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His bare feet appear in my vision. A tear drops onto his toe. Why am I always looking at his feet when cataclysmic things happen? Maybe it's because I'm a servant, serving everyone’s sick purposes.
“What's wrong? Look at me,” he says.
I'm scared to look at him. What if I still see him with love goggles? What if I'm still attracted to him? Does love stop just like that? This is so fucked up.
He squats, and oh god, touches me. Visions of us tangled together torment me. He knew.
Finally, I lean up and meet his eyes. They're not angry—they’re worried.
They should be.
I punch him in the jaw. He barely flinches, grabbing my wrist.
“How could you?” It's pathetic my voice doesn't sound angry; it sounds sad and confused—weak. A kitten’s mewl instead of a lion’s roar.
“How could I what?”
Unable to look at his face that bears no guilt for these sins that are sending us straight to hell, I look over his shoulder.
“Fuck me,” I rasp out.
My brain isn't moving him into sibling mode. Oh god, he didn't move me either.
“I’m sorry. It won't happen again.” His hand lands on my thigh. “I thought you wanted me too.”
“Jesus Christ. You can't want me,” I scream. “We’re freaks.”
“Rhiannon,” he starts.
“Stop, please.” I don't want to hear his voice. It still affects me, and it's wrong. “You’re my brother, and you didn't tell me?” I nearly choke on the words. On the shame. My heart isn't hearing anything I'm saying.
He blinks. “For fuck’s sake, you think I'd have sex with you if I still thought that?”
“Still?”
“Yes,” he stands, running a hand through his hair. “It was a lie your father told me.”
Pummeled. I'm always pummeled with this craziness from every direction.
“When?”
“After I kissed you all those years ago.” He takes a breath. “After my mom died.”
I close my eyes and rub my temples to make my brain function. I can’t believe any of this. Keep calm, I tell myself.
“Obviously he's not my father. But the sick fuck wanted me to think it.”
“And you're giving me back to this sick fuck?” I drop my hands. “I'm just a temporary means to an end, right?” So much for keeping calm.
He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Yes.”
This must be what it feels like to lose your mind. It's like I'm in front of a funhouse mirror, warping and distorting reality. I want out of here, away from all of the things I can't control. And I can't control myself around him. “Did you know that most of the drawings on my greeting cards have our initials hidden inside?”
This catches his attention, and he meets my stare. “What do you mean?”
“Well, I do this swirly type drawing, and I always add an R for me, and an X for you. Like our very own prescription. Rx.”
He runs a hand down his jaw. “That’s pretty fucking cool,” he murmurs.
