As I lay in my brother's bed with my fingers in my pussy as I sniff his underwear and imagine him pushing in and out of me on top of me holding And his arms, I feel this massive powerful algorithm hit me. after putting my panties back on and pulling my dress down.
I felt it before I understood it.
A sudden pressure in my chest, sharp and overwhelming, as if something vital had been torn loose. The air felt wrong—too heavy, too still—and my heart began to race without reason. I knew, in that instant, that something terrible had happened.
I ran.
Down the stairs, through the halls, calling out without forming words. I heard my mother's scream before I saw her—a sound so raw it didn't seem human. It echoed through the house, splitting it open.
There was a police officer at the door.
My father was holding my mother upright, his face pale and rigid, as though grief had turned him to stone. When he spoke, his voice barely reached me.
"Your brother is dead."
The words struck harder than any blow. The world folded in on itself, sound rushing out, light dimming at the edges. I screamed—an ugly, broken sound—and then I was moving again, though I don't remember deciding to.
Up the stairs. Higher. Faster.
The third floor window was already open, the night air rushing in. I don't remember climbing. I only remember the certainty that I couldn't stay—that the house, the world, had become unbearable without him in it.
Then there was falling.
And darkness.
But death was not the end.
I woke somewhere warm, wrapped in stillness. The pain was gone. The fear was gone. And beside me—so close I could feel it without seeing—was a presence that felt achingly familiar.
My brother.
Even without words, I knew it was him. The knowledge settled into me as naturally as breath. Whatever this place was, whatever had happened to us, we had arrived together.
As we always had.