Dying to Fuck My Sister

***

I burst out the front door. I had no idea where I was going.

I readied myself for the inevitable. I expected the world to start spinning like an involuntary merry-go-round, with everything flashing in a rapid instant - sky, land, sea, sky, land, sea... until I collapsed.

But it didn't happen.

Instead I fell to the grass by choice, in a theatrical act; my white dress and hands covered in wet soil. And yet I couldn't cry.

I waited for the inevitable panic attack that had dominated my life in all such moments of crisis.

But it didn't come.

How could he have done this to me?

How could I face him, let alone ever trust him again? The entire history of our relationship, the love I thought we'd shared; he had thrown it away for the sake of possessing my body.

It was a betrayal, the magnitude of which could never be forgotten. I felt worse than a discarded whore.

I got up and ran back into the house.

I didn't know where to put myself. I kept imagining if I could find the right spot, it might not have happened.

I pulled open the door to the French windows, and ran out onto the balcony, gasping for clean air. By the time I got to the railing and looked out at the calm, placid sea, I realized I wasn't hurt, I was furious.

He had to be some kind of psychopath.

No wonder his sexual self was so shadowy. No wonder he had preferred the sanctuary of darkness. And no wonder he'd felt so remorseful and ashamed when it was over.

It had nothing to do with his illness or inexperience, or any guilt about participating in incest with his sibling.

It was because he knew he had lured me into a sick trap.

He had lied to me, manipulated my feelings, allowed me to experience a worse grief than I'd imagined possible, and taken advantage of my body multiple times - ass-fucking me, choking me with his cock, drowning me in his cum. And worst of all, playing cruelly with my heartstrings so that I had begun to feel romantic love for him.

It suddenly dawned on me I was outside on the balcony.

I had come out there of my own volition, without any anxiety. And I'd done it without a second thought; without even noticing.

Even now as I realized it, I had no problem with the height, no dizziness or fear. I didn't feel a wobble, despite this being the worst thing that had ever happened to me. Was I cured?

I pulled out my phone and began to write a furious email to my brother.

It was one of the most aggressively scathing things I had ever written.

I accused him of being worse than a lowlife; sick and criminally insane. I promised to never forgive him, to tell our parents, to report him to the police. I swore blind I would never speak nor interact with him again; and that I wished for nothing but the worst for him and his eventual family.

He had lost me forever. His card was forever marked, the sword of Damocles was suspended permanently above him.

I ended the email stating how disappointed I was that he wasn't actually dying, because it was the only appropriate fate for him, and the one I wished for the most.

When I was done, I didn't send the email.

I sat down on a beach chair, strangely calm, and took a deep breath.

The clouds of fury began to separate in my mind and I noticed the bud of a new feeling break through:

It was relief.

He wasn't dying.

Yes, I was furious and hurt about what he'd done, but I wasn't going to lose him anymore.

I would have given my life for a miracle to save him. And this was that miracle.

I had been groomed and violated, manipulated and betrayed. But more than anything, I had been loved. Perhaps more than any man would or could ever love me.

And that man wasn't dying anymore.

This could only be cause for celebration, even if I hated him.

I wrote out a new email and sent it to him immediately.

It said:

All is forgiven baby. Come back and fuck me.