Poisoned Roots
(Jane’s POV)
“I was the one,” Julia muttered. “In the house. That night. With Nathan.”
The clink of glasses, the hum of quiet conversations, and the soft jazz floating from the ceiling speakers all seemed to collapse into a heavy silence. The air inside Café Brago thickened, pressing in around me until I could only hear the slow, thunderous beat of my heart, pounding louder than everything else.
I stared at her.
Not blinking. Not breathing.
The coffee in my cup had become cold, barely touched. My fingers trembled slightly over the porcelain handle, but I remained motionless. My joints have failed me. My body clenched as if to keep me from cracking wide open.
Julia’s eyes did not look at mine.
They drifted just below, on the table, on the floor, or anywhere else but my face.
I opened my mouth, but words failed me. Julia shifted in her seat. She appeared… lighter, as if she had just unloaded a boulder. My pain, it seemed, was her freedom.
“I should go,” she said, reaching for her bag.
Is that it? What? No explanation? No apologies?
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Could it be that I’m dreaming?
I still couldn’t speak. My tongue felt like sandpaper, my chest locked tight. in a corset of disbelief.
She stood. Straightened her White blouse. Her hands fidgeted for a second before she glanced toward the café exit.
“I only came to offload the weight of what I’ve done.”
She turned.
And just like that, she left.
I didn’t follow her. I didn’t call out. I just sat there, frozen, watching as she walked away. She didn’t look back. Not once. Her dress caught the wind like a whisper, trailing behind her as she walked away.
I sat still, trapped in the aftermath of her revelation, until a sweet voice broke through the fog.
“Ma’am… Are you alright?”
I blinked. A waitress stood by the table’s edge, concern on her brow, her tray loosely held at her side. She must have noticed me sitting there, motionless, long after the last sip of coffee had gone cold..
“I-” My voice caught in my throat.
I swallowed hard. “Yes. I’m good.”
She didn’t look convinced, but she nodded anyway and stepped away with quiet understanding.
I reached for my purse with hands that barely felt like mine. Sliding a few bills onto the table–far more than the coffee was worth- I rose slowly, as if my body had aged in minutes, each movement stiff with the weight of
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her confession. My coat felt heavier now as I cinched it tightly around me, as if it could protect me from the reality that had just broken quietly between two cups of coffee…
Then, without looking back, I walked out of Café Brago and into the thinning afternoon, the city swallowing me whole.
I didn’t know where else to go but back to The Musk Hotel–the one place that had become both a torment and a refuge since the day everything fell apart. I barely recalled the elevator ride to the executive wing of the hotel. My body moved on its own, numb fingers pressing the button, eyes fixed on the glowing numbers as they ascended–each floor a quiet scream echoing inside my head.
The familiar faded–gold hallway. The smell of musk and soft pine that gave the hotel its name. My hand trembled as I unlocked the door and stepped into the room, the soft thud of the door behind me finally snapping the silence.
She
was the one. Julia.
My twin. My blood. My mirror.
I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor, with the bracelet–her bracelet–still nestled in my bag like a silent traitor. My chest felt hollow, as if someone had scooped the air out and left just weight. It wasn’t anger. Not yet. Just a dense, unwinding anguish that began in my stomach and expanded outward, slowly and heavily.
I leaned back on the cushions, staring at the ceiling. That’s when the memories began to rush in.
We were eight the first time Julia tricked me and laughed about it for hours. I had a presentation at school, and she swapped my cue cards with
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a handwritten list of boy names and “secret crushes.” I stood in front of the entire class, reading it out loud–utterly confused, until I saw her in the back row, doubled over in laughter.
“Why would you do that?” I had cried later that day, humiliated.
Her answer was a shrug. “You take things too seriously, Janey. It was funny.”
No apology. Just a smile, like she lived in a different moral climate than the rest of us.
When we were thirteen, I remember us sitting in the attic of Grandma Kathrine’s old beach house during summer. We were painting our nails black and talking about the future.
“I want to be famous,” Julia had said, waving her wet fingers. “Not like a movie star, famous. Just… impossible to forget.”
“You already are,” I replied.
She smirked. “No. You are. You’re the golden girl. Always polite. Always safe. Teachers love you, boys worship you. I’m just… the sidekick with attitude.”
“You’re not a sidekick.”
“Maybe,” she’d said, leaning back. “But I’d rather be the villain than the shadow.
That stayed with me. A thirteen–year–old declaring herself a villain–half- joking, half–serious. I should’ve known. Or maybe I did. Maybe part of me always knew what she was capable of and chose to ignore it because we were sisters. Because I loved her.
I turned on my side now, pulling the comforter over my legs as the
memories played like old film reels in my mind.
We had our first major fight at seventeen. At a party, she’d stolen my journal and read from it aloud. My dreams. My insecurities. My deepest, most private thoughts about Nathan. Each word she uttered cut deeper than the last, laughter from the crowd ringing in my ears like mockery.
“Why would you humiliate me like that?” I had screamed later, tears streaking my cheeks under the harsh glow of the parking lot lights.
She squinted at me, unflinching. “Why do you always pretend to be perfect? Like nothing can touch you. Like you’re made of glass, no one’s allowed to crack.”
“That’s not an excuse!”
“No,” she snapped, her voice sharp and bitter. “But it’s the truth.”
She always framed her betrayals as some kind of emotional honesty. She never just hurt you–she justified it.
I sat up in bed, burying my face in my hands. My stomach twisted as another memory surfaced–one I had long buried. It was the night before our high school graduation. We were on the rooftop of our old apartment building, watching fireworks from a neighbor’s party.
“You think Nathan will marry you someday?” Julia had asked, tossing pebbles into the air.
“I don’t know. Maybe,” I said, smiling to myself.
“You don’t think he’d ever get bored with you?”
I turned to her, confused. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
She shrugged. “Nothing. Just… you’re safe. He likes it safe. But men like
that eventually want excitement.”
“And you think you’re excitement?”
She smiled, her face glowing red from the distant fireworks. “I know I am.”
I had laughed it off back then. Chalked it up to one of her many jealous spells. But now? Now the weight of those words settled heavily in my chest. Was it always there–this resentment, this slow, calculated need to take what I had, even if it hurt me?
I reached into my bag and pulled out the bracelet again. The engraving still clear: “J.P.” Julia Peterson.
Her initials. Her pride. Her claim.
I turned it over in my hand like it could whisper something else to me, offer a different story. But the truth had already been spoken. And it was as soft and brutal as the way she’d said it: “I was the one.”
I sat up, breath catching somewhere between a gasp and a sob. The room spun gently, blurring into shadows and old pain. I needed to offload the thoughts in my mind. To keep me from going insane.
Without overthinking, I reached for my phone.
Dr. Victoria Green.
Her name sat on my screen like a lighthouse.
My thumb hovered–then moved with finality.
Hi. It’s Jane. I know it’s late… but I need to talk. Please. When you can.
