She has no idea how bad this hurts. She doesn’t care.
I wish I could be as empty as her.
Instead, I’m full of jagged pieces left behind from a shattered picture that used to be perfect.
I stare at the pictures in the corner of my room and I wish more than anything I had wings like a dragonfly. I wish I could fly away from the swirling shitstorm my life has become in a matter of hours.
Mars
Unfuckingreal.
This can’t be happening.
Anger burns in my gut. And disgust. I’m disgusted at myself—with us. How could this happen? How could we not know?
Her eyes.
All those times I’ve stared into her gorgeous green eyes.
His eyes.
Dad’s eyes.
Bile rises in my throat and furious tears threaten. Is the universe that fucking unfair it would do this to me? Have I not suffered a lifetime of heartache and the bottom of the shit barrel?
I almost fucked her.
I almost fucked…my sister.
A wave of nausea washes over me. I roll out of bed and stumble toward the bathroom. My stomach empties itself and I brush my teeth as tears of shame leak from my eyes. If Dad could see me now…crying over almost fucking my sister. I let out a roar of fury and smash my fist into the mirror. A burst of pain explodes across my knuckles as the shards hit the countertop. I back away from the destroyed mirror on a hunt for something to erase the madness in my mind.
Meth.
A cold snake of temptation coils in my belly. But then I think of Mom. How she travelled down that road when she was in despair. I don’t want to start down that road again because I don’t like where it ends. Instead, I take a page from Dad’s book and hunt for the bottle. He seems to find his answers there. Cruel, harsh answers, but answers nonetheless. I find a bottle of Wild Turkey and start drinking straight from the bottle. After making my way to my room, I sit in my closet on my shoes, pressing myself into the farthest corner. I hide behind coats and pants. The spot is one I thought made me safe from my father all those years.
Now?
Now I’m hiding from worse hurts.
Crushing, soul-shattering blows.
My chest aches with the realization of my situation, and I try desperately to burn it away with the liquor.
She’s my sister.
Not my lover. Not my girlfriend. Not my motherfucking soul mate.
My goddamn sister.
Same fucking blood.
With the heel of my hand, I grind away the wetness on my cheeks. Choked sounds of anguish rip from me. Just this once, I thought I had my happiness within my grasp. It felt too good to be true and I knew it, yet I chased after it anyway.
I was gonna love her forever.
A pang slices through my chest in agreement.
She was stolen from me. Because of my dad. This is all his fucking fault. The motherfucker needs to learn how to keep his dick in his pants or use a condom.
I want to kill him.
I want to kill everyone until there’s no one left but Sage and me.
Then it wouldn’t matter.
She’s the only person who gets me.
Sucking down more liquor, I try to drown those thoughts. I can’t murder everyone in the world, and I can’t fall in love with my sister. That’s not real life.
No, real life fucking hurts.
I wake in the dark, music rattling through the trailer. The bottle is still in my grip, but I’ve downed so much of it, everything is fuzzy and confusing. I can’t seem to pinpoint exactly what has my heart in pieces at my feet. I don’t want to know.
I crawl out of the closet with the bottle in my hand. Barely, I manage to climb to my feet. I guzzle down more of the liquid memory destroyer. It feels good. The burn. It makes it all disappear. I set the bottle down with a loud clunk on my bedside table. Then, I stumble out of the room toward the bathroom.
Dad coughs from the other room, and just like that, everything slams into me all at once.
She. She. She.
My Sage.
My dragonfly.
My fucking sister.
Someone belts out a deafening roar of rage. It’s me. I’m screaming as I wobble my way into the living room. As soon as Dad sees me, he rises from the couch.
Fuck, I can’t even look at him.
His mean eyes are the same color as hers.
“Are you fuckin’ drunk, boy?”
I charge him, swinging my fist. He’s drunk too, so he doesn’t dodge in time. We crash against the coffee table before hitting the floor. Pain from the fall slices up my back. I manage to punch his ribs, but he grips my throat, pinning me to the carpet. We struggle back and forth.
“You wasted no time moving on after Mom,” I bellow, my throat hoarse against the unforgiving way he clutches my throat.