I think its cool the way that people seem to be using the term 'keffy goodness' now. lol. You guys are very kind for your comments! I'm not taking them lightly! I'm really glad that i can share my keffy-love with others : ) Post-War, i had to google anthropomorphism. Thanks for bringing a new word to my attention. I'm one of those weirdos who scours the dictionary daily for a new word and then finds ways to incorporate it into the day. *shrugs* Happy you find it to be sinister. I've always thought that a keffy relationship should have a spooky air to it. Effy's darkness is too vast to not inject everything she touches with just a little bit of it.

Later in the week, when Emily drops by claiming that she simply just wants to spend some time with her twin, you know. You know that her blonde traitor of a girlfriend has regaled her with tales of what's taking place between you and Effy, and now you're sat with you sister, keeping to far ends of the couch, indulging in games of excruciating small talk.

James' latest football match. Weather. Work. They're all worlds apart, but they're all motoring towards one thing, and you know it.

The TV isn't on either, and that should sit well since you have enough drama of your own, but you wouldn't begrudge a few images dancing across the massive silver Panasonic box; anything that'll suck you in, out from the nightmare that's forming a civilization on Emily's tongue, about to erupt from her mouth at any given second…

"Naomi and I had words over Effy being at ours."

And there it is; the incision.

"Oh?"

"Yeah. I told her she was sleeping on the couch, and then she said that you and Effy had… already been seeing each other?"

And there it is; the blood spill.

Bitch! Never were fond of Campbell, or the way she treated Emily. But this isn't about Emily now, isn't just about how Campbell lured your twin back into a relationship covered in the bruises and abrasions of adultery, and you couldn't be prouder of the fact that the bone in the blue-eyed traitor's nose quivered and crumbled under the vigor of your forearm the night she'd told you to 'mind your own fucking business for once.' The night you'd driven over to comfort an almost suicidal Emily. The night it had all exploded about Sophia. But it seems she still hasn't learned.

Now it's personal, and the next time you see her she'll know it.

"Not like you can trust anything Naomi says is it Em? I mean she did cheat on you and keep her pokerface about it for the better part of a year."

It's desperate, it's bitchy and it's not fair, your comment – or rather the tongue-tsunami you just let thrash your sister – but it was said whilst recordings of all the contemptuous scenarios of Naomi dropping you in the shit plagued the inner-workings of your mind.

Only when the picture of Emily, now small, hunched and wounded, reaches you do you begin to mop up the blood that now seems to be spilling from your sister, "Sorry Em… I just, like, don't take nicely to that cunt you call a girlfriend talking shit about me."

"She wasn't talking shit! – and don't call her a cunt Katie – She told me…" Emily silences, and if what you think is coming is indeed coming then you know why: Emily's preparing her vocal chords for the job, preparing the civilization on her tongue for the strenuous task of hurling the words out into the static atmosphere of your living room, preparing… "She told me she thinks that there's…something going on between you and Effy?"

Fuck how tactful Emily has just tried to be whilst dropping that little bomb, the implications are there and in their innate state, they possess not a drop of tact, and if they do they don't feel like it, because they're fucking true. Doesn't matter that caring, supportive, Emily is the one prodding you about the true nature of your involvement with the tall brunette – it could've, like, been the man from the 10 o clock news, or fucking Buddha – any prodding of the subject calls your inner army to the frontline, every soldier ready to do what is necessary to keep their governor from coming face to face with a bullet.

"Right!" You soar to your feet, fingers frantically terrorizing the draws and all of the papers atop of the wall unit, "The fuck are my keys?"

A frown makes a creased shirt of Emily's face, "Why, where are you going?"

"To sort your stupid, lying, girlfriend!" You scream full-chested, as though it should be hideously obvious, fingers still blind and frantic over soft, sharp, small and painful, objects of the wall unit whilst you hold eyes identical to your own. Except, in this very moment they're not identical to your own at all. They're full of a knowing which reaches into your chest and tweaks at the thumper behind your ribcage, sending it into unhealthy stutters.

…

"Oh my God," You watch a blanching Emily mutter to herself, "You are having an affair with her aren't you? What the fuck, Katie? What the actual fuck?"

Fuck! How the fuck do you know me so well Emily?

"Don't be so fucking silly."One of your hands, seeking desperately to trivialize this situation, whizzes through the air, and it just may have worked if it hadn't been for your annoying lisp. The actresses on TV made it look easy, and growing up acting was always an avenue that sang to you; fooling Jenna and Rob into believing that your bed had been slept in had been simple enough.

But now, in this moment, you know why you work in an office, sat behind a bloody PC screen all day, dealing with disgruntled, unmannered, knobheads over the phone.

Try again Katie. "Emily, don't be silly. I hate the bitch!" Well that's not a fabrication; you do hate her, and up until now its been easy to tell yourself that that very hate stems from the incident out in the woods six years ago, easy to tell yourself that you could never forgive anybody who humiliated and broke you in such the way that she managed. But now, as you burn under your twin's condemning, molten, glare, the realization that you only hate her, because, because…you love her, impales your being, and something unholy begins to gargle in your stomach.

"I hate her!" You repeat, attempting to make old reasons fit again, attempting to convince Emily and yourself.

One is a failure, and so is the other.

"Kevin doesn't deserve this Katie. He treats you like gold!"

Yeah, well gold's nothing compared to the way Effy's fingers drumming relentlessly inside of you makes your eyes slot-machine in the back of your head – to the way her stupid, beautiful, fucking smirk instantly calls a bubbling of excitement to your soul, to the glow that thoughts of her give to those monotonous moments where you're making Kevin's sandwiches for work, or waiting for the colour to set in your hair before washing it out.

Gold's nothing because, 'Fuck sake, I'm in love with her.'

Funny, how she manages – and effortlessly at that – to make you feel like platinum and shit simultaneously. Everything's a fucking oxymoron with her. She's a poison which is killing and keeping you alive simultaneously. You're jeopardizing the marriage, home, and stability that you have for a walking oxymoron.

There's nothing you can do to stop your head from bowing; it's much too heavy with secrets, treachery, and shame. Much like that shovel.

"Oh!" Both yours and Emily's sight races in the direction of the new addition to the room, not that there's a winner. Not like there could be a winner in this situation. "Evening Emily. You haven't been round here in ages. So, what brings my beautiful wife's sister round then?" He says, hairy knuckles untangling the handle of his briefcase and sending it to the foot of the couch with a domesticated thud.

Both you and Emily jump.

Judging by the vacancy dulling your twin's face, you'd surmise that her ears hadn't picked up on the sound of the front door opening and closing either, but it's hard to hear anything through the deafening percussion that is shock, and it's hard to hear anything through poisonous revelations.

"Yeah, Kevin," Attempts Emily, but in the end she has to pause due to her uncooperative voice, has to regroup (as best as she can) and fabricate a smile. You decide that she's a much better actress than you, but then hiding who she was for all those years would have given her considerable experience. "Been busy, what with Naomi losing her job. Had to make up her hours and salary with overtime." There's a tinge of resentment present in what she says, and it's astounding that your little sister can escape out from underneath the rubble of what she learned just minutes before with such ease, dust herself off, and jaunt her thoughts somewhere else entirely, so authentically that the apt emotions seep from her every pore.

He glances your way, blasting you with teeth so white that dad'd be proud, and brings his five-hundred pound pair of shoes across the distance separating you, before slithering a firm hand around your now rigid waist. "Would you tell your sister that if she and her girlfriend need money, all she has to do is say how much and it's theirs?" His pursed lips intrude on what was once a neat little side-fringe on their way to your clammy forehead. "Emily!" He says, spinning back around, "You need money, just say. No point expending yourself at work in order to get by. That's not what life's about. It's supposed to be fun."

"Thanks." Emily nods, warps her face in another one of those smiles that might as well be made out of a Ken doll.

All three of you know that Emily's never going to take your husband up on his offer, no matter how dark overtime's paintbrush colours the area just below her eyes, but Kevin's offered – there to help once again – and that's all that matters.

The bastard.

Always there to bloody help. It was the same the day you met. The classic: Girl's flimsy shopping bags tear; guy's there to help her load the punctured cans of beans, and burst packets of crisps into her boot scenario.

Should've known you were doomed from that alone.

The story of the kind, caring, understanding helper and the selfish taker only ever ends one way.

"Anyway, I'm going to jump in the shower. Get the stench of work off of my skin," You and Emily push out a chuckle because it feels like you're supposed to. No other reason. "Nice seeing you Em, and pop round more often if you can."

You both listen to Kevin's shoes beat the staircase until it becomes thin and the occasional creak of the landing is all that's detectable.

Emily waits 'til she has your guilty eyes, waits until she's got full hold of the windows to your soul and then jabs an irate finger in the direction of the staircase, and whispers an anything but calm, "That's who you're doing this to."

...

"I know."