Page 13

Eleven

“Good evening and Happy Halloween Eve…”

The radio announcer doesn’t finish their sentence before I’m transported elsewhere. No longer in the driver’s seat, but back to the last time I felt something. Back to when I wasn’t sitting in a car but laying in a hospital bed in a hideous hospital gown. When I woke up with a tube in my throat and my step sister straddling me, sinking that black hole of a cunt down on my cock.

Tomorrow will be the thirteen-year anniversary of my corruption, and oh, what an interesting thirteen years it has been. So much has changed. For one, I’m no longer bound to the cross I used to wear around my neck. Something my father detests, but he got over it, he had no choice. With Araceli conveniently out of the picture, it left me to contend with Dad. First, with his anger for what her, and I did that night at Heathen’s Cross, and then with his illness to take care. He learned real quick that if he didn’t come to accept the man I’ve become, he’d be completely alone with no one to take care of him.

Slipknot’s Bone Church infects the air leaking through the speakers, and the carnivalesque intro only adds to the fury of twisted thoughts I have swirling in my head. The lyrics drive a sledgehammer to my heart .

“… And my heart is a memory of the pain. I don't need a miracle. Prayers will not save me again.”

Ain’t that the fucking truth. Prayers. Time. Nothing will save me or her ever again. Not after the oath we began years ago that she still hasn’t fulfilled.

Black and gray ink flashes before my eyes as I lift my hand to the radio dial, twisting it so fast, the round knob lifts from the stereo and nearly falls off. “Ahh!” I yell out, and the hand that was just turning off the radio is now curled into a fist. I’d like nothing more than to slam into something other than the leather steering wheel.

I can’t do that, though. The horn will sound, and that will make my presence too obvious.

It’s not that I don’t want Araceli to know I’m here.

Just not yet.

This veil of selective numbness can only stay put for so long before it lifts, needing a certain someone to help me feel something other than hatred and resentment.

The bitterness that has lodged itself in the very fabric of my being has become as potent as the drugs that were flowing through our veins that night. The high might have worn off, but the memory and carnal desire—steeped in a resentment so strong it’s changed me to my very core—hasn’t lessened, but grown stronger. So strong that if I don’t have a taste. A lick. Fucking something, anything that gives me a piece of her, I might combust.

I swear, every time I breathe in through my nose, I can still smell the blood that poured like a faucet from her wrists as she rode my half-conscious body, to what I can only assume was an orgasm. I wouldn’t know the specifics of our encounter in the hospital. It’s not like the bitch stayed around to talk to me after she almost tried to kill me, not once, but twice that night. At least the second time she had the fucking dignity to get my dick wet instead of having her cunt smothered by my entire face. Dad was right about her. She’s nothing, but a broken and greedy fucking whore who deserves to be punished, except Dad’s idea of punishment aligns with the idea of redemption. Something I don’t believe in. Not anymore.

I turn the ignition off, and the envelope crumpled in my hand makes my decision for me.

I’m here because she finally, all this time later, wants to make amends. In her own half assed shitty way. It’s why she had this note, hand delivered to the house with my name on it. I guess she finally decided that thirteen years is a bit excessive to go without so much as a word or visit to the place she used to call home. Sure, it was broken, but it was our home. Ours.

Whatever happens once I leave this car is because of her.

It’s all her fault.

I lean back and catch my reflection in the rearview. My hair is a fucking mess. I’ve been so preoccupied with it being almost Halloween, and all the not so lovely reminders that come with it, that I can’t remember the last time I ran a comb through it. It’s longer than she’s used to me keeping it. Darker too. Still blonde, but the shade has morphed into a deeper, more earthy hue. Once she gets a look at how the years have made me, the perfect archetype of the nightmares she writes about, she’ll feel even more regret than I know she already does, buried deep in that soulless body of hers.

I break the seal of the envelope, slipping the thick folded stationery out.

Her cursive fills my vision. Overdone and almost illegible. I dive into it, ready for whatever sorry excuse she has for running away from me for this long.

Harlan,

I’ve been thinking about you lately. Actually, that’s a lie. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since that night, but I’ve been too afraid to see you again. Afraid of what would happen if you and I saw each other and what it would mean, since the details of that night were fuzzy at best. But I know that you felt it too. That connection we share. The one that your dad used to punish you for, before I became his new favorite punching bag. I took a lot of his hatred for the both of us. I know it doesn’t make up for what I did when I left, but the hell I went through living in that house should count for something. Or at the very least, make you hate me a little less. Either way, with Halloween being around the corner it brings me back to that night. It makes me miss you. Whether you believe it or not, I do miss you and I’d love to see you again. I know you’re probably still mad at me, but if you find it in your heart to see me again, you know where to find me.

Yours,

Araceli

I crumple the note and toss it on the passenger side floor. Well, she got two things right. I do know where to find her. The house that she inherited from her paternal grandparents that took her in when my dad kicked her out. The second being the ‘yours’ part. She’s right. She’s mine . Always has been and always will be.

I head out of her car, careful not to slam the door. I want my presence tonight to be a surprise. Slipping my black hood onto my head, I use the dark night air as my cover as I move from the driveway to the porch.

A creak betrays the silence I’m trying to maintain beneath my boot, and another follows the next step I take. I pause for a moment, trying to hear any noise on the other side of the sheetrock to see if she heard me.

Nothing but the faint trickle of running water meets my ears. Coming from the other side of the porch that I’m standing on.

Memories of the last time I saw her in the bathtub, before the night at the haunt, fill my mind.

Fuck it.

She wanted me here. She said it herself in her note. Granted, she didn’t know that I was planning on paying her a visit since it’s been long enough before I opened her letter, but this is what she wanted, so I might as well give it to her.

Embracing the symphony of creaks and groans that sound with each step, I continue until I’m standing in front of the open window. A flutter erupts in my chest seeing her.

Fuck.

It’s been so long.

Too fucking long.

Thirteen long and agonizing years.

Yet all that time has done—aside from tormenting me with conflicted feelings of longing and disdain for the very person who gave me freedom and gifted me hell simultaneously—is make her more picturesque than she already was.

The scene before me is like watching a goddamn Staind song unfold. Candles line the floor around the bathtub. Their dim light offers an ominous glow to a very naked and very unconscious Araceli.

How many pills did you take this time, sister?

Clearly not enough, because even with the minimal light I can detect breathing. Shallow and staggered, but it’s there and relief only finds me because I know that’s not what she wants, and what I want is the opposite of her desires.

I want her to suffer for how she left me. If she wants to end it on her own, I hope each time she comes up empty-handed. Her time will come, not when God says so, but when I say so.

As I crouch down to get a grip on the window so I can go inside, something strange dawns on me.

The water… there is none.

I heard water running, yet there isn’t any.

Slipping through the window, I navigate around the candles. My vision, glued to the floor, to make sure I don’t knock one over by accident.

The closer I move to the tub, large muddy footprints mar the tile floor. As I drag my gaze to Araceli’s bare body, the mud continues its trail onto her skin. Painting her like a canvas. Muddying her curves and making her look filthy… desirable .

That desire quickly morphs into intrigue when I close the gap between me and the tub where she lay.

Despite her consciousness hanging by a thread, her hand remains firm on something as equally filthy as her. Something that she shouldn’t have access to. Not anymore. Dad made sure of that with the additional security measure he’s taken to keep the property free of her grubby hands… or so he thought.

“Would you look at that?” The rasp of my own voice breaks the silence, my hands reaching for hers. The undeniable spark our fingertips make brushing against each other is hard to ignore, but I need to see what she’s doing with that notebook— her notebook—the one my dad made a point of burying on our property. Same property I now live on, and the one I thought she’d never return to, but it looks like I was wrong.

Which angers me more because that means she came home and didn’t have the fucking decency to go see me. Nothing. All she wanted was that creepy book. As if this thing holds the key to what she needs in life.

I take it from her hand and a shiver runs down my spine as I touch it. The image from years ago, of the bloodshed, the absolute mayhem, back at the forefront of my mind. When I flip the page it isn’t there, well, a picture is there, but it’s no longer the horrific scene that I remember. It’s calm. Serene even. A depiction of a man holding his hand out, placing a coin in a woman’s mouth. Suddenly, the beauty that Araceli spoke of that day in the bathroom at home rings true. It’s not the horrid scene I remember it being. This is beautiful, but what isn’t beautiful are the words written next to it.

I lower myself beside the bathtub and rest on my knees. Licking my lips, I ready myself to read out loud.

“… with features defined by scars and dried up blood. A horror to others but a savior to me.”

Anger seeps into my veins, clouding my head with delusional fantasies that I want nothing more than to fulfill.

I lift my head from her notebook, her bare breasts tempting me. I reach a hand out, squeezing one into my grip. Her erect nipple now caught beneath my thumb. Becoming one with the dirt and grime that covers her skin, my fingers trail her sternum, taking their sweet time until they graze the mound above her pussy.

Her legs are already bent at the knee, spread wide and waiting for me.

It’d be so easy to slip one, maybe two… or possibly three fingers in. Too easy.

She’d like that. Having my fingers in her while she’s off in druggie dreamland.

She’d love waking up with a satisfied yet aching cunt, courtesy of her big brother that she’s too good for.

Fuck that.

I leave my hand hovering on her slit and reach over to the pen on the floor, scribbling down a message for her below this piss-poor story she’s writing. By hand too. Who does that anymore?

“You can run from the truth, but you can’t run from me.”

Leaving the book open, I carefully place it on her pussy and remove my hand, which is now slick with her wetness.

She stirs at the impact, a faint hum leaks from her lips. The blonde side of her hair shifts ever so slightly, falling from overtop her breast, revealing her precious pentagram necklace with a new addition to it.

Sitting alongside the pendant that belongs to her is one that belongs to me .

You bitch, taking things that don’t belong to you.

My fingers act before I can think or stop it. Yanking at the necklace, breaking the chain. It falls off her neck and into my possession as I rise to my feet.

Now hovering over her, I slip the necklace carrying our pendants in my pocket. An inescapable grin smears on my face thinking of how pissed she’ll be when she wakes up realizing they’re missing.

I bend at the waist, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head.

Fuck.

Cinnamon and pumpkins… that signature scent again, although this time it’s mixed with an overpowering stench of desperation.

I lower my mouth to her ear, knowing that her subconscious will do the legwork. Recalling everything I’m about to say to her and relay the message when she comes to. Taunting her with my presence. Reminding her how close she was to having me—and my cock—but also how I just left her here tonight with scraps of me.

“Stop running from me. Come home to me. I’ve been lonely waiting for you. I promise I won’t bite.”

But I can’t promise it won’t hurt when you see me again.