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Or perhaps it doesn’t bring me the same thrill it did the first time?
Either way, I can’t fight the fierce compulsion to dig through every last corner of her home until I know it as well as my own.
I’ve been coming here every night since that first time after The Cauldron. Oftentimes, I choose a souvenir. Sometimes, I pick up a particularly dog-eared book, curious to know what story she was so drawn to that she’d read it a hundred times. Occasionally, I take a piece of clothing–something that smells like her. I always return them the next day, wondering if she’s going mad searching for the moved or missing items.
Every night, it’s the same routine. I move through the rooms methodically, picking apart her life piece by piece, and then I slip into her bedroom to watch her sleep…
Just for a few minutes.
Just to see her face settled in unconscious serenity, rather than screwed up in rage as it usually is when I’m near.
For the past two nights she’s been locking her door, a mild inconvenience but nothing I can’t handle quite easily. I deftly pick the lock, the tumblers clicking softly as I break through her meager defenses. The small victory is satisfying every time, as if I’m knocking straight through Shiloh’s walls and rendering her completely vulnerable to me.
Today is no different. Although, now that she’s at work for the day, I give myself the time to move slower through the little house. I could liken such freedom to having a woman tied up, completely at my mercy, while I do whatever I want with her. It’s a potent kind of power, sauntering through Shiloh’s home with all the relaxed ease of someone who owns the place. I can’t help but smirk at the thought of how red she’d go with fury if she knew what I was doing. What I’vebeendoing. Especially when I didn’t bother to join her over the weekend for her visit to the Manor.
In truth, I just wasn’t sure what I would do if I faced her so soon after our littletiff. After my own little meltdown at the B&B, I needed a breather. But I can’t stay away for long. I never can, not now.
I move through the house with practiced stealth, familiarizing myself with how it all looks in the light. Every object, every cramped piece of furniture, holds a piece of her. I run my fingers along the spines of books on her shelves, imagining as I always do that she’s done the same. That our hands are touching somehow just by brushing over the same surfaces.
I’m certain that soon this won’t be enough. The craving to feel her skin against my own is becoming too much to bear. I don’t know when my obsession truly became lustful…
Maybe it always was?
I wonder when the time comes how much she’ll fight me at first, deny me her body until she finally realizes she wants this too–orwill she surrender to me completely like a good little Shy Girl? I’m not entirely sure which I’d prefer.
My imagination drags me away from the present for a long while, until my cock is straining against my pants and I’ve lost focus on where I’m walking. But that’s when I spot it. Just as I’m heading towards the kitchen–the door under the stairs is slightly ajar. I crouch slightly as I pull it open all the way, the squat cupboard far too low for my full height. The hinges creak loudly, making me freeze, until I remember that Shiloh isn’t asleep upstairs this time. I have complete freedom to roam.
At first, the cupboard seems to hold nothing more than a slightly dusty collection of jackets and shoes, perhaps more suited for the summer months. But as I dig a little deeper, I find a crumpled box shoved way at the back. The dust is so much thicker here, clearly untouched for years. My pulse starts to race as I drag it out, curious as to the secrets I might find.
Lifting the lid, I try not to cough at the cloud of unsettled grime, blinking furiously until I can see more than an inch in front of my face again. What I find nearly stops my heart.
Her fucking pitiful poor-me journals.
Half a dozen leather-bound notebooks are tucked away in the forgotten box. I grab the one on top with a feral hunger, fanning open the slightly yellowed pages until they land on a random entry.
October 15th, 2013
Dom left today. Just packed up and waltzed off to New York with his dad, like it was nothing. Like we were nothing. Dad says he’s not surprised, that he neverwanted to be part of this family anyway. But the house feels so strange without him, too quiet.
No more daily arguments, no more slamming doors. I thought I’d be happy with him gone. But I just feel more alone. How pathetic is that? He probably hasn’t thought of me once.
I hate him. I hate him so much it hurts. I hate him for leaving me. I hate him for making me miss him.
My eyebrows pull closer together as I read. She’d barely looked at me the day I left, just mumbled a quiet “whatever” before disappearing into her room. I was sure she’d be happy to see the back of me. But apparently, we were both wrong–and her true feelings were just as shocking to her as they are to me now. I flip forward a few more pages, curiosity burning through me like a fever.
November 30th, 2013
I dreamed about him last night. I don’t even want to write his name down anymore, I’m so sick of the sight of it.
We were running through the woods again. I pretended I hated it, as usual. But then he was on me, so close I could count his eyelashes. I wanted him to stay. Be still with me until I’d counted every last one.
What the hell is wrong with me? This is so messed up. I can never tell anyone. NEVER. I’ll take this to my grave. I should burn this whole damn journal. Maybe even check myself into the psych ward for good measure.
He’s my brother for heaven’s sake!
I sit back on my heels, barely noticing the smears of dust marring my black slacks as my mind reels. Fifteen-year-old Shiloh had feelings… forme.
This is all just too delicious.
