PAISLEY

I used to live in Los Angeles. My roommate at the time, Paisley Boyd, started acting suspicious three weeks after I moved in. Odd things would come up, like she would receive mail addressed to Jennifer Boyd. I asked her about it when it first happened.
“Why does your mail say ‘Jennifer?’”
“Oh, they always screw up my name at this place for some reason,” she answered.
I didn’t really think about it again until a week later. Her mom came down from Fresno for a visit. The three of us were sitting in the living room talking.
“Your hair is getting longer, Jen,” her mother said.
I looked at her.
“Did you just call her Jen?”
“Oh, uh, yeah. My sister’s name is Jen and I was just with her this morning. That’s probably why I said that. Heh, heh. Duh!” she said slapping her forehead.
I knew something was weird with this chick. The kicker, though, happened a few days later when I went into her room to grab some thread, and on her desk was her passport. I picked it up, partly because I was curious and partly because I wanted to check out how hideous her picture was. The passport read "Jennifer Boyd" under her picture. It was then I knew I was living with a freak. When she got home from work that night I sprung it on her.
“Why does your passport say your name is Jennifer?”
She began to cry, mumbling to herself. Then she looked at me.
“Paisley was my twin sister. She accidentally got killed a year ago while cleaning daddy’s shotgun. I am actually Jennifer, okay? But I began going by Paisley after she died because she was always so much better than me. Sometimes I’d wish that she’d die, so I could be momma’s favorite. When the accident happened, momma said to pretend that it was me who died instead of Paisley. So I did. And now I’m the best.”
She looked at me through creepy sobbing eyes.
I moved out the next day.