When I visit her grave, the memories flood me like an uncontrollable wave. I kneel in the soft dirt, brush my hands over the tombstone, which is gritty with sand and the stone softened by moss and lichen. It's been a long time, but my body doesn't forget. Time doesn't wash away those memories, doesn't even dim them in my mind.
I touch the stone, and it's soft like her skin used to be. So unbelievably soft, just like the moss against the palm of my hand.
I close my eyes and lean against the marker, my cheek cooled by the stone, and allow everything to come bubbling back up, just allow myself to sink back in time and feel those things again. Things I'd never felt before. Things I've never felt since.
Her tongue, moving against mine. Her leg parting mine, knee bent, thigh grinding up against the erection I wanted to deny, to pretend had never happened for her.
Beautiful Kate, in all her glory. She wraps her arms around me and kisses me as if she's been doing it all her life, and in a way, she has; though she's never done it quite like this until recently.
I tighten my fists in the long strands of her dark hair and mess it up even as our mouths clash together. I reach down and shove her leg out of the way, smacking her thighs apart; I don't know how to be gentle. I don't know how to be loving when this is the furthest thing from love.
I open my jeans. I open her body with my fingers, and then I open her up around my cock as well. Her lips are soft, swollen; she's juicy within, silken nirvana clinging to my hard flesh.
She kisses me, and her hands find my back, to claw at me. But she's clawing me closer, not away. She's so smart, is all I can think. She knows just what to do: she clenches her muscles around me, and she rubs her breasts against my chest, and even though we're half-sitting against a fence outside, in the dark, I am looking into her face.
I don't close my eyes, not even to kiss her; the moonlight settles on the smoothness of her cheeks and I can see all the freckles there.
I thrust, and our bodies rock. I push against her, and she pushes back, until I can feel the friction of the fence through my shirt. In front, she separates us just enough to ruck my shirt up so that her bare breasts, with her peaked nipples, will touch my own bare skin.
She breaks away from my mouth, but she doesn't wipe at hers. She opens her eyes and she watches me, stares me down as she starts to come.
The fog clouds over her eyes as her mouth parts, and it starts in her pelvis first, a wave rolling up onto shore, outwards into the rest of her body, till she's shaking in my arms.
She's silent as the moonlight as she comes apart against me. And I drag in a harsh, rasping breath and bury myself within her again, tight to her cervix I imagine, and allow the last waves of her climax to throb into my own skin and push me over as well.
It's like she's inside me, the way I can feel her heart beating in my own body.
If someone had said to me, 'this is what it's like to fuck your own sister,' I would've thought they were crazy.
But there's something about Kate, beautiful Kate, that makes me crazy. I clutch at her supple bare back and I feel her heart, buried within my chest, begin to slow.
I open my eyes. And once more, I am propped not against a worn fence, but against a worn piece of hewn stone, with the name 'Kate Kendall' carved into it.
In all the ways that matter, I am the reason she's dead.
In all the ways that don't matter, I should've forfeited my own life long ago.
But I live on, and I visit her grave, even though I should stay away. I abused the trust of a beautiful girl in life. But there is no one to tell me not to come. No one to say, 'you piece of filth, you shouldn't be allowed within fifty feet of her, even in death'.
I lean away from the stone and get to my feet.
For as long as I live, it will be up to me to come back, to remember, to suffer through those moments of pure hell, even in all the pleasure they brought me when she was still alive.