Another Day to Pretend (incest)
He terrified me. I shook when I spoke to him. My palms moistened when he looked my way. My breath caught in my throat the moment he smiled. I choked on words, often just choking on air the moment he walked in the room. For reasons I couldn’t bear to admit, my heart skipped a beat when our gazes would intersect.
But I’m a sixteen year old girl. It’s normal to be feeling this, right?
I sighed as I closed my family photo album, sliding it back on the shelf.
No. Of course it wasn’t normal.
He’s my brother.
I leaned back against the wall and closed my eyes, resting my interlocked hands in my lap. Every once in a while, I could grasp a fleeting glimpse of a daydream. Of him caressing my cheek. Of him tucking my hair behind my ear. Of his single dimple on his cheek that sprang to like when he smiled his beautiful smile. But now, as I held my own hand, I pictured it was his warm grasp enveloping my smaller hand in warmth, in comfort. For a moment I smiled, and for a moment the transparent daydream almost felt real, the familiar sensation of butterflies taking flight in my chest, tickling my heart as they darted to and fro.
But then my alarm sounded, and I had to open my eyes and face reality. I looked down at my lap, at my joined hands, and the sensation was lost. I exhaled a soft breath, before bringing my knees up to my chest and pushing myself up off the floor.
Another night spent on the carpet, using the photo album as a pillow once my eyes could stay open in the dim light no longer. Another day. Another challenge. Another chance to tell him I love him. Another chance for him to dismiss it as a routine meaningless phrase that family members exchange. Another day to go through the schedule that daily mundane life commands. Another day to fantasize that everything was normal.
I turned away from the shelf. From the photos.
Another day to pretend.