I wasn’t like other boys. From a young age, I remember not wanting to play sports on the playground during breaks at school. I didn’t want to join any teams, preferring to sit in the library or other classrooms and read books. I graduated highschool without many friends. My twin was there with me, walking the stage, but he preferred the sports, the friends. We were close, and we shared a room for our whole lives, but I just didn’t feel connected to him in the way friends do. The way some twins said they did: like they were on the same wavelength. He was my twin, my family, and that was that.

Until the day came to leave to college and he found my collection. My jars, sealed tightly, with different specimens, lining shelves in a back closet of our house, one that was forgotten about. I had been collecting the specimens for years, since I was a little boy. The closet smelled of rot. I feared he would tell our parents, and dispel my image. Instead, he grabbed my arm and pulled me towards the back shed. It had been there since before we moved in, even. There, he showed me that he, too, had a collection. Only the things in his jars weren’t preserved, dead. They were alive and writhing. I stared in admiration and our eyes met. We had more in common than we thought.