Page 19 of All the Things We Buried

EIGHTEEN

LENORE

I was curled on a dusty blanket in the attic when I heard the door creak open. Slow footsteps. The sound of someone dragging themselves across the floor. I turned my head, and there he was.

His face was a mess of bruises and dried blood. He clung to the final two steps of the staircase like they were the only things keeping him alive. Rage flared in my chest.

“Dorian!” I cried, scrambling to his side.

I tried to lift him, but his body was too heavy, too broken. He collapsed against the stairs, barely conscious.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, voice cracked and trembling. “I’m sorry I’m weak.”

“No,” I whispered, pleading, “no, you’re not.”

I knelt beside him, arms trembling as I tried to lift him again. It was no use. His black shirt clung to the raw, bleeding wounds across his back, each stripe carved in by my father’s belt. I counted them. One hundred and twelve.

Tears blurred my vision. My hands, shaking, reached to peel the shirt away from his skin.

He hissed, then screamed. I screamed with him.

He grabbed my wrist, voice choked in agony. “Stop. Please, stop.”

But I couldn’t. I kept going, even as he sobbed, until the shirt fell away and the full damage was laid bare.

My palms, slick with his blood, pressed to my lips as I collapsed against him.

“What did he do to you?” I cried.

“It’s okay,” he whispered, trying to smile, trying to comfort me.

“Come,” he said with a faint smile. “I wanted to give you a present.”

“You don’t have to,” I whispered, my hand brushing his face, but he pulled me closer.

“Please... please,” he breathed, searching my eyes.

I nodded. “Okay.”

“Sit on the first step. Spread your legs,” he said, still smiling.

“W-What?” My voice trembled.

“Do it.”

I obeyed, stepping forward and sitting down in front of him on the first step.

I was wearing the same white nightdress I always wore, soft cotton, white and innocent. Underneath, though, I had on panties. I lifted the bottom of it as I sat, slowly spreading my legs.

“Lay back,” he said, and I arched, lowering myself against the cold step behind me. I could feel his breath against my skin. I’d never done this before. Never felt anything like this.

“I might be dying,” he whispered, voice rough, “but I won’t die until I’ve had my little stepsister as my last fucking meal.”

With a sudden surge of strength, he pulled me closer to his face.

He pushed my panties aside, revealing my swollen pussy, already aching for him. He pinched gently at first, then kissed me there before parting me with his fingers. His tongue came next, slow, tracing from the center up to my clit.

I gasped. “Oh God.”

“Yeah,” he murmured against me. “You like that, don’t you?”

“Yeah...” I moaned, eyes fluttering closed.

His tongue circled my clit as one finger curled and slid inside me, slow, coaxing, addictive. I opened for him, helpless under the rhythm of his strokes.

I’d never touched myself before. I’d always been the good girl, the quiet one. But now he was showing me how to be bad... for him.

It was so fucking wrong — and I didn’t care. I wanted more.

As his thrusts deepened, he slid in a second finger. He smiled against my clit, still working his tongue up and down my swollen, sensitive skin.

“I’ll be your first... and your last, Trouble,” he growled. I could feel every slow thrust inside me, pushing me closer to the edge.

A moan broke from my lips. “Yes... more. Please... More.”

He kept going, holding my lower lips apart as I writhed against his face. I couldn’t stop myself, my hips moved instinctively, riding his mouth, chasing the waves he sent crashing through me.

Then I started to tighten around his fingers. I was so close.

He smiled against me again, still stroking, still devouring me like he owned me.

We didn’t notice the attic door was still open, so that anyone in the house could hear us.

And someone did.

My father stood there. Pale. Silent. Frozen, as he watched his daughter writhing under the mouth of his stepson.

But I didn’t see him, not until it was too late.

I was moaning, my body trembling, eyes fluttering open just as the orgasm hit me. I saw my father, and our eyes met at the exact moment Dorian pushed me over the edge.

And I screamed his name.

“Dorian.”

Dad stormed inside, grabbing Dorian by the neck and ripping him off me. His mouth was still slick with my taste on his lips, blood smeared from the blows, and he laughed.

Laughed at him.

Even as Dad dragged him across the floor, shouting, Dorian’s voice cut through.

“Now she’s mine, Father.”

The door slammed. Silence swallowed everything after.

I didn’t move.

Tears streaked down my face, but my body still trembled, and it was not from fear. And my lips curved upward.

They shoved each other in the hallway, bodies crashing into the walls, and as I finally pulled myself together, I rushed out of the attic.

“Get out!” Father shouted. His voice was thunder. “Sinner!”

Then his eyes turned to me. The fury in them burned.

“Sinner,” he spat again.

Before I could react, Dorian lunged at him. They grappled, stumbling toward the top of the staircase. And then, Father grabbed Dorian by the shirt as he fell.

They both went over the edge.

I watched, frozen, as their bodies tumbled down the stairs. Then came the sound, flesh hitting wood, bone cracking, and finally, silence.

My heart nearly stopped.

I ran after them, and when I reached the bottom, they lay tangled in each other, broken, in a pool of blood.

“Dorian,” I whispered, but my voice barely worked. My hands trembled as I reached for his face. It was pale. Still.

I screamed.

I dropped beside him, pressing my ear to his chest. Nothing. I pushed down on his heart with both hands, again and again, my palms stained with blood.

“No, no, no,” I whispered. “Please, Dorian. Please.”

I sealed my mouth over his, trying to give him air, trying to pull him back to me. But he gave nothing in return. His body was heavy and quiet, and my sobs tore through the stillness.

At the front door, Vivian stood frozen. Two men came behind her, one in a police uniform, the other dressed like a mechanic. She didn’t move.

But I couldn’t look at her.

All I saw was Dorian.

I kept trying. Chest compressions. Mouth to mouth. Anything. My hands were shaking. My dress was soaked with blood. I couldn’t stop.

“Dorian, please… please, wake up.”

Then footsteps. The creak of boots. Hands grabbed me from behind.

Vivian finally moved. She stepped forward, her face was hollow.

“Do whatever you want with her,” she said, her voice cold and flat. “She’s not important.”

One of the men leaned in close. His breath smelled like tobacco.

“We’ll take care of you, little doll,” he said.

But I didn’t care. None of it mattered. I kept fighting, screaming, clawing to stay beside Dorian. They didn’t listen. They just dragged me away.

Ripped me from him.

“Let go of me!” I cried, kicking, twisting, but one man grunted and threw me over his shoulder like I weighed nothing.

The other opened the truck door.

I reached back for Dorian, my fingers clawing at the air.

“I have to go back,” I sobbed. “He needs me. I didn’t say goodbye, please, he’s not gone!”

But they didn’t stop.

“He’s still breathing,” I whispered. “I know he is. I know.”

The open truck door waited, and I screamed one last time. Not a word, not a name. Just grief.

(PART III. COMING JULY 22 3PM PST)