Page 40 of Wicked Sins

“I’m not doing that anymore.”

“What?” She squints at me over her shoulder. “That was you?”

“This shit’s got to stop, Candy.” I want to sit beside her, but I know I shouldn’t allow myself to get that close.

I hate Candace, so I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that I keep angry-fucking her in my dreams even though that shit’s confusing as all hell. It sticks with me, day in and day out, the sounds she makes when I’m mounting her from behind like a rabid animal.

More often than not, my boxers are soaked with cum when I wake up.

I’m sure there’s some perfectly normal psychological explanation for it. It’s what fascinates me about the human mind. How I’m a perfectly normal kid until I go asleep, and then I become a psycho.

What would happen if the dreams stopped one day? Would I still feel the need to experience such depravity? Would it drive me to act out those demented scenes in real life? Would I turn to making deeply debauched porn films?

“Give it up, Jo.”

“You don’t get to call me that, understand?”

She glares at me like she’s got a death wish.

“Only family get to call me Jo. You? Candy? You’re nothing to me.”

I honestly expect her to have some kind of comeback, but all she does is stare at me. Then, in a voice that barely resembles her natural one, she says, “Really? I couldn’t tell.”

My heart’s beating way too hard.

For a second, I’m almost overwhelmed by the urge to apologize to her. I mean, I get it. Life’s been shit to both of us lately. But I’m not running around killing neurons every chance I get.

She thinks she’s so special. A real-life Cinderella, waiting with bated breath for her Prince Charming.

What Candace doesn’t seem to realize is that there is no Fairy fucking Godmother. No one’s gonna turn her rags into a ball gown. And the only thing that’ll happen if she doesn’t get home by midnight?

She risks getting spiked by a bunch of adolescent boys with itchy cocks.

Again.

I’m glad my dad’s not home because when I storm out of her room, I slam the door so hard I’ll be shocked if I didn’t put a crack through it.

Chapter Fifteen

Candy

Iwish I knew what other people dreamed of. Not just what they dreamabout, but what it feels like to them. Is it as real for them as it is for me? Do they sometimes feel like they have some control…but then pretend like they don’t?

I doubt many people even think about it as much as I do, especially lately.

My thinking is that everyone’s got a bunch of stuff they keep bottled up inside. Crazy shit that no one would want to let out. Sort of like a personal Pandora’s Box of immorality.

Dreams are like little peeps you take inside that box. Snippets escape and play havoc, but just until you wake up again.

Thing is…someone’s gone and kicked open the box, and I don’t think I’ll ever get it to close again.

Ever since the party, strange things come to me in the early hours of the morning, close to dawn.

I don’t know what triggers them.

Don’t think I want to.

I shouldn’t be complaining. I mean, they’re not nightmares. Not really. While I’minthem, I’m having the time of my life. But the images and sensations and hedonistic urges those dreams create cling to me, a spiritual oil slick that stays behind hours after I wake.

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