Page 61 of Twice as Twisted

I lift the shower curtain rod, and she makes a high, keening sound and scrabbles harder against the corner, crushing her back into the wall.

I laugh and hold it up, watching her writhe in terror. Sliding it from inside the rings, I let the curtain crumple to the floor. Mabel’s eyes roll back so far all I can see is white, and she lets out the tiniest, most pathetic wail.

“Sorry about that,” I say, grinning and shaking my head. “But don’t worry, I didn’t come all this way to waste your pussy on something I can’t feel. My dick’s the only thing I want to see inside you tonight.”

I open the window, pop the screen out, and feed the rod through, dropping it to the ground outside. Then I turn back with a grin. “See? All gone.”

Guilt twists inside me when I see Mabel’s colorless, slack face. I pick her up and set her in the tub without bothering to take off her clothes. Those will need to be gotten rid of somewhere, and I’ll have to remember to tell Jane to clean the corner, where Mabel left smears of blood on the wall. In the meantime, it’s better to wash the evidence away, so that her clothes won’t be leaving DNA everywhere.

I take the showerhead down and test it on my arm before I turn it on Mabel. Warm water hits her back, plastering her shirt to her skin. I can see her spine, each rung like a ladder, and something about it reminds me of Olive, so skinny and powerless. Holding the water on her with one hand, I gently rub a bar of soap over her back, massaging the suds into her. She drops her head forward onto her knees, and I let the water course over her bloody hair, turning her blonde strands brown, like Olive’s.

I squeeze my eyes closed, not liking the thought. It fucks with my head and makes me wonder all over again if I’m some sort of pedo. If I wasn’t, I wouldn’t be thinking about a kid while I bathe the girl who just swallowed my cum, would I?

Instead of looking at her, when I open my eyes I watch the water pool in the bottom of the tub, churning pink before it swirls down the drain.

One time, right after Christmas, Olive sat in my lap, right on my dick, and it didn’t get hard, so I figured I was okay. But maybe I’m not.

“Look what Santa brought me,” she said when she first came through the door to my bedroom, wearing a pair of race car slippers with funny faces and matching pajamas. “It’s Lightning McQueen.”

“Bet you’re fast in those.”

She glanced back and then tiptoed over to where I was sitting in my gaming chair. “I know they’re not really from Santa,” she whispered. “He’s not real.”

“How do you know?” I asked, crumpling the tissues I was holding into a ball in my palm, so she wouldn’t see.

She rolled her eyes and braced her hands on the arm of my chair, bouncing up and down. “’Cause I’m not dumb.”

“I know the feeling, kid.” I tossed the wad of tissues into the trashcan.

“Besides, I heard Harper saying she donated the Tow Mater ones that Royal got,” she whispered. “I’m glad she gave me these ones instead. Who wants to be a rusty old tow truck? Race cars are cool.”

“Shit yeah, they are.”

She stared at me a second, going still where she stood as she took in my red-rimmed eyes. “Were you crying?”

I scowled at her. “No. Boys don’t cry.”

“I’m sorry Santa’s not real,” she said. “If he was, I bet he would have brought your dad back for Christmas.”

Then she climbed right up into my lap like it wasn’t weird at all.

“What are you doing?” I asked, startled, because I figured girls only did that to feel my dick.

She looped her arms around my neck and looked at me all serious and said, “I’m sorry you’re sad.”

That made me want to cry again, and I wanted to hug her, but I didn’t know if that would be wrong. So I asked, “What about you, kid? Do you miss your dad?”

She thought about that a second. “No,” she said at last. “I don’t remember him. I miss Blue.” She released my neck and curled down against my chest, pressing her ear over my heart and pulling her knees up to her chest, just like Mabel.

I didn’t know what to do, so I rested my chin on top of her head and just sat there.

She said, “If you cry, I won’t tell.”

I didn’t cry then, but for some reason I want to now.

Instead, I drizzle shampoo over Mabel and massage it into her scalp, then tip her head back and let the spray wash it away, trailing white lumps like seafoam down her back. When the water in the bottom of the tub runs clear, I peel her wet shirt over her head, then urge her up so I can tug off her skirt. After stripping off my own bloody clothes, I rinse Mabel one more time, moving the shower head up and down her body, over her shoulders, her tits, her visible ribs and hipbones and the swoop of her skinny waist and belly to the swell of her pussy, already bruising from Baron’s force.

She’s so small, pale and waifish, like a ghost, scarred by her own hand as well as mine, as if she hated herself more than I ever could. It strikes me that I almost never look at girls, admire them. Men are more worthy of admiration. They’re strong, cut, powerful. They work for their muscles, earn them. In high school, when we were kings, we only let those who proved themselves worthy sit at our table and join our elite circle. My brothers and I studied them, decided together who we would letbelong. Looking the part was as much a determining factor as money and family name and athletic prowess, so I’ve had time to admire men and choose the best, ones whose bodies were chiseled like marble, who had the discipline required to make themselves superior to others.

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