2. The Normal One
The Normal One
Zephyr
“ O h, God! Oh, yes! Right there!” the plastic blonde barbie riding my cock screams, head tilted back and exposing her long, slender neck.
My hands tighten on her hips, yanking her up and down, driving my cock into her soaked pussy.
Licking my lips, I turn my eyes away from her neck.
Already, images of slitting that pretty throat acts like tendrils that stroke my mind, hardening my cock inside her even further.
If only she knew.
If only any of them knew the lengths I go to suppressing my darker nature. Since moving out and putting distance between me and my twin, those dark temptations had grown in volume. Maybe being near him canceled it out. Maybe only one of us could be insane at the same time.
But my parents would never know that they produced not one, but two sour apples.
I just hid it better. Like my uncle Zaine.
Or maybe more like my uncle Zac, who’s a lot more homicidal than Zaine, but a predator lurks beneath both of their skins.
Zac just lets his out to play more and I keep mine leashed, feeding it willing, horny and dumb blondes.
Sometimes, the stereotype holds true.
A smarter woman would take one look at me and run the other way, not accept my invitation for a casual hookup, knowing damn well they’d never hear from me again but still leaving with hopeful expressions. Their faces blur together into a misshapen collage, like a child’s attempt at paper-mache.
Sociopaths like me struggle—not that we try hard—to form attachments.
Our emotional centers don’t light up like those of normal functioning members of society.
The term sociopath has phased out of the clinical healthcare setting.
And people got complacent. If you don’t exhibit the standard signs and symptoms, they look right over you, searching for someone with a neon sign that says, “I’m deranged, Doc. ”
That’s what happened with Zade and me. No, they wanted to pick apart my twin’s mind, dismissing me as normal .
The barely concealed relief on my mother’s face nearly made me murderous.
He gets under my skin like a persistent fucking fungus but he’s still mine .
My twin. And I hated all of the medication they pumped him full of and the psychiatry visits.
At times, I thought I was rooming with a fucking zombie.
“Oh, God! I’m coming!” the almost forgotten blonde exclaims, collapsing on top of me, muscles twitching. I ignore the urge to slip the knife from beneath my pillows and slide it down her shoulder blades, watching skin split open.
She’d look so beautiful bathed in red. I close my eyes against the mental image, cock still hard and resting inside of her contracting pussy. Aftershocks travel through her, causing her pussy to undulate in waves, but not enough to pull an orgasm from me.
Fuck!
Looks like I’ll have to take care of it myself after giving her the boot. Bummer.
I push gently at her shoulders, rolling her off of me and swinging my legs out of the bed.
“What’s wrong? Didn’t you.. You know?” she asks. Her voice skates down my raw nerve endings, like scraping sand along tender flesh, tearing and causing bleeds. My fingers itch to curl around that slim neck and snap it.
“Nothing’s wrong. I’ve just got somewhere I need to be,” I lie smoothly, rising from the bed. My skin prickles beneath her gaze. I don’t need to turn around to know she’s ogling me appreciatively, probably patting herself on the back for snagging me. She’ll be disappointed like all the others.
Zephyr Daniels does not settle down. Especially not with someone lacking the necessary brain cells to donate to an offspring. I may lack the IQ of my twin, but I’m still above average, having coasted through school with minimal effort.
College was different, and I gave up on it, contenting myself with a fledgling modeling career.
What better way to satisfy my darker half than fucking all of the groupies throwing themselves at me while ignoring my obviously flashing red flags?
I can mask with the best of them, but sometimes, someone’s too dumb for me to waste the effort to try, so I don’t, letting my true nature show through deeds and words.
I rarely give them my full name, neglecting the last name intentionally so no one’s fantasizing about being Mrs. Daniels. And I never promise anything beyond a quick fuck. I pride myself on never lying, simply skirting the truth and admitting only relevant information.
In other words, I’m a fucking pro manipulator and I have zero regrets about it. If I had a reliable psychiatrist, they’d add lack of remorse and empathy to my file, but they’re fuck all. Completely useless. They couldn’t even fix Zade nor my father.
They’re hopeless in fixing me, so why bother?
“Baby, would you like me—” A growl leaves my throat, and I refuse to whirl around and face fake Barbie.
“Look. Make it easy on both of us and just leave. I’m going to wash off. I expect you to be gone by the time I’m done.” I don’t say anything further, marching toward my bathroom. A huff follows me, but if Barbie has any brain cells, she’ll not poke the beast.
Not today. My skin ripples, a premonition of it being a bad day. The devil wants to come out and play, pushing against the metaphorical bars.
He’s fucking ravenous, too tightly bound and chomping at the bit.
Damn. Maybe I should ask Zade how he manages his illness. It’s got to be milder than what I’m experiencing.
Stepping under warm sprays of water, my entire body trembles, demanding I stride back into my bedroom and slit the female’s throat.
Shaking my head and spraying water everywhere, I fight the urge, teeth grinding against each other.
I’m stronger than this. I am the master of my body, not some dark urge.
My lips move soundlessly, sending up a silent prayer for good measure. My mother was too relieved to only have one mentally ill son. I don’t think she could cope with two. I’m barely fucking coping.
A door creaking open tickles my ears, and I jerk my head toward the opaque glass surrounding the bath. Surely, the blonde left. So who the fuck is tip toeing into my territory?
I shut the water off, stepping out of the shower and letting water sluice off me to slick the floor. Before padding over to the closed door, I amble over to the counter, pulling a drawer open and wrapping my fingers around the handle of a knife.
Shit. It feels too good in my hand, all cool metal and comfortable, solid weight. My head shakes, flinging water from the soaked dark strands of my hair as I physically rid myself of the temptations dogging me.
Someone’s in my apartment. I’m within my rights to defend myself. I’d just have to be cautious not to cross the line into excessiveness by stabbing over and over again, bathing myself in blood.
Damn. That sounds like too good of an idea, forcing my body to shudder and cock to twitch.
Focus!
My feet slap tile, briskly carrying me out of the bathroom. I make no move to silence my actions. Let the fucker come. I’m ready to kill someone today, if only to ease the tension in my carefully wound control. It’s ready to fucking snap.
Following the sounds of heavy pants, I pause in the hallway at the point where it opens up into the living room. Shock reverberates through my body.
The fuck?
“Zade?” I call out, tensing as he whirls to face me and flinching at his wild eyes.
That’s not a good look for a face that’s a near mirror of my own, minus our different eye colors.
He inherited Mom’s, and I inherited Dad’s.
An equal sharing of genes. Pity he’s closer to both of them than I’ll ever be.
My “condition” makes it hard for me to feel much of anything. I’d read that it’s normal for someone like me to have a limited emotional range. Only Zade gets a visceral reaction out of me, and it’s clear he’s suffering from an episode.
Shit. I’ll have to call Mom. It’s hard enough evading her calls outside of the holiday season. Now, I’d have to deliberately reach out to her. My fingers tighten, and I briefly consider slashing my twin’s throat to eliminate the nuisance of having to call our mother.
“Zy,” he mouths, my eyes tracking his lips, shaping the nickname only he’s allowed to call me. When he’s in a panic like this, it’s like his brain short-circuits, forgetting that sound never escapes his lips. He’s too out of it to sign to me.
I swallow down the whispers taunting me. I can’t kill Zade. He’s my other half. The knife thuds to the floor, and I rush toward him.
He jumps back, panicked, but I forcefully yank him closer, pulling him into a hug. Initially, he’s stiff, not returning the embrace, which is admittedly awkward since I’m butt ass naked, but considering the fact we’re damn near identical, it’s nothing he’s never seen before.
Slowly, he relaxes, bringing his arms up to return the hug. He pants into my neck, and liquid wets my skin. I know it’s not bath water. He’s crying, trembling in my arms.
“I’ve got you, Z,” I say, rocking a little.
I suck at the comforting shtick and Z is really a stupid nickname since nearly every damn male in our family has a name that starts with the letter Z.
At this point, it’s tradition and I only refer to him as Z.
No one else gets a fucking nickname. Except maybe Uncle Zac.
Everyone gets a constipated expression when they hear the name “Zachary,” stirring up old memories of my grandfather. His ghost has no space to breathe in the family my parents, aunts and uncles rebuilt in his absence.
The word family means very little to me.
If someone held up a photo of a smiling family and asked me what I saw or how it made me feel, I’d say nothing.
Or maybe Zade’s face would flash in my mind.
Maybe he’s the only attachment I’m allowed to form because he’s a mirror of me, stirring up whatever narcissistic traits I have.
I could never kill myself, so I’m bound to be a little attached to my double.
Well, technically, I’m his double since he came out first, but who knows which cell formed before the other? Maybe I shoved his ass out because I wanted to be alone for once.
Zade goes lax in my arms, like the fight drained out of him. I’m not Mom. She’s a pro at this, so I can’t say for sure if the storm has cleared and he’s good now. But we can’t keep hugging while I’m naked. It’s getting a little weird.
My hands slide down his sweaty back, and I grimace, ending the hug. A black hoodie cloaks his torso. And sweat makes his hair stick to his scalp and face where the strands brush his forehead and temples.
The dude looks disgusting. I don’t say that and I know right now his senses are probably fucking raw and overstimulated due to whatever fucking hallucination drove him to run to my apartment in a damn hoodie while the sun beats down on him.
Talk about needing to go to the loony bin. Ugh. Is this what pity feels like? I don’t pity anyone. I just see them as inconsequential.
Except for fucking Zade. Lucky him. He can make a damn sociopath feel something.
Now, how the fuck do I get him out of my apartment without him getting run over by a car on the way home?