a/n- this story contains gay people, angry people, people on drugs, people who have sex and people who have sex with minors. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Chapter One

It had rained just a few hours before; the air tickled my nose and told me so. I breathed deep, tasting all the droplets in my throat and basking in their sweetness. My arms stretched behind me, causing my back to make a loud pop sound, which released all the stress from the hours I had spent trying to control myself around her from the day earlier. Well, it was released in physical sake only. Emotionally, mentally, it was all still there, chasing one another around in my head. Cat and mouse. I sensed that the occasional jolt of my temple was a collision into the sides of my skull or the grey pink mush of a brain. I shook my head, hoping that by some miracle they would flush from my body. Like a flume, if you may. Just let it liquefy and run out, over my shoulders and down my arms. Let it stain my shirt with its orange hue, like it had already done to my insides. Sick, some may call it. Disgusting. Wrong. Evil. Unnatural. Fuck you.

“Taboo” is not a word I use often.

I dragged my bare feet through the slight moisture of the grass, letting it soak in my cracked heels and under my toenails. Bits of renegade grass blades and dirt stuck to my bottom digits, but I didn’t care much. Damn all reason, for today was not about that. Today I was going to spend my time trying to focus on other things. Not Addison. Other things. Like the sun, for instance and the glare of it on the puddles and the reflection of the buildings. Yes, that works. Ah, and the cracking blue paint on the building to my left. (Which, coincidentally happens to be her house, but I’m not thinking about that.) I move my eyes and my attention to my own house, the 3 story, Victorian style beauty, with the sensuous vines creeping up the side, teasing the bricks with their ministrations. The driveway is empty; Marcus is out. “Where” is something I don’t really want to know. Drinking, perhaps. Gambling is another possibility. Or maybe he is just out and about, walking around and toying with any unfortunate pawn that crosses his path. I’m sure that whatever it is, it can be counted on being destructive towards someone or something. Marcus, my brother, my brother. My sick, twisted, brother. At age 22, he stands five years ahead of me in life and about six inches above my head. A real looker, to be quite honest. He and I have our father’s eyes- a pale, haunting brown with a catlike shape to them. They look better on him, though. He also inherited from our father a masculine appearance, complete with a strong jaw, broad shoulders, long arms and legs and a striking shadow. Marcus keeps his hair long, shoulder length and dark brown, with a slight wave. He often pulls it back out of his face. He grows no facial hair and spends a lot of time making sure there is none, even resorting to burning it off or plucking it from first sight. His face has small scars in multiple numbers, which he covers up any way possible. From our mother, he received her lips, a dark pink and full, her perfect nose and her pale skin tone. People often say the Marcus and I look alike. I’m never really sure if I should be complimented or not, so I don’t bother.

You often hear people talk of sibling rivalry, which is something I never really bothered with. Marcus always wins. He’s a brilliant speaker, capable of getting even the most stubborn person to bend to him. He can take the proudest man and mold him into a sniveling, whining little bitch. There’s something else it seems Marcus received from daddy dearest, even though it is debated on whether or not it is genetic. Marcus scoffs when our father is mentioned in comparison to him, stating that ‘the old fucker is nothing of the man I am.’ And, to an extent, I agree. Marcus never bothered finishing high school. He said he was sick of the people. They were too easy, too boring, and for the one kid, he bled too easily.

“I gutted him like the pig he is” Marcus laughed when he was permanently expelled from school. I didn’t bother digging any farther. I already had a scenario playing in my head, the projector clicking.

The alarm on my watch beeped, startling me. 4:00 sharp. My duties as the babysitter were only moments away from starting, which gave me limited time to compose myself. The bus could be heard, heaving and pushing up the steep hill, and it is possible that everyone on board was crossing any and all crossable body parts, trying to focus any and all luck in their small bodies into the vehicle. I slipped my shoes back on, jogged over to the bus stop and waited, like a dog, for her arrival. The bus came into view and dragged itself to a complete stop. The occupants began to file out, their conversations carrying out to the trees and fading into nothing, which is what the conversations had probably started out as. At last, the final passenger stepped off the bus and into my view. Addison Sharkath, the overprotected and orphaned 12-year old I babysat for. She clutched her books to her chest and kept her head down, allowing the wind to play with her hair, running it through its thin, waif fingers. I envy the wind. She looked up to me and smiled, the recognition of a friendly face pulled at her baby pink lips. Her long legs carried her to me, accompanied with another diamond smile.

“Hey, Addison” I said, looking her in the eyes. The little green birds in them sparkled back, and even if she never answered, it would be enough.

“Hi, Margot” She replied, adjusting the backpack on her shoulders to hang a bit. We turned and walked in synch, her feet silently maneuvering next to the obnoxious slap of mine. She told me about her day (after, of course, I had asked) and her math test that she had scored an A- on and how her gym teacher is a real cunt (my words) and how some acne-infested (presumably) kid asked her to the upcoming dance.

“Really? And you said…?” She turned about six different shades of red and turned away.

“Well…I, uh, I didn’t know what to, uh, say, so I just told him, uh, that I would, uh, have to think about it…” She managed to get out all in one breath. I chuckled at her antics and wondered if her response was as broken to him as it was to me.

She opened the door with her key and a quick jerk and kick combination of the front door. It always sticks in the frame after the rain. Her cat, a Japanese bobtail named Jellybean, greeted the two of us with a complementary purr and shin rub.

“George must be hiding” She said in reference to the large Burman cat. A real gentle giant. Addison walked back to her room and put her backpack on her bed and began to remove its contents. Some binders and folders and notebooks, all covered in flowers or uneven stripes in coordinating colors in baby blue and orange and brown. I stood in the doorway, watching her young frame move back and forth from bed to desk, the outline of hips already being able to be seen.

“When is David returning?” I asked. David Kostovo married Addison’s mother, Lauren, about three years ago. Her real father, John Sharkath, died from a drug overdose when Addison was a mere infant. Her mother died about two years ago from a miscarriage of what was to be Addison’s baby sister and David’s only biological child. David is now her legal guardian, and the agreement is met with no complaints from anyone. He works hard as a cameraman for the local news, yet the job leaves him little time for Addison. And that is where I come in. Addison has lived near me since before her mother married David, which I guess is about…five years. I was 10 when I first met them. I was 12 when I came to terms with what I am. I am, in a blunt fashion, a 16 year old dyke. Rug muncher. Queer bait. Lesbian. Call it what you will. Say what you please. It’s old news, really.

“Um…he said something about 8:00” She said, turning with her hips to face me. I nodded my understanding and made my way to the kitchen to get dinner started. I opened the cupboard and searched for something good and something I could lose myself in. She’s only 12, for chrissake. Sick. Perverted. Fuck me. Pasta. Perfect. I began to set out the ingredients for dinner, and after shooing George (I found the fat bastard asleep on the counter), I began to work. I set the pot full of ready-to-boil water on the burner and cranked it up a bit. Addison moved behind me, sliding on the linoleum in her socks.

“What are we having?” She asked, trying to peek around me. I smelled peaches.

“Pasta”

“What kind” Haunting peaches.

“Spaghetti” She responded with a gaped mouth “oh” and slid away.

Fucking lingering peaches.

She often asked me for help on her homework, and tonight was no exception. Her class was reading The Diary of Anne Frank, a good, albeit clichéd, but nevertheless important piece of literature. I read the dammed thing a good five times. It really didn’t help much when I already knew the ending ahead of time. Her math class was examining the Pythagorean Theorem and her science class was discussing the parts of a worm, which is apparently something that is going to better the children and carry them far in life. She had to practice her clarinet for an hour every night, right after dinner. Poor child has little-to-no talent, but still she continues with a stern concentration most people could only hope to achieve and apply to everyday life. I began to was the dishes, a menial and degrading chore but shit, I’m getting paid 10 an hour. I looked up through the window while scrubbing the pot and being deafened with Addison’s version of Ode to Joy, which turned out to be more of an ode to tone deafness. The street lights were yet to come on and the musky grey-orange blended well with the purple above the houses. The colors were slain in two by the black Lincoln Marcus drove coming around the corner and into the driveway. He stepped out, cutting the road with his shadow. His long hair was down and gently moving on his shoulders. The passenger and back door opened and out stepped two companions of his. They couldn’t have been older than me, at least 14 a piece. A blond and a brunette, both decked out in Holister and American Eagle apparel (and the blond, I assumed, a dye job), followed him inside after sharing an ear whisper and giggle session. I wish I was seeing things. I find myself wishing that often.

David showed up at 8:15 and handed me two twenties and a five for “my hard work”. I nodded and thanked him and said my goodbyes to Addison and the cats. The night was warm and inviting and the streetlights illuminated the cars and sidewalks in the neighborhood. The internal organ shaped lump in my throat pulsated and shook as the distance between me and the house became shorter and shorter. I fumbled for the key in my pocket and turned it in the lock. The house was dark, besides the two dull beams of light that shone from my mother’s room and Marcus’s room. They barely even damaged the darkness. I slipped my shoes off at the door and introduced my bare feet to the cold wooden ground. There was a record turning in the living room, a sad crooner talking about some lost love. Very Marcus. There was no noise coming from my mother’s room, which meant to me that she must’ve been asleep by now. There was, however, a floating noise from my brother’s room. The occasional sexual giggle wriggled underneath the door and, of course, him. Marcus’s deep butter voice masked his mal intentions and pedophilic needs in quiet yet stern orders to his young fuck buddies. Never did his tone express the pleasure he felt. In fact, the only thing that did was a small and slightly mocking congratulatory remark. He is a master at the things he does, none can deny.

I lay in my bed, a fresh copy of Naked Lunch placed in my hands. It’s my 26th copy in the past five years. All my other ones had been burned by a drunk, raving Marcus or handed out to people at school or just plain ripped from the consistent wear-and-tear. An Iron and Wine album played quietly to no one in particular. The book’s words met no eyes, for my own happened to be fixated on the door to my left. The rhythm squeaks had stopped not too long ago, and the aftermath was soon to come: the rushed and surprised goodbyes from the ignorant pubescent, the possible exchanging of numbers and quite possibly, the awkward and breathless request for a phone call, or a chance to “do this again sometime”. And, surely, Marcus would be quite the gentleman about it and lead them to the door and wish them a goodnight of some sorts and the promptly shut the door and giving the lock a quick twist, lest they want more and open it back to jump on his dick some more. Then, the exhausted Marcus would retire to his room, only to wake tomorrow to see if his adventures could be duplicated. I knew this routine by heart and, if I had a cock, could probably play it out. But tonight, something was odd. The stairs squeaked, signaling that Marcus was returning to the second floor. Yet, instead of the steps going away from my door, they got closer and closer, until the door opened and Marcus stepped in. The taunt milky muscles of his chest were on display and they ended at the waistband of his unbuttoned black pants that clung onto his cock cuts that dove deep into the abbess of his man region. Marcus bared no chest hair, except his minimal and well controlled treasure trail. His broad shoulder leaned against the door frame and led into his arms, the sinewy muscle poking out only in the slightest. Marcus is all lean muscle, yet it still manages to cut the most suave and intimidating shadow on the bare wood. His face was clam, with a slight smugness about it, which was barely veiled by his loose hair. He said nothing as he stepped in farther and walked around my room. I watched him as he took long and slow steps around my room, his piano fingers tracing everything. They wrapped around the curl of my sleigh bed and examined the decorative grooves in the metal. His eyes never met mine as he looked at the wall behind me. It was decorated with pictures of my favored artists, Belle and Sebastian, Yo La Tengo, Iron and Wine, The Sliver Jews and all their lo-fi and indie and noise friends. The corners of his lips twitched slightly in scorn to my musical tastes. Fuck you too, Marcus.

“What do you want, Marcus?”I asked, growing tired of his game already. He looked at me, his eyes burning into my skull. He tilted his head slightly to the side in a vain attempt to appear innocent of life and everything it had to offer. He said nothing as he moved to my bookshelf and picked up my copy of The Tale of Two Cities.

“Trash” He deemed it and tossed on top of the bookshelf. My brother has always been high critical of my choice in literature and music. Without so much as a look in my direction, he made his way over to my closet and opened it with a flourish.

“Margot, Margot, Margot!” He began, with an enunciation on the third ‘Margot’, “Surely you can dress better than this” he said, using his finger tips to peel around the clothes I have.

“What do you want, Marcus?” I asked once more, putting the book off to the side.

“I mean really. Just because we live in abject squalor doesn’t mean you have to look like it. Have some class, dear sister” He spun around to face me with a look of feigned disappointment on his face.

“We don’t live in abject squalor, Marcus”

“Could’ve fooled me” He said with a scoff and a nod to my closet.

“What do you want, Marcus?” I asked for the third time, hoping to get an answer and avoid any and all mind games. He smiled and walked to the foot of my bed.

“Dear Margot, why do you ask? Do I really have to want something to come and see my only sister? My dear, sweet baby sister? Can’t I just come in here and see you? Talk to you?” He began what was most likely to become a tangent about family and trust and some other bullshit.

“We never talk anymore, Margot. Why is that? Why don’t you want to talk to your loving and doting big brother? Are we not family? Do you not love me?” He leaned over the end of the bed and balanced himself on his elbows and stomach.

“Can’t we just talk?” His eyes bore into mine and with a blink he burned down the light chocolate bridge between the two. I gave a slight groan of protest along with a nod of agreement and an “Ok, what do you want to talk about?” to which Marcus flipped over the railing and onto my bed, his bare feet mashing into the pillow next to me. His stretched and sighed and the folded his arms behind his head, pulling his stomach and chest taunt. A look of victory spread over his face as he asked me simple questions:

“How was your day?”

“Fine”

“Did you do your homework?”

“Yes”

“Did you have any difficulty in doing so?”

“No”

“Did you baby sit?”

“Yes”

“How was that?”

“Fine”

“How much did you make?”

“45 dollars”

“Are you going to save it or spend it?”

“I don’t know” A conversation like this could go on for hours. Marcus was building up to something.

“How is the lesbian thing going for you?” Bingo.

“Why?” I asked, slightly annoyed. He shifted slightly and adjusted himself before continuing.

“Just curious. I feel that, since I am your big brother, I have every right to know about the romantic interests of my baby sister.” Fuck. I pulled on the covers a bit and tried to find a way to become comfortable in this situation. Goddamn. The peaches were back to get me. His eye followed my every move, studying me. The little person inside his head was taking notes. He was the scientist, I am the animal.

“Come now, Margot. You can tell me. We needn’t have any secrets in our relationship” He leaned forward a bit, half from anticipation and half from the idea of closeness and comfort for me. I looked at him, hoping my glare would do the talking for me. It didn’t. Figures.

“Here, I’ll even let you in on some of my ‘carnal adventures’, so to speak.” Fucking wonderful. Well, it’s not like I was going to sleep tonight anyways.

“Did you happen to see the two sluts I was with today?” He said, using the term so lightly you can barely catch it. I nodded.

“Well, you see, that was rare of me. I’m normally not a big fan of brunettes. They normally have more hair, or at least darker hair,” He paused for a look of disgust and a shiver “But today, the tables turned on the blonde. She was…oh my, how do I even go about saying this?...Odd.”

“Odd?” I asked, pissed that all the fuss had been about a simple adjective.

“Yes. Odd. She was decent in bed, I’d give her about a 6. Maybe a 7, if she hadn’t have been so…misshapen.” I tried to tune him out, honestly. All I heard was “misshapen”, “wrinkled”, “low-hanging” and “grotesque”, and yet I think I got the point.

“…And that is why my attention was fully focused on the brunette. God, anything was better than those…things.” He said with a smirk.

“Why the hell did you tell me this?”

“Because, my forgetful sister, if you were paying any attention at all, I told you that I think we need to be more open and honest with one another.” He took my hand and put on his most sincere look. “Now, is there anything you have to share?” Fuck. Under no circumstances did I want him out of all the people in the world to know about me and my sick little desire. It’s bad enough as it is. So, I pulled out sincerity from the depths of my being and said no. He studied my face, looking for any signs of doubt. I chewed on the inside of my mouth to keep myself from exposing my falsehood. He leaned back, content with what he found and got off the bed.

“Well then, I am off.” He announced.

“Did you feed mom today?” I asked. He rolled his eyes.

“Yes. Unfortunately. God, Margot, why do I have to do it? Why can’t you ever feed her?”

“Because, Marcus, I have school.” He scoffed.

“Yes, well, I feel as though we are not going to have to be feeding her much longer, if you follow me.” A sly smile spread across his face.

“Fuck you, Marcus. She’s our mother.” His demeanor changed almost instantly and the tension level in the room rose.

“Is she now?” He stepped closer to me and I pushed my back as far as it would go in the pillow “Is that so?” Marcus leaned closer to me and cupped my face in his cold hands.

“Well, if what you say is the truth, then I guess I can’t be talking bad about her and her debilitating tumor. The tumor that is slowly rotting her mind away,” his grip tightened on my jaw “The tumor that is turning her memories to mere piles of shit. ‘Our’ mother, you say? ‘Our’? Next you’re going to be telling me that that man is ‘our’ father as well.” His nails dug into the soft flesh of my jaw and his eyes drilled giant holes in my pupils.

“Stop, please. Stop.”I managed to get out of my tightly pressed lips. He raised his eyebrow slightly and debated on whether or not to let me go. I squirmed in his grasp and shivered as the cold sweat formed on my body. Marcus let me go and I shifted away from his as far as I could. He followed me with his eyes, his haunting eyes. He stood up straight and looked down at me.

“Goodnight, Margot. I suggest you rest well.” He turned on his heel and walked away, shutting the door behind him. I lay back and stared at the ceiling, trying to calm myself down. I couldn’t. I tried to think of things that would relax me. The weekend was coming, that would mean Marcus would be out and about. That’s slightly settling news. I tried to entertain myself in my sick wants and desires, my hand tracing down my stomach. My finger tips found the mound I was looking for and dove into its valley, looking for anything rewarding. Nothing. Damn.