Page 42 of Little Stranger

For those eight years, I didn’t communicate with a single soul. I’ve kept my voice to myself, where no one else can take it, since I was five years old. The one time I tried to use it, I struggled to pronounce her name, and Olivia yelled at me that I was a liar, that she hated me, that we were done, and slapped me across the face before I could get her name past my lips.

I’ve been stuck in my own purgatory since I was born—the different one, the black sheep, the fucking mute weirdo who has an intense fascination with his little sister.

I mean, who wouldn’t find her fascinating?

Staying behind her—not too far, but close enough that I can see the peachy outline of her ass in that tight, cock-hardening dress—I shove my hands in my pockets and keep my eyes on her.

Her porcelain skin glows in the sun while she walks with her face in her phone, ignoring the outside world like there aren’t hundreds of people walking past her.

It’s the same routine every morning. Me following behind undetected. Her with those ridiculously high heels, turning left and entering the small coffee shop for her usual morning coffee. While I smoke a cigarette across the road, she’ll order, check the magazines for anything new, and then she’ll smile at the barista. The same barista I’ve imagined diced and in small bags in my chest freezer.

The only reason the person isn’t dead is that my sister’s smile will drop as soon as she leaves, and then she’ll take another left to the courthouse. It’s not far from where we live. A short walk that brings me joy from being on the same trail as her as I listen to her heels clicking on the sidewalk. With my hood up and my cap hiding most of my face, my head down, she never notices me walking her to work.

My sister works with our mother. An assistant. A fucking hot piece of ass that all the dickheads want whenever she walks in. They don’t care that she’s engaged—to my own fucking dismay—yet I’m shocked it took this long for Mom to nail her down to someone. Adam turned out to be gay, Parker still can’t walk properly, and all the other suitors she’s had over the past six months have mysteriously vanished from existence.

You’re fucking welcome, Olivia.

They weren’t enough for you. No one is except me.

The guy she’s supposed to marry is some businessman who made a deal with our parents. They’d invest together, build an empire, but only if Olivia Vize married their son, Xander.

She’s hasn’t even met the fucker. Mom seems to be giving her some time before the wedding is booked. A wedding I’ll blow the fuck up if it goes ahead. I’ll make sure I kill my dad this time, and I’ll strangle Mom with his intestines and force Olivia to marry me instead, then I’ll cage the bitch and feed her my cock when she’s hungry.

Once she disappears into the building, I set off to her apartment like I do every day. It’s the same routine, the same journey. I’ll wake in my flat—coincidentally across from hers—and I’ll watch the cameras as she gets washed, dressed, has some breakfast, then I’ll grab my coat when she leaves the house.

We spend a lot of time together, me and my sister; she just doesn’t know about it.

My favorite time is when she drinks the spiked alcohol in her fridge. I get to come over and care for her. Sometimes, I’ll wash her hair and cuddle her in bed, and other times, I watch her stumble around her apartment, in the dark, thinking my shadow is part of her nightmares.

The fucking control I always need when she starts stripping her clothes off while drugged up… I deserve a goddamn medal for not shoving my cock in her cunt or mouth.

I crack open her door and deeply inhale, enjoying her scent, which is all over the apartment. It’s the only time I get to smell her, apart from when I’m fumbling around with her unconscious form.

My apartment is on the same level as hers, but across the street. I was kind of shocked she wasn’t living it up in some mansion like we were raised in, as if she wants some normality before she’s launched into the life of the rich asshole she’s tied to. I still need to deal with him, but the heavy protection he has is a bit of a ball-ache.

I check all the cameras are still hidden, pour myself a coffee—the same way she makes hers—and sit down on her sofa. Kicking my feet up, I sigh and look at the pictures littering her wall.

Her graduating college, though she doesn’t use her qualification. Her with a dog that died a year ago. Her and a boyfriend she had while I was locked up for eight years—her fucking doing by the way. Some pictures with friends.

And my favorite, the largest on the wall, one of the two of us. Her kissing my cheek when we were sixteen and seventeen, when I was in a state of confusion over why I hit a boner every time I looked at my sister.

She has a necklace over the frame. There’s a smaller image of us in that too. Younger. Me on her back at the beach. I’m a slim dickhead in it—no ink, no muscles—and I’m wearing a blue shirt that says something about fucking sharks.

Mom knew I hated sharks, but she bought me it anyway.

Fuck her too. I drew a moustache on her picture, but Olivia has yet to notice.

Fuck that entire family.

Except the daughter. She’s hot and kind of imprinted on my brain.

My dear, sweet, innocent sister. I still see her distraught face while I sat before her in handcuffs, the way she couldn’t look at me while she testified against me, ultimately sending me to prison for attempted murder on her precious daddy.

Dad ended up with brain damage—loss of memory and use of some body parts. So she got away without losing her Vize status, since our dad has no recollection of why the fight broke out.

He interrupted my meal—maybe now he’ll know better than to take away my food, the fucking asshole.

He should’ve died. I wanted him to die. I still do. He takes up so much of Olivia’s attention—she’s always wheeling him around in his chair, opening his food for him, feeding him. She kisses his cheek every time she leaves the manor. I know this because I have cameras set up there too. I have cameras everywhere she goes.

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