Page 3

One

“Stay away from her,” Dad warns, handing me a set of keys. “I mean it, stay the hell away from her,” he reiterates his point, unknowingly aware of how his warning torments me. I wish it were that easy. I wish staying away from the girl whose room is across from mine—who took on our last name when her mom married my dad—was that easy. But nothing with my stepsister is ever easy; not dealing with her and certainly not avoiding her.

He glances at the keys he just gave me. “And she’s not to have access to those under any circumstances.” There’s more venom in his voice than there usually is when he’s talking about Araceli. I wonder what she did this time to have him practically vibrating with anger—not like that’s a difficult task. Whenever Dad is outside the church walls, he’s anything but the godly and jovial pastor he pretends to be. Unlike Araceli, I learned early on that to exist under his roof and to avoid his temper, it’s easier to die unto oneself. Kind of how he preaches about what we should do towards God. Except he isn’t God. He’s a tyrant. Which Araceli would argue to be the same thing.

But in order to survive in this house, I learned a long time ago that you must deny yourself of whatever it is that makes you something he can’t understand. The wrath that comes with his fear is a punishment most could never wrap their heads around, so it's best to play his game, if for nothing else, but to gain some semblance of peace. Something I clearly need to teach Araceli.

“Got it.” I slip the keys into my back pocket.

A whiff of tobacco blazes past my nostrils as Dad moves past me. A slew of bad memories filter through a part of my mind I’ve tried to keep suppressed, but the stench is too strong, and the wounds, incapable of healing, make my mouth move faster than my mind can stop it. “Back to smoking?”

Dad grabs his bible, chuckling at my question. “Something like that,” he replies, cryptic… cold . His boots thud against the floorboards as he heads to the front door, though he stops near me first. “I wouldn’t be forced to pick up bad habits again if you kids had an ounce of respect for me.”

More words—obscenities mostly—swirl through my mind, wanting to be let out of the floodgates of my mouth, but I keep it closed. It’s not worth it. So, I suppress it. Just like I do every fucking thing in my life.

Suppress my thoughts.

My words.

My needs.

My desires .

All of it is kept locked inside the torture chamber that is my mind and body. All so I keep this man in front of me happy. All so I continue to feed into the illusion of being the respectable pastor’s son that I’m tired of being.

“I mean it. She isn’t to get ahold of those keys or access to—” he’s interrupted by his phone ringing, and the shift in his demeanor as his thumb slides on the screen to answer is striking.

The confident line his shoulders made as he stood upright just moments before are now stiff and full of apprehension. “Yes?” he answers, voice stern and uncomfortable. “That’s impossible, it’s my property.” Confusion mars his face as a sigh leaves his lips. “I can’t tomorrow; it’s the—” he stops talking, abundantly aware that I’m listening. He clears his throat, adjusting his tone. “Just hold on one second,” he says to whoever is on the other line. He places the mouthpiece to his shoulder, averting his gaze back to me. “I mean it, Harlan. Over the next few days, it’s paramount that we don’t feed into the cries of the enemy.”

My eyes strain from how hard I’m trying not to roll them. For a second, I’m not sure if the enemy he’s referring to is the Devil or Araceli.

He continues talking to me through a hushed whisper, clearly not wanting whoever he has on the phone to hear. “Stay away from her. Don’t give her the keys and don’t you dare allow her to fill your head with her lies.”

I nod, this time mouthing to him, “Got it,” but Dad’s attention isn’t on my face any longer.

His gaze has traveled down to my wrists. The healed white lines burn beneath his judgmental stare, even as they are concealed under my long sleeves. “She’s done enough damage already,” he scoffs with disgust. It’s comical how he thinks Araceli’s presence in our family is capable of causing such damage—as he puts it. He blames her for everything, ranging from why I resorted to inflicting pain on myself to why I got kicked out of college. None of it, with the exception of the getting kicked out part, is her fault. She may have asked me to get her the pills, but I was the one who agreed. She didn’t force me to do it, and it wasn’t her fault that I went about it wrong, got caught, and then expelled before I could drive back home and give them to her. I was broken long before she came into our lives. Now, he just hates that he has two broken souls to deal with and has to put his theology degree to work.

“Whatever,” I mumble, knowing he can’t hear me. His attention is back on his phone conversation. He resumes speaking, hushed, into his phone as he leaves to head to the church he had built on the other side of what is now our property. For years, the lot on the other side of the graveyard that separates the desolate acreage we live on remained abandoned. Until Dad found a way to scrounge the funds to purchase it, turning our home into the birthplace of his pride and joy. Sacred Promises Church.

Relief spreads through my every vein, just like it always does when he leaves. Finally, I can breathe. I stand and wait for his silhouette to disappear as it blends in with the dusk skyline before I head to where I know Araceli is.

It’s where she always is if she isn’t in her room or soaking in the tub.

The graveyard.

Blades of overgrown grass and piles of fallen leaves tug at my boots the further I walk through the sea of tombstones. Alternating glances between where I’m walking to and what I’m walking on, I continue up to the part of the cemetery my dad leaves unkempt. He says it’s because it’s on a hill, and maintaining it is difficult, but I know that’s not the reason. My mom, just like Araceli’s, are both buried in this section, which he hasn’t stepped foot on after either of their funerals.

A chill runs down my spine, and I wish I could blame it on the brisk October air or that I’m outside without a jacket but I can’t. This is how it always is when I come here. The palpable shift in the air, no matter the time of day or year it is, when I walk on these death-filled grounds. It’s impossible to ignore. It’s why I avoid coming here at all costs, unlike Araceli, who frequents the graveyard like one would their favorite store or retreat. Especially around Halloween—the time of her mom’s passing… and ironically, the same as my mom’s.

My steps halt once I catch sight of Araceli off in the distance. I slow my stride, backtracking a bit so I can use the grave keeper’s shed on the top of the hill as my shield. I crouch down low enough that she can’t see me but not too much that I can’t see her .

With dusk no longer lingering, the full moon now hanging above us acts as the perfect spotlight. The small of her back sways back and forth, over and over, drawing my gaze to her dark-as-night hair that cascades in long waves past her shoulders and down her spine. Her hands are outstretched to either side, and each time she moves, her hands dig deeper into the dirt around her. The repetition of her movements makes her appear hypnotized… or high. I can’t tell.

Suddenly, my dad’s warning from before rings in my ears loud and clear as if he’s here warning me all over again, “Stay away from her.”

Though, the more I watch her rotate her hips around, clawing at the ground like something possessed, the more I become entranced by her erratic behavior, finding myself wanting— needing —to move closer to her.

So, I do just that. Like an out of body experience, I shift from my crouched position and fall to my knees. Slow and steady, I crawl, using the tall, weathered headstones to camouflage myself. The closer I crawl to her, the more the wind picks up, shifting the scattered leaves around me. A foreboding sense ruptures my conscience, pleading for me to leave. I ignore it, despite my better judgment, and select a random headstone to hide behind. A patch of moss brushes against my face as I peer around the uneven limestone to get a better view of Araceli. Still on her knees, she drags her hands once more in the dirt before she lifts them upward. Palms open to the night sky, fragments of broken earth fall down the sleeves of her dress as she begins to hum.

It’s low.

Hair-raisingly eerie, but sultry all the same. Each chord travels through the air for a brief moment before it stabs at my dick. Vibrating it with the reminder that she—my stepsister of all people—has the power to make me this fucking stiff from the simple act of her humming.

Guilt and fear toy with me as a surge of blood rushes to my groin. This is ridiculous. Sick . She has no idea that I’m watching her, let alone getting hard from the view she’s unknowingly giving me.

My lids fall shut. Shame washes over me, begging me to leave before I do something I regret. The creepy melody continues to fill the air and somehow my dick is thickening the longer my ears bear witness to whatever she’s humming.

This is why Dad said to stay away from her. She’s a temptation. One that will get me in trouble… again.

Knowing that I can’t keep doing this—watching her when she thinks I’m not and getting caught up in her web—my knees begin to scoot back. My body urging me to move and to head back home.

I start to scoot back, my eyes still closed as a familiar verse taunts me. Matthew 26:28 “For this is my blood of the covenant, which is poured out for many for the forgiveness of sins.”

Except it doesn’t make things better, and it doesn’t ease my guilt; it intensifies it. Suddenly the blood that I should associate with forgiveness for my sins—like the sin I’m committing right now by lusting after my fucking stepsister—isn’t just rushing to my cock; it’s painting my irises with a crimson tint. Distorting my vision. Corrupting my mind.

It’s all I can see even with my eyes still closed.

Dripping from the tombstones. Dripping from Araceli’s body.

It’s everywhere.

Foolishly, I open my eyes blinking twice, three times, then four. Certain that my mind is playing tricks on me, but it’s not. It’s all I can literally see or want to see.

I shake my head. Scared. Wondering if what she’s been humming is some kind of magic, a dark spell, and it’s affecting more than my cock.

Bile lines my throat, threatening my mouth. My movements are no longer smooth and stealth but quick and hurried as I run on my hands and knees until I’m far enough that she won’t see or hear me .

I switch to my feet, about to run back home to take care of this stubborn ache that’s embedded itself in my cock, but her voice has graduated to words. A chant. Still melodic and this time even creepier, but it’s louder. Clearer. The distance between us merely makes her voice echo over to me at a deafening octave.

Fighting the pull I have to head back home, I remain still and listen.

“… has to go, has to go so no one knows.”

The wind picks up once more, shuffling the fallen foliage I stand on, compromising my hearing, forcing me to take a step back and closer to her.

“… eye for an eye.” She stops singing and turns her head in my direction.

My heart stalls and the bile that threatened my throat is rising to the surface. Not sure if she can see me and no longer caring, I swallow it down and run. The vines and debris on the ground tripping me in the process. I lose my footing, the keys in my pocket jingling as I crash to the ground. I don’t bother to pick them up. I don’t have time. I need to get the hell away from her. Gathering my wits about me I stand back up, navigating the uneven terrain, I run back down the hill.

My feet stomp onto the porch steps and I make a beeline for the bathroom. Vomit spews from my mouth, almost missing the toilet.

What was that?

Her.

Me.

All of it.

What the fuck was that?

And why am I still hard?

Painfully so.

Clearly, this isn’t going to take care of itself, so I have to do it.

A slew of rehearsed bible verses and phrases I’ve been conditioned to say to appease God and alleviate my guilt consume me as I unzip my pants .

They grow louder in my head as my erect cock bobs free. I grip it with a tight, needy fist. The vomit in the toilet that hasn’t been flushed yet burns into my periphery, yet somehow, also adds to the sick rush I have in this moment.

My lips purse and spit falls onto my shaft, lubricating it as I beat it. Not with my usual steady pace that I jerk myself off with. No, this is different. It’s fast. Incessant. Violent. It’s everything I shouldn’t be feeling and everything I shouldn’t be enjoying. But as I increase the speed and pressure, I’m transported back to the graveyard, back to the view I had of Araceli on her knees, worshiping whatever god or gods she deems worthy of her submission. Fisting myself harder, I envision the way she tore at the ground with angry, clenched fists, wishing they were on my cock instead of my own.

Her violence.

Her witchy fucking violence and that eerie chant now engrained in my mind as I stroke myself. Summoning my release from me as my whole body locks up and I cum in my hand.

Without hesitation, I bring my cum soaked hand to my mouth, sucking my fingers pretending it’s her release instead of my own.

The fantasy drives a painful ache in my chest, or maybe that’s the guilt trickling back in. I’m not sure which, but with the front door to the house slamming in the distance, I don’t have time to decipher my feelings. Panicked that I will get caught, I reach for the box of tissues on top of the toilet and clean myself, tossing the tissue in the bowl and flush it down with my puke.

I scramble, pulling up my pants, already reciting the rehearsed prayer in my head, just like I do every time I watch porn or do something I know God will be mad at me for—which lately has been a lot.

Footsteps sound on the other side of the door. It has to be Araceli, back already from the graveyard. The footsteps are light like hers, not the distinct stomp of my dad’s. I wait until they dissipate before I head to my room. My phone vibrates just as I close the door.

It’s Dad. Looking down at my phone, I open my messages to see it’s from our group chat between me, him, and Araceli.

Dad: Reminder that tomorrow is Devil’s Night service. Both of you are expected to attend.

I type back first.

Me: Got it.

Dad: Good.

Dad: Araceli?

Three dots appear then disappear just as fast. This continues two more times before she responds. My heart jumps at my chest at the sight of her name in the thread and the nausea returns reading her response.

Araceli: You aren’t going to get away with this, you sick bastard.

Who is she saying this to? To my dad? To me? Guilt for what I just did floods me in painful proportions. I blink, confused. Already afraid of how my dad will react. Sure enough, my mind is playing tricks on me. Her message is there, but not the one I could’ve sworn I saw.

Araceli: Can’t wait Daddy *overeager smile emoji*

I should be relieved by her sarcasm and that the response on the screen wasn’t actually there, but I’m not. It’s happening again; the voices, the seeing things that aren’t fucking there. Everything my dad tried to beat out of me all those years is flooding back. It never used to be like this. Things were quiet— peaceful— until she came into our lives and ruined me all over again.