every night, the one I saw when the doctors came. White, white, white. Cold, eyes closed, like you were in prayer.

"I hate you"

That's not such a bad thing to say, is it? Unless you knew that you were going to die that day. Like you did.

I'm never going to let that go. I'll always remember it. Those three words that completely wrecked the love I had left for you. Your campaign against me is complete, Madeline. Well, you know what, 'sis?

I love you too.