Page 47 of Little Stranger

I must’ve been a depressed asshole.

I twist to look at my girl, my little sister, and brush my fingers through her hair. I hope she isn’t sore tomorrow, but at the same time, I hope she’s in fucking agony.

When she wakes, she’ll be confused, probably think she had a bad dream, and I’ll be watching her, either from the shadows or behind my computer screens, waiting for the next opportunity to strike.

12

Malachi

Olivia'sphonedings,andI sit myself down and read.

Olivia: What time does the festival start?

Abigail: Seven, I think. Are you still sick? Please tell me you aren’t gonna cancel???

Olivia: I’m not.

I smirk. She’d woken up yesterday, clouded and a little unsure of her surroundings, and staggered to the bathroom, and I’d held my breath in case I hadn’t put the small rug in the right place, but she just relieved herself and showered.

Her confusion continued when she saw the empty sink and trashcan, then she sat on her sofa and massaged the inside of her thighs, the same ones I was between. She’d pressed her palm to her forehead, and through the feeds in my apartment, I’d watched her search the internet for answers as to why her thighs were sore—but none of the results filling the screen were the right one.

The reason you’re sore, and the reason your thighs are a little bruised, is because I fucked you, Olivia. And you loved it. It won’t be the last time either, little sister. I will fuck you again. And again. And again, until you lose your voice the way I did and silently cry until you realize you still love me.

I keep smiling. I also keep talking to myself in my head as if my sister is in there, trapped within the darkness of my mind—it satiates me a little to imagine it; to believe she can hear everything I’m thinking, even though it would take me an hour minimum to actually get those words out.

Maybe I am a little insane.

Another message comes through—Olivia saying she’s leaving work early and will head to Abigail’s house to get ready before they go to the festival. It’s in the middle of nowhere, an abandoned barn on a farm that’s now a designated party place all year round.

I hum to myself as I watch Olivia walking home on my screens—which annoys me because she has a perfectly functional car in the apartment garage. Why walk and show everyone your perky tits in that tight dress and your peachy ass? Why smile at someone when they walk past you? Why are you not smiling at me?

When I notice my cigarettes are nearly done, I get dressed, pull on my black hoodie and combats, and grab my motorbike helmet on the way out the door. I keep the monitoring software open on my phone as I walk down the flights of stairs, refusing to take the elevator because I’ll lose my signal. I flick through the various feeds, trying to find her, and when I reach the front door, I slip on my helmet and walk out.

My bike is parked right outside. It’s new—a black Kawasaki imported from Japan. Fast as fuck and beautiful to look at. It’s my pride and joy—after Olivia obviously.

I freeze when my eyes lift to find my main goal in life walking right towards me. Her hair flows in the wind, eyes bright, and her hand is wrapped around a basket filled with fruit.

Wait. She’s heading straight for me.

Fuck. My visor isn’t see-thorough, is it?

No. I made sure it wasn’t.

Can she see my tattoos?

She has no idea I got one on my neck, right?

Fuck, why am I sweating?

She has that cute grin on her face as she walks up to the side of my bike, her eyes dancing under the mop of hair hidden beneath the hood of her coat—she’s just pulled it up to shield herself from the rain now drizzling from the sky.

Seeing her up close, conscious and not through a screen, or in my goddamn dreams, knocks the air out of my lungs. As does knowing that there might be a trace of my cum inside her still, that her milky thighs are tender—fucked and fucked and fucked.

Does she know it’s me? Has she figured out that I screwed her while she was asleep? Fuck, I don’t know. I’ll just look at—

“Hey,” she says, her voice like music to my depraved ears. “Do you live nearby? I always see your bike parked here.”

Mmmhmm, go away, Olivia, before I crush your windpipe. Or worse, fuck you in public with your stupid basket of fruit rolling down the street.

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