Conjoined To Death By M.R

Conjoined To Death

  • Creativity and Originality
  • Writing Style and Language
  • Plot and Structure
  • Character Development
  • Readers Appreciation
3.8/5Overall Score


Conjoined triplets Joy, Hope, and Hardy navigate life's challenges. After debating surgery, they proceed, but complications lead to Joy and Hardy's deaths. Left alone, Hope's heart fails, and she joins her siblings, finding unity beyond life's bounds.

Chapter 1: At Birth

We complete each other. Or at least that’s what Mom used to say. Our names factly complete each other. You can’t be “joy” full without “hope”. And you can’t reach both without “hard”y work. Yes, you read that right. A bunch of people are named Joy, Hope, and Hardy for some meaningless complementary names. It just didn’t stop at our names; it has even extended to our bodies. Two sisters, Joy and I, share a heart. An ill brother, Hardy, was born without one kidney and shares the other with Joy.

The universe didn’t want to shut up about it yet though. We were associated with the numbers three and one for 26 whole years. One school, one room, one group of friends, one TV, one privacy, and almost one body. All for three siblings. One is a bit too low for three.

You should’ve probably guessed by now how we manage to share all those clumps of things. A conjoined triplet is the English phrase I despise the most. And I don’t care if it was in French, German, Italian, or any other language. I’ll still hate it just like how I hate this. And them. And the universe. And whoever had a hand in making me like this.

I, or we precisely, never understood what exactly was our mother’s problem with surgery—a simple medical room with some knives that’ll free us from an operating cage. Hardy will have his kidney and might even get lucky with another kidney implant. I’ll finally have my own heart and tell secrets to it. Keep my feelings locked alone in my isolated sack of the blood-pumping machine. Joy’s heart is a bit crowded for me. The “older sister” feelings must be spared no matter what—given space and care. She’s the smart one. The responsible. The kind and beautiful. I’m just a less-fortunate version of her. I was the mistake, the black dot on her white page. Even though we’re triplets, she was always the better one. More liked and more behaved than Hardy and I could ever be. And somehow that made her feel entitled to lecture us. To take upon herself the “burden of being the older sister” as she describes it.


She liked it. She liked the feeling of being the leader. She liked the fact that she was the complete one. She liked seeing us get upbraided. Hearing whispers on the streets of how we should be like her. She liked being perfect. It wasn’t a burden. It was her thing. It was a blessing.

That’s why she didn’t want to do the surgery.

She claims it’s a sign of respect for our late mother, for she didn’t want us to undergo any surgery or even get 10 feet within a hospital. That’s a lie. That woman has been dead for years. She wasn’t in our situation. She could never understand what we have to go through every day. She just didn’t want the image of her ideal daughter to be incomplete with the lack of background characters.

Sometimes, I feel as though she robbed me.

Yeah, she did. She absolutely did. My mother robbed me. She robbed me of my childhood. Having my own closet, room, and privacy. Having unshared clothes, private showers, and late-night lonely cries. She robbed me of my teenage years. Sneaking out of the house, partying, and skipping classes. From falling in love, dating, and prom. From getting a decent job, instead of living off the government’s charity for inept people. Like us.

Unlike us, she lived through all those memories.

She had her princess room when she was younger. Her toys and a huge collection of vintage clothes. She had rings and necklaces for her only to use. She had privacy and the right to choose what she wants to watch. She went to high school as the popular girl, with cronies and companions. She sneaked and skipped and partied for three years. In the end, she fell in love, dated, and went to prom. Settled down with our father, got married, and had triplets.

She already had her experience, why did she take it away from us?

She wanted her favorite daughter to be happy.

She wanted her to be the main character.

She wanted her to have a tragic successful story.

Look at my daughter and how she achieved triumph despite the weight of her siblings.

She loved her, more than she could ever love Hardy and me. Because for her, Joy was always enough.

There is always an opposing reaction to any action.

In our case, I could’ve reacted like Hardy. Who became wholly submissive to Joy. Listening to every word she says without thinking twice. Doing all she wants. Even disagreeing to do the surgery. He availed of it. He was babied and adored and loved. He was her puppet, therefore getting what he wants.

Or you could react like me.

Rebel, rebel, rebel. Because if you rebel, it’s going to make a noise. And no matter how insignificant the noise is, they’ll hear it. They’ll know you don’t like this, and that you’ll make a bigger noise soon. I shouted at Joy all the time. I refused to acknowledge her as the leader. I used to forcibly slow them down so we could miss school. I dismissed our mother’s will; do not do the surgery. I did everything I could to make one statement clear: as long as we share the same body, you’re not my siblings. Rather a mere body-mate.

Logically, I was punished a lot. A lot, a lot, a lot. Joy and Hardy were known as the “sibling goals” while I was the “bad example” child. They were the perfect lovely siblings, while I was the odd one out.

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