In Memoriam

I have a habit of downplaying things, accepting it all as normal. It's how I cope. But he knows it isn't normal. He's the only one who listens in my own private dystopia.


3. Memories Tainted

When I was younger, the beach in Florida used to hold so much promise. The white sand, the expanse of beach nearly devoid of people, the occasional car rolling by. I'd get sand everywhere, in my bikini bottom, chafing and plastered to my hair and skin and the salt water gumming up everything and I loved it, the feeling and smell of the wind with salt, the lull of the waves.

The ride used to be fun too. Eighteen hours in the car, that's no fun, you might say, but when you pop in an audiobook and close your eyes and just imagine, the time goes by so fast you open your eyes and you're there.

Not this ride.

The fucktoys are with us. Loud. Obnoxious. Insecure. The other twin, his fucktoy, little brother and little brother's best friend, as well as his mom are in the other car with my mom. Two cars. Family vacation.  One twin and his fucktoy sit in the back, her tongue firmly sucking him off.  The rest of us, the boyfriend, little sister, dad and I all stare pointedly ahead. Little sister already complained, twin responded by wanking off in her face.

"She'll have to find out about sex some day."

That's his excuse.

My dad doesn't care. As long as they use a condom. As for my mom, they love each other, right? It's not fair, because the boyfriend lives with us, and since he's coming along, so must the twin fucktoys. They've been dating for a month, one's fourteen, almost the same age as little sister. The boyfriend and I will be celebrating two years in three months and don't go around fucking in front of everyone but that doesn't matter because I'm the family prude in a house that is oversexed. Making love, that's romantic, that's two people who love each other doing something beautiful and pleasureful, but what my brothers do is fuck, greedy lust-filled emotionless fucking.

Sorry I'm not a whore who goes sleeping around because I have no self-worth. If I recall, when I was fourteen, my bedroom was off limits and I wasn't allowed to be unsupervised in the house with a guy. Double standards.

I pop a couple of tylenols to ease the headache in my skull as the expanse of highway stretches on and on and on, the yellow strips flashing by and we drive, oblivious to the moans in the backseat. My skin crawls. I'm trapped in a tin box with too many people and I can't wait to leave and stretch my legs. Back home, I had my own car and some freedom. If it got bad I could always drive off and cry somewhere. Now there's no escape route. No escape.

Hours pass, my iPod drowning out everything, everything merging into one long sign. North Carolina. South Carolina. Georgia.


I step out of the car, legs unsteady after so many hours and breathe in the salt air, but it hurts. I cough, hard. Eat some watermelon and go to bed, the beach isn't safe at night. Night is when the sharks come to feed.

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