[ WP ] You wake up staring into a pair of eyes , your own .

I saw the bright of morning before I even opened my eyes. I lay in my bed, in the fetal position, the dog curled at my knees. As I opened my eyes, I felt a tinge of fear, as was common most mornings. The surprise of looking at your own face unexpectedly never really wears off. 
 
 My sister Angelina had an accident driving home from work when she was studying in undergrad. My parents mourned her death during continual trips to reproductive specialists, determined to replace one dead daughter with another. They poured hundreds of thousands into recreating their golden child, the one with social grace and a dazzling smile. 
 
 I was n't a black sheep by any means, but in comparison to Angelina, I was always a little substandard. Instead of pursuing college after high school, I worked at selling photos I'd taken around the city I lived in. Angelina stayed home while going to a prestigious local university; I bartended evenings while working on my portfolio in a shitty studio in LA. My conservative parents, both professors, did not approve. 
 
 When Little Angie was born with light brown hair, not black like Angelina's was at birth, my mother nearly cried. As Little A progressed, my mother left Angelina's baby book on the coffee table, meticulously comparing her milestones. Little A's first smile and sneeze nearly mirrored the age of firsts outlined in my baby book. 
 
 At first my mother did n't want to accept that Little A showed traits I had at her age. Mother insisted that she had mistakenly taken her accomplishments down in my book. When raising twin girls, you sometimes get things a little backwards. 
 
 My mother eventually accepted that Little Angie was in fact a Little Ophelia, around her second birthday. She tried and failed to sue the specialists who performed Little A's gene therapy, draining the little remaining money she and my father had saved for retirement. By Little A's third birthday, mother withdrew from the world. She had to stop teaching, my often heard her talking aloud to Angelina around the house. Mother left Little A's care to my father, who begrudgingly cared for her while I worked. Weekdays she slept at my house, weekends in the guest room at my parent's house. 
 
 My father had no desire to care for a child whose appearance took my mother's sanity. When my mother was committed, my father took Little A to my house. He handed me a check to cover rent for a year, the baby, and the key to his honda. The trunk was filled with all her clothes, bottles, and food. 
 
 I pulled my blanket off my legs, looked at A, and sighed. She's an early riser like me. Just before she opened her eyes, I noticed her laying on her side, legs tucked to her chest, our pup curled at her knees.
