Sage
“We can still change our minds, turn around, drive away from this awful town,” I try one last time as we enter the town and head for Kyle’s big house on the hill.
We pass by houses decorated with spiderwebs and skeletons.
Kids are already filling the streets, ready for trick-or-treating.
The night is still early, but you can tell everyone is getting ready for a long one.
I spot some familiar faces, and I try not to overthink when one of them matches one of the names on our list. He has his arm around a girl’s waist as they walk the same road we are driving on.
I don’t recognize the girl, but I do recognize the rest of the guys surrounding them.
They laugh and joke, and my eyes lock with the girl’s for a minute.
She has that look in her eyes, the one you recognize if you have ever been manipulated by a man.
It’s that dead look. One of a ghost. For a moment, our plan seems like a good idea again.
At least this one will be spared from her asshole of a boyfriend if we complete it.
Saving a woman trapped in a relationship with a man that she loves but is entirely wrong for her seems almost noble.
It’s as if we are helping her survive by killing the monster she shares her bed with at night.
I like that idea. I wish someone would do that for me sometimes.
Not always. Just the times Silas turns from the loving man he usually is to something mirroring Mother’s cruelty.
It’s not often that it happens. Maybe a handful of times in the time we have been on our own.
We have been in love for so long. Too long for two people who are just starting life.
We are only twenty, after all, yet it feels like a lifetime together.
Probably because it has been. We grew up together, and even though it wasn’t until we were eighteen that we got involved in any other way than just being siblings, it feels like our reality barely changed.
It feels like we were always connected so deeply that our love only reinforced it.
And that’s the reason I don’t really wish someone would free me from him.
Even the days he is more of a monster than a man.
“Sure we can, or we can actually grow some balls and finally take revenge.” Silas’s sarcasm isn’t hidden when he responds; it shines through like a lantern in a dark room, and honestly, he is kind of right. Revenge does need balls, and I don’t think I have any.
The closer we get to actually carrying out this damn plan to completion, I’m realizing more and more that I am not cut out for the life of a killer in a horror movie.
I don’t think I qualify for one in a horror parody either.
I can’t even play the helpless victim. I would die in act two, right after that stupid person who thinks separating from the group will save him.
You know the one I am talking about; it’s usually the buff guy who thinks he can take the serial killer.
I am not a buff guy, but I would make a lovely second victim.
I would die epically because, obviously, the second kill always has to be epic.
The first one you forget quickly; the third and fourth you can predict, but the second is the one that will either make the movie or ruin it.
And mine would make it one to remember. It would have been so awesome that people would talk about it for months after the release.
That’s the type of victim I would be if this were a movie and I weren’t one of the killers.
But it isn’t, and the knife strapped to my thigh is a pretty obvious sign that I am, in fact, one of the killers—or future killers, if we are being specific.
And you should be specific in times like this.
Silas’s hand finds my thigh, traveling up and under my dress while he never moves his eyes from the road. The talent this man has for multitasking is annoying.
“What are you doing?” I whisper, not that I need an introduction to what he’s doing.
Silas has always believed that he can distract me with an orgasm.
And he is right. He can distract me with an orgasm.
That’s the problem. This man can whistle at me and say, ‘Come here, kitten. Spread your legs and let me eat you out,’ and I will purr, opening my legs like a good dog, waiting for my master.
I am mixing up my animals here, but you get the point.
Sage is a good girl for Silas, and Silas knows how to take advantage of that.
Right on cue, Silas’s fingers push aside my underwear and find my clit.
He starts moving them in slow circles as his other hand stays on the steering wheel, and his eyes never leave the road.
It’s impressive. He is focused, as if his life depends on this drive, and I am over here losing my mind already because this man knows what buttons to press.
It’s my clit. That’s the button. And God knows how good he is at pressing it.
I part my legs, allowing him more access; his hand moves a little lower.
“This isn’t fair, you know,” I argue with his silence, because Silas won’t talk to me.
He knows that talking to me will achieve nothing.
Besides, he is too busy finger-fucking me at the moment.
His fingers move in and out of me in rhythmic movements, making my sense of morality drift away with each one.
Maybe he is right; it doesn’t hurt to kill a few people.
We have all done crazy things in the name of love before, haven’t we?
A third finger joins the first two, and his thumb continues rubbing my clit as he picks up a faster pace, and now I am convinced. Murdering a bunch of bullies is a great idea. He is right. I am a genius for coming up with the plan, and oh God, I am about to actually come.
“Oh God, don’t stop,” I mumble and sink into my seat, propping my feet on it to give him more access.
“What was that?” he questions with a grin, but doesn’t stop; he continues moving his fingers faster and faster, and when my orgasm hits, I have almost forgotten my own name.
Right now, I would agree to anything he would ask of me. Rob a bank? Yes, sir. Kill a few people? Sure. Host an orgy on their corpses? Maybe. That one might be a dealbreaker... or not. He is really good with his hands. I am sure I can be convinced on that one, too.
Silas retrieves his fingers and brings them to his lips, sucking my juices from them. “You’re tasty, little sister.” Fucking asshole. He will be the end of me, or my prison sentence, or both.
“You can’t shut me up with a finger inside my pussy every time I don’t agree with what you want, brother.” Silas’s face twitches because even though he calls me ‘sister’ all the time, he hates it when I call him my brother. He despises it.
I never understood the reason behind it.
For the longest time in our lives, that was what he was.
My brother. My twin. The person who shared everything with me.
In a sense, he still is, on paper at least. Because I don’t think sharing a bed with your brother should be considered normal.
Mother was right; it’s a sin to bed your blood.
But he isn’t my blood, and I think these days my morality is on the gray side of the color palette.
He seems fine introducing me as his sister to people with his hand on my ass, as if that won’t get some looks, but the moment I dare to acknowledge the dreadful reality that we are indeed siblings, even if it’s just adoptive, then he gets angry and frustrated.
Before he goes silent again. Because that’s how Silas reacts to life. He gets angry and then he shuts down.
But it’s not the normal ‘I am upset’ type of shutdown.
It’s the quiet, ‘I am going to end the world’ type of shutdown psychopaths do.
You know the one I am talking about. We've all had one of those in our lives. Some of us more than one. That doesn’t stop you from loving them...
but it does teach you how to know when to shut the fuck up. And now? It’s one of those times.
“It was more like three fingers, but who’s counting,” he says instead, and now I know I am truly fucked this time.
Because silent Silas means plotting revenge, and overall just being a little spiteful—I can deal with that.
Sarcastic Silas means a punishment will follow, and that usually doesn’t end well.
I pass my fingers over the scar on my inner thigh.
The spot where he once carved his name into my skin because I dared tell him he doesn’t own me.
He made sure I knew he does indeed own me.
I remember that night so vividly. It started when he joked about me daring to leave him, and when I had the nerve to continue the banter—which I will admit I used to do a lot.
Until that night, at least. His eyes got darker, almost as if the blue inside them had vanished completely.
His whole body language went from loving me to hating me.
I could tell. He took his favorite knife, the one with the black blade that I bought him for his birthday when we were seventeen.
Before we were in love—or before we were openly in love, to be more accurate.
At first, I thought he was joking. He couldn’t be serious.
But he was. He passed the blade over the flame of the candle that is always lit on my nightstand before he used it on my flesh.
Slow cuts followed. Blood flowed. And from that day on, I never responded back to his sarcasm when he looked like that.
The scar has always been a reminder to keep my silence.
And it will always be one. Because the fear I felt that night was rival to the one Mother made me feel through years and years of torture.
The scar is almost as prominent as the ones shaped like crosses across the same spot.
It blends in among them. His torture and hers, in the same place, decorate my body with scars of horror.
That’s what I’m doing tonight, too. I’m not responding. I am staying silent. Because the scar on my thigh was enough of a lesson. One I will never be as much of a fool as to forget its meaning. Silence is rewarded. Clever remarks aren’t.
The car stops, and Silas puts it in park.
We are here. Kyle’s party. I can see the house across the street already filled with life.
People partying, music blasting, faces I recognize.
Faces that will hate me by the end of the night.
And others who are going to be terrified of me.
They are drinking as if their nightmare isn’t about to start. Poor, ignorant bastards.