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The Cameron house was always too big, an icy shell where silence held weight and screams were an empty echo. Rafe used to lock himself in his room, a bunker of blackout curtains and abrasive music, trying to choke out the thought. But Sarah was the only constant, the only one who kept knocking on the door, her voice soft and faint, as if she feared the air around her would crack.
"Rafe... please. I just want to talk."
She was afraid of breaking what little was left of her brother. He, however, remained motionless, his jaw clenched to the point of pain, his eyes injected with bright red, his hands trembling with fury or whatever was burning his blood. To Rafe, Sarah was a stinging mirror: perfect, loved, the untouchable "Cameron girl," Ward's favorite.
"I don't need you to come and save me, Sarah," he spat out once, his voice laced with poison. "Go back to your pogue-lover friends or whatever you do now."
She looked at him, hurt, but her posture didn't change. It never did.
"I don't want to save you, Rafe. I just want you to stay here. With me."
He laughed, the hollow sound of a cigarette lighting, feigning an indifference he didn't feel. But his eyes remained fixed on her for a moment too long. Because, no matter how much his mind denied it, Sarah was the only chain, rusted and fragile, that still anchored him to something resembling life.
At night, when the silence grew denser and the house slept, she would enter. Stealthily, she would pick up the crumpled bills, the whitish dust residue, the discarded syringes. She cleaned without judging, without saying a word. Sometimes, seeing him asleep, his brow furrowed even in dreams, she would brush the greasy hair from his face and whisper close to his ear:
"I love you, Rafe," she would whisper, her breath warm on his ear.
He never admitted it, but the warmth of her touch and the ache in her voice always woke him up. He listened to her. Always.
There were days when he saw her cross the garden, with that quiet clumsiness that made her just Sarah, laughing on the phone. And he felt a tight knot beneath his sternum. It wasn't love, no. It was the residue of something that hadn't been able to rot entirely. That part still had her name. Sarah.
And even though he kept pushing her away, insulting her, putting up a wall of hostility, every time she smiled at him, for just one second, Rafe felt the poison in his veins lessen. That he could be her brother, not his shadow. In the end, she was his only reason not to disappear completely, and she continued to love him, even when he insisted on proving it was impossible.
Rafe was sharply pulled from his thoughts when Sarah's warm, firm hand snatched the joint from him. The movement was sharp, almost violent. She crushed it in the ashtray, the brief sizzle of the ember dying, and tossed it into the bin next to the desk. The dense, sweet smoke of marijuana mixed with the strawberry and vanilla fragrance of her perfume, creating a sticky atmosphere, charged with palpable tension.
"There go thirty dollars down the drain," Rafe muttered, his voice a rough sandpaper from the smoke and contained anger. He batted her hand away when she tried to touch his face, that gesture that always disarmed him, that key she possessed to unlock his heart.
A pout formed on the soft curve of Sarah's lips. Rafe looked away, his chest tight. He hated the effect that soft, stubborn, and luminous face had on him. He hated that she was still there, insistent, trying to save what he had already decided to let sink into the mud.
"Rose is downstairs scolding Wheezie for not being ready for the gala," Sarah commented in a calm, almost bored voice, as she walked toward the closet. Her fingers slid over the fabric of the suits, the rustle of silk against the wooden hangers. She found the suit Rose had ordered, a blue color that Rafe despised. "She'll be up soon, and when she finds you here, with bloodshot eyes and this weed stench, she'll know exactly what you've been busy with."
She dropped the suit onto the bed with a sigh, careful not to wrinkle it. The room smelled of decay, fine dust, old and new smoke. Rafe looked at her from the bed, his body a mix of annoyance and sticky fatigue.
"I don't care about Rose's scolding," Rafe replied with disdain before dropping onto his back, the mattress sighing under his weight, closing his eyes as if the weight of the ceiling were crushing him.
Sarah didn't move. She stood there, watching him in a silence that Rafe felt like a knife between his ribs. Her breathing, now more paused, filled the room. Sarah's gaze slid, involuntarily and slowly, over the abdomen visible beneath the crumpled gray shirt. She followed the tension of his muscles, the fragility hidden behind the dirt of his neglect.
There was something broken and exposed in him, something that Sarah couldn't stop trying to mend, even if every stitch left her more worn out.
"Sarah..." Rafe's voice was a warning, deep, grave, the tone he used when he felt the thread of his control was about to snap. But it was already too late. He felt the tips of his sister's fingers burn against his skin, sliding with an un-fraternal delicacy over the low line of his abdomen, right where the waistband of his pants was loose. The heat spread like a stain, and Rafe clenched his jaw, the word he wanted to shout drowned in a growl. Of course, she wouldn't stop. She never did when he tried to truly put a stop to her.
The air became thick and hot, charged with the rustle of fabric and the scent of salt now emanating from her skin. Rafe heard the whisper of her own dress, the fine fabric of the gala gown being slowly lifted. The sound pierced him more than a scream. He opened one eye, only to confirm what his body already knew: she had gathered the fabric, exposing her thighs, giving herself the freedom to move, to come closer, to get onto the bed.
She sat on him. Slowly, straddling his hips, her minimal weight concentrating on his pelvis.
"Sarah." This time his voice was a dry whip, charged with a mix of fury and disorientation. He looked at her, eyes wide, feverish, searching her face for some crack of sanity, some sign that she understood the threshold they were crossing.
But Sarah just tilted her head, the stubborn half-smile, that expression of a curious animal ignoring danger. Rafe swallowed, the air in his lungs hot and dense. He didn't know if it was just typical anxiety vibrating in his body, but he felt his skin burning at the point of contact.
"Get off me..." he whispered, although the tone was devoid of strength, it still sounded like rage. Sarah didn't move. On the contrary, her hands moved slowly up Rafe's chest, the brush of her palms over the crumpled fabric, until they reached his neck. She looked at him with a strange mixture of sweetness and defiance.
"You always say that," she murmured, barely the brush of breath on his lips, "but you never truly stop me."
Rafe closed his eyes, an instant of agony and denial. Every fiber of his being screamed for him to push her away, that this line was an abyss, a limit they shouldn't cross again. But his hands, traitorous, had already moved up to her waist, holding her with a force that tried to convince her—or himself—that he should stop.
Sarah leaned her head down, allowing a loose, soft lock of her hair to brush against his cheek.
"I don't understand why you're so intent on hating me so much," she whispered, with a sadness barely contained. The tip of her fingers lightly dug into the back of his neck. "I just want you to see me. Look at me, Rafe."
The words pierced him like shrapnel. His lips parted, but he found no answer, only her gaze: burning, vulnerable, tying him to the moment.
"Maybe I hate you because of how sick you are," Rafe spat out, the venom flowing naturally, a desperate defense mechanism.
Sarah let out a low sound, a choked and pained whimper. And still, she moved her hips over his. Slow, deliberately, the friction of her underwear and the rough fabric of Rafe's pants. Rafe's head fell back, the low growl uncontrollable.
"Then you must be just as sick," Sarah retorted, with an insolent calmness she only used to provoke him. "Don't play the saint, Rafe." Her lips curved into a bitter smile as she looked him in the eyes. "I only told you to get ready for the gala, and, as always, you preferred to ignore me."
The comment, so trivial, felt like a cold needle in his skin. Rafe clenched his jaw, his breath heavy and warm. The constant rubbing, the smell of ripe fruit from her... everything pushed him to a limit he couldn't sustain any longer. In a dry impulse, he grabbed her tighter by the waist and lifted her sharply. Sarah gasped, a high, wounded sound, before falling softly onto the other side of the bed, her dress still tangled between her legs.
"Get away from me, Sarah," Rafe said, his voice hoarse and broken, the sound of fury mixed with something he didn't want to name. His veins throbbed.
He got up abruptly, the mattress bouncing. He searched for his suit in the messy sheets and picked it up with trembling hands. He walked toward the bathroom without looking at her again. The dry slam of the bathroom door closing echoed in the room like a declaration of both war and defeat.
_________
The water hit the Carrara marble with a muffled fury, breaking the silence of the master bathroom. Rafe leaned with both hands on the sink, his head bowed, his face bathed in cold sweat and the water that had splashed as he tried to wash his face. It wasn't just dampness; it was the desperate effort to regain control.
He hated the tremor running through his fingers. He hated the way his body betrayed him with every memory, with every thought of her.
Sarah.
The image of her face was still there, vivid, clear, etched beneath his closed eyelids: those eyes that didn't know whether to beg for forgiveness or challenge him. He hated her for that. For making him feel so much, so fast, so terribly wrong.
He clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white, trying to exorcise the heat she had left on his skin, to erase the sensation of her damp breath against his neck. But the more he tried to push her away, the more the pressure of her body on his returned, the sound of her voice trembling between pride and pleading.
"You're sick," he repeated to himself, the contempt spat out in a low whisper. And yet, he knew that in the darkest corner of his soul—the one he refused to acknowledge—she was the only one who managed to tear life out of the emptiness for him.
His reflection in the mirror was a punishment: dark, tense eyes, a clenched jaw, a contained fury that he didn't know if it was pure desire or regret.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, swallowing the cold, metallic air of the bathroom. He had to go out, get dressed, perform the farce of normality, pretend the last fifteen minutes hadn't existed. But the truth pierced him like glass beneath his skin: he had lost, again, to her and to himself.
Rafe abruptly grabbed the suit that Sarah and Rose had chosen. He held it between his fingers as if the fabric could burn him. The sky-blue color of the fabric irritated him to the point of nausea; it was the same shade as the silk dress she would wear. He gritted his teeth in anger, imagining the scene: the two of them matching, a unit, as if they were a legitimate couple.
He loathed the idea, but he began to undress with clumsy, furious movements, and put the garment on. The fine fabric slid over his still-hot skin, clinging to the spots where the sweat glistened. He took a deep breath, trying to calm the sting of anger rising from his chest. It was useless.
When he finished, he left the bathroom, buttoning the collar of the suit. The air in the room was still perfumed with the sweet scent of Sarah's conditioner, a smell that haunted him. She was standing in front of the mirror, putting up her hair with an exasperating, almost hypnotic calm. The dim light highlighted the sheen of her skin and the golden strands escaping the hairstyle.
She looked beautiful.
Rafe admitted it silently, his heart contracted, a painful knot forming beneath the knot of his tie.
But she was his sister.
His little Sarah.
The same one who had knocked on his door one night when he stumbled back, drunk, reeking of alcohol and the metallic smell of powder. The same one who sat next to him on the floor, crying for him, telling him she loved him and couldn't stand to see him sink like this. And the same one who, the next morning, lay naked beside him, her skin warm, her thighs marked by something neither had dared to name.
Rafe didn't clearly remember what happened that night, he only remembered the silence, the trembling in his hands, and the way she hugged him when he began to sob, swearing that everything was fine, that they hadn't done anything wrong, that they had only loved each other. That she was happy, that she loved him more than anyone.
"You look good," Sarah said, pulling him out of his spiral of thoughts. Her voice was soft, almost weightless, as if it didn't carry the burden of what they had just done.
Rafe looked at her for another second, his chest tight. He had wanted to hate her, and yet, every time she gave him that smile, something broke inside him.
"You look ugly," he murmured at the end, with a weak smile, barely the shadow of a cruel joke.
Sarah looked up at him in the mirror, with an expression that mixed tenderness and sadness in equal measure. Rafe looked away, trying to convince his heart that they were still just siblings. Only that.
But feeling the identical suit on his skin, clinging to the areas she had touched, he knew the lie was unsustainable. They were the same color, the same sin. And he hated himself for it.
_________
Rafe was crying. Or at least, his face was burning with the salty tension of an accumulated rage that struggled to explode behind his eyes.
The air at the gala had been suffocating, too clean and artificial, perfumed with that fake luxury that churned his stomach. That's why he had ended up locked in again, in the improvised bunker of the SUV, far from everyone.
He knew that when everything was over, when Ward and Rose concluded their theatrical performance for society, they would get into the vehicle and find the windows fogged up and the thick smell of marijuana clinging to the upholstery.
It was always the same cycle: hollow laughter, wine glasses, fake handshakes. And then, the uncomfortable silence in the car, broken only by the low music and the sputter of his father's lighter, furious at the clear sign that his son had gotten high again.
But this time, Rafe swore to himself that they wouldn't find them like this. Him and Sarah. Not with cloudy eyes, nor with smoke enveloping their bodies like a familiar fog. Not tonight.
Rafe knew that time had become a poison running through his veins, a brutal countdown about to explode. He had to finish this before Rose and Ward reached the SUV, probably with a sleeping and unconscious Wheezie in their arms.
He swallowed, tasting the metallic, ferrous flavor of tension in his throat. He ran a hand over his face, trying to erase any trace of emotion, but the sticky dampness on his eyelashes gave him away.
The engine being off amplified every sound. The exterior silence was a thin layer, barely interrupted by the irritating, distant chirping of crickets. Adrenaline tickled his throat, that sweet and ferrous taste that Rafe tried to swallow without success.
The air in the back of the vehicle was a thick, unbreathable soup, dense with the acrid smell of sweat drying sticky, the sweetness of Sarah's vanilla perfume, and the stench of hot, dusty fabric from the vinyl seats that had spent the whole day in the sun.
The dim, yellowish light of the parking lot barely filtered through the windows, casting long, trembling shadows on Sarah's skin. The sheen on the back of her neck wasn't just light; it was the sweat accumulating there and in the cleavage between her breasts, making the little air that entered suffocating.
Rafe was sitting against the seatback, his cotton shirt, once crisp, now wrinkled and damp, stuck to his skin with an unpleasant coldness. His seatbelt was unbuckled, the cold metal buckle hanging and softly jingling with the rhythmic, almost violent tremor that shook the cabin. His pants were half-on, pulled down to his hips, a strip of rough fabric that accentuated the tension of his muscles and the feverish blush of his skin.
Above him, Sarah rode with her tight dress hiked up and bunched around her waist, the silk now a constricting band marking her sensitive skin.
She was moaning in a husky, contained, savage gasp that was lost in the deep squeak of the SUV's shock absorbers. The movement was fast, constant, a primal tide that vibrated the seat beneath Rafe and forced him to grip the side fabric with white, aching knuckles.
Rafe looked at her through his own fog of disbelief and selfish fury; he sought a mental anchor, a reason to justify the madness that had dragged them to this point. His own reflection in the side glass was that of a stranger: disheveled, with eyes cloudy from an excitement bordering on madness, oblivious to sanity. He didn't know if what he felt was animal desire, the latent guilt that always followed him, or a despair so deep it had anesthetized him to everything else.
Sarah's blonde hair, glued to her forehead by the exertion, fell messily over her face like a damp curtain, and he only saw the trembling arc of her neck, the glistening skin of her chest, and the tense grimace of her lips as she moved uncontrollably.
He felt the hot pressure, the wet clash of skin against skin, an intense, almost painful friction that promised an imminent, dirty release. Sarah was breathing close, too close, and the involuntary brushing of their naked bodies was enough to ignite his skin as if the very air between them burned with ether.
Every second was an unbearable countdown, with the image of Rose's heels stepping on the asphalt and the click-clack of the driver's door echoing in his mind. It was the definition of reckless and frantic, and precisely for that reason, it was electrifying and addictive.
Sarah's contained moan broke into a brief, guttural sob. Her nails dug so hard into the soaked lapels of Rafe's shirt that the fabric stretched and threatened to tear. The smell of salt and hot sweat filled everything, suffocating.
"Say you love me," Sarah begged him, her voice a desperate thread barely overcoming the speed of her breathing. "Please, Rafe..." The burning wetness, the brushing of her naked stomach against his tense flesh, everything had accelerated to a reckless, frantic pace.
Rafe suddenly felt, with a sharp clarity, the foreign climax. It wasn't just a sensation; it was the immediate contraction, Sarah's internal walls squeezing around him like a hot fist, sucking him in and holding him with a force that made him gasp into her mouth.
He himself felt on the edge of control, his head thrown back against the dusty vinyl of the seat, the orgasm breathing down his neck like a threat and a promise. His muscles hardened, the veins in his neck bulging beneath the skin.
He couldn't give her what she asked for. Not with the cold fury mixed with need.
"I hate you, Sarah..." was his answer, the words not spoken but spat out, a raw, explosive mixture of anger, guilt, and a pleasure so intense it was torture.
The blow of the denial, mixed with the urgency of pleasure, caused Sarah to let out a choked scream she couldn't contain. In that same microsecond of foreign release, Rafe acted. He squeezed Sarah's waist with an almost abusive force, his fingers digging into her hip bones, forcing a final, deep, desperate thrust that launched him over the precipice.
Rafe's body arched in the seat. The metallic taste of adrenaline exploded in his mouth. He felt the agonizing pull of his own muscles, an electrical discharge that left him trembling and exhausted. A guttural sound, more a roar than a moan, escaped his throat as the impact left him completely flaccid, his unbuttoned pants now slipping down to his thighs.
The two bodies collapsed together, sweaty, trembling, and stuck, Sarah's dead weight on top of him, while the SUV's shock absorber squeaked one last time in the silence of the parking lot.
Again, Sarah had won, and Rafe could only close his eyes, defeated by the dirty pleasure and the imminent regret.
The silence following the collapse was broken by the soft, wet sound of Sarah's body separating from his. Rafe felt the warm, sticky suction as she rose with deliberate slowness, her crotch parting from his with an audible, obscene pop. The cool air hit his exposed skin, but he didn't feel it as relief, but as a cold pang, a raw revelation of what had just happened.
Rafe remained slumped in the vinyl seat, his body lax and trembling, completely exposed in his vulnerability and misery. He didn't bother to cover himself, or even buckle his fallen pants; he simply surrendered to his own inertia, letting shame and disgust anchor him.
She, on the other hand, moved with a terrible efficiency.
Sarah straightened up, the silk dress falling with a dry whisper. The same dress that had been bunched over her waist minutes earlier now covered the evidence, though not the stench. She slid onto the seat, her movements smooth, almost hypnotic, as if she were cleaning up the mess after a children's game.
With the back of her hand, Sarah quickly wiped her mouth, then picked up Rafe's shirt which lay in a knot on the floor. She folded it with inexplicable neatness before tossing it onto the front seat. Her fingers then moved to the window control. The click-click of the electric motor lowering the windows sounded loud in the small space.
The cold night air rushed in, cutting through the thick, sweet smell of sex, sweat, and marijuana residue. The breeze swept away the dense mist covering the windows, the intimate fog that had contained their act. Rafe could feel the clean air entering, and Sarah's act of airing out the vehicle seemed to him the height of brazenness, a cynical attempt to erase the trace without erasing the sin.
Then, Sarah leaned toward the front window and, with the palm of her hand, rubbed the wet, fogged vinyl until she made a small, transparent peephole, an opening to spy on their parents' imminent arrival.
Rafe watched her, a helpless spectator of his own humiliation. Her every movement, so calm, so effective, was a reminder of his defeat. She had dismantled him again, manipulated him with the same gesture of affection and plea, and he had succumbed, dragged by that disgusting, desperate need.
The salty burning returned.
This time, it wasn't rage that burned his eye sockets. They were silent, hot, thick tears, rolling down his cheeks. He made no sound, not a sob. Just the wet, constant dripping that was lost in the wrinkled fabric of his suit.
He felt disgusted, sick. Not just because of the act, but because of his weakness, his inability to resist the person he should most keep at bay. He was her brother. He was supposed to protect her from everything, and instead, he was the threat, the forced predator, the monster she knew how to unleash.
The metallic taste in his mouth mixed with the salty taste of his tears.
Sarah turned to him, her face expressionless, but her eyes were full of that strange mix of triumph and a tenderness that Rafe knew was the bait.
"Put them on," she ordered, her voice a deep whisper, pointing to his pants that were still down. "They're almost here."
Rafe didn't move immediately. He remained seated, his hands resting heavily on the vinyl, his head thrown back against the dusty headrest. His pants, fallen to his thighs, were a crude reminder of his weakness. His body, still throbbing from the recent release, felt dirty, sticky, and completely alien to his will.
"Rafe," Sarah repeated, her tone now not an order, but a soft warning, a shared urgency. "Look at me."
He didn't want to look at her. He knew that by doing so, she would read all the disgust and self-hatred that consumed him. But the invisible pressure of her presence forced him. He lifted his head, his bloodshot, glassy eyes meeting hers.
Sarah didn't judge him. There was no mockery, only an unwavering calm that he found more irritating than any scream. She reached out a hand and touched his cheek with a cruel sweetness, sliding the pad of her thumb to wipe away a tear.
"Come on, you have to get up. They won't be long."
The caress was the final manipulation, proof that, for her, this act of emotional and physical violation was simply an extension of her twisted affection. He growled, a low, husky sound that wasn't pleasure, but pain.
"You're..." Rafe began, searching for the word that could hurt her, but only found a void.
"I'm your sister," Sarah finished, her voice low and firm, without an ounce of remorse. "And I'm the only thing keeping you here."
She withdrew her hand. The space left by her touch on Rafe's cheek felt icy.
Rafe swallowed and, with an agonizing effort that required all his willpower, he moved. The vinyl squeaked under the weight of his body. He pulled his pants up with a shaky movement, buttoning the button with clumsy hands. The suit, the symbol of the facade they had to maintain, felt like a straitjacket. The light blue fabric was dense against his sweaty skin.
While he struggled with his clothes, Sarah began to retouch her own makeup in the small vanity mirror. Her reflection was serene, untouchable, a grotesque contrast to Rafe's disheveled, shattered figure. The indifference with which she cleaned the trace of her swollen lips was the final proof: she was in total control.
"The suit looks good on you," she commented, in a casual voice, as if they were in a dressing room, not the scene of their latest shared crime. "Blue is a good color for you."
Rafe didn't answer. He focused on straightening his tie, feeling the knot tighten, suffocating him, almost wishing it were enough to stop the furious pounding in his chest.
Just as he was about to finish, the sound of familiar footsteps and the blinding sweep of laughter in the distance broke the silence.
"They're here," Sarah whispered, putting away her lipstick. Fear, fleeting and genuine, crossed her eyes. "Act normal. Remember. We've been out here smoking. Nothing else."
Rafe felt a chill. She had planned everything, even the alibi. The drug to justify erratic behavior, the perfect alibi to hide the incest.
The sound of Rose and Ward's voices grew closer. He saw his father's imposing silhouette carrying a sleeping Wheezie, turning the corner. The sound of their laughter and talk was a final hammering in his head.
Rafe closed his eyes for an instant. The tears had dried, leaving only a salty, tense crust. When he opened them, the disgust had transformed into a mask of icy arrogance.
"Move aside, Sarah," he said, his voice tense, almost breaking. "Don't let Rose see me with you. It's enough trouble having to put up with her."
It was cruel, but it was the only way he had to regain a minimal distance. She looked at him, pain crossing her face for a second, before her own mask, that of the untouchable Cameron girl, fell into place. She moved quickly and gracefully toward the door.