Chapter 10: Little Stranger: Part 2 – Chapter 10

My beautiful Olivia.

My beautiful, smart, and twisted Olivia. You may have everyone else fooled with your kindness, with your warm smiles and soft voice, using them to get what you want in life—but I know you. I know the real you. Not this fake façade you show to those near you—your posture, your style of clothes, the way you let those delicate moans slip free when you ride your own hand, thinking of what we could’ve had if you hadn’t testified against me.

I know the depths of your depravity and the way your mind works. I know you more than you know yourself, you little fucking minx.

My foster sister’s touch is like a tattoo on my skin even now, all these years later. The way she whimpered my name against my lips, how tightly her cunt gripped my cock when I fucked her over our dying father’s body, coated in his blood.

I’m just biding my time. Waiting in the shadows and watching her receive all the gifts I leave her. They make her nervous. She hates chocolates and flowers and jewelry, so I shower her with them. She’s on edge, yet I think she likes to be scared. No—I know she likes the thrill of fear. Her journal goes into great detail about her dark desires; how much she yearns to being stalked, chased, kidnapped, and taken.

So, being the ever-loving big brother that I am, I intend to bring all her fucked-up fantasies to life while she begs for my forgiveness.

She’s been waiting for me—the brother who was released from prison six months ago. She looks for me and searches my name on the internet five times a day, trying to find where I am, messaging her friends that if I was going to come for her, I would’ve already done so.

I still have the voicemails she left on my phone. Drunken ones. Sad ones. Angry ones. I’ve listened to all of them, saved them on my computer so I can hear her crying that she hates me yet misses me, that she’s sorry for the way everything went when we were teenagers.

Sorry. Sorry, sorry, sorry.

Fucking sorry.

That damn word echoes in my psyche—a curse that won’t fuck off.

Sorry’s just a word to try to get out of something, to dodge trouble if you’ve been caught out. Sorry’s a five-letter disgrace that shouldn’t even need to be used. It should be abolished from the fucking dictionary. Actions do speak louder than words, and if she’s as sorry as she makes out in her voicemails, then why does she sometimes look happy? Why is she going out partying with her friends? Kissing guys who—shockingly—vanish days later?

Why does she dance around her apartment, singing ridiculous songs about love?

Why is she living her life without me?

If the bitch is sorry, then why is she only looking me up on the internet and not hunting for me? Why isn’t she looking for me?

It fucking irks me that she didn’t visit me, not once. I refused any and all visitation from others, but I asked her to come and see me. I wrote to her the first two years, waiting patiently for a written reply, a presence, a smile to my fucking face that never came.

She left me in there to rot.

Well, little sister, no need to look for me anymore. I’m right here, and I intend to stick around until I’ve broken you.

I’ll break her the way she broke me. I’m going to make her terrified, make her scream for help while I fuck her tight ass and force her to show she’s sorry.

For those eight years, I didn’t communicate with a single soul. I’ve kept my voice to myself, where no one else can take it, since I was five years old. The one time I tried to use it, I struggled to pronounce her name, and Olivia yelled at me that I was a liar, that she hated me, that we were done, and slapped me across the face before I could get her name past my lips.

I’ve been stuck in my own purgatory since I was born—the different one, the black sheep, the fucking mute weirdo who has an intense fascination with his little sister.

I mean, who wouldn’t find her fascinating?

Staying behind her—not too far, but close enough that I can see the peachy outline of her ass in that tight, cock-hardening dress—I shove my hands in my pockets and keep my eyes on her.

Her porcelain skin glows in the sun while she walks with her face in her phone, ignoring the outside world like there aren’t hundreds of people walking past her.

It’s the same routine every morning. Me following behind undetected. Her with those ridiculously high heels, turning left and entering the small coffee shop for her usual morning coffee. While I smoke a cigarette across the road, she’ll order, check the magazines for anything new, and then she’ll smile at the barista. The same barista I’ve imagined diced and in small bags in my chest freezer.

The only reason the person isn’t dead is that my sister’s smile will drop as soon as she leaves, and then she’ll take another left to the courthouse. It’s not far from where we live. A short walk that brings me joy from being on the same trail as her as I listen to her heels clicking on the sidewalk. With my hood up and my cap hiding most of my face, my head down, she never notices me walking her to work.

My sister works with our mother. An assistant. A fucking hot piece of ass that all the dickheads want whenever she walks in. They don’t care that she’s engaged—to my own fucking dismay—yet I’m shocked it took this long for Mom to nail her down to someone. Adam turned out to be gay, Parker still can’t walk properly, and all the other suitors she’s had over the past six months have mysteriously vanished from existence.

You’re fucking welcome, Olivia.

They weren’t enough for you. No one is except me.

The guy she’s supposed to marry is some businessman who made a deal with our parents. They’d invest together, build an empire, but only if Olivia Vize married their son, Xander.

She’s hasn’t even met the fucker. Mom seems to be giving her some time before the wedding is booked. A wedding I’ll blow the fuck up if it goes ahead. I’ll make sure I kill my dad this time, and I’ll strangle Mom with his intestines and force Olivia to marry me instead, then I’ll cage the bitch and feed her my cock when she’s hungry.

Once she disappears into the building, I set off to her apartment like I do every day. It’s the same routine, the same journey. I’ll wake in my flat—coincidentally across from hers—and I’ll watch the cameras as she gets washed, dressed, has some breakfast, then I’ll grab my coat when she leaves the house.

We spend a lot of time together, me and my sister; she just doesn’t know about it.

My favorite time is when she drinks the spiked alcohol in her fridge. I get to come over and care for her. Sometimes, I’ll wash her hair and cuddle her in bed, and other times, I watch her stumble around her apartment, in the dark, thinking my shadow is part of her nightmares.

The fucking control I always need when she starts stripping her clothes off while drugged up… I deserve a goddamn medal for not shoving my cock in her cunt or mouth.

I crack open her door and deeply inhale, enjoying her scent, which is all over the apartment. It’s the only time I get to smell her, apart from when I’m fumbling around with her unconscious form.

My apartment is on the same level as hers, but across the street. I was kind of shocked she wasn’t living it up in some mansion like we were raised in, as if she wants some normality before she’s launched into the life of the rich asshole she’s tied to. I still need to deal with him, but the heavy protection he has is a bit of a ball-ache.

I check all the cameras are still hidden, pour myself a coffee—the same way she makes hers—and sit down on her sofa. Kicking my feet up, I sigh and look at the pictures littering her wall.

Her graduating college, though she doesn’t use her qualification. Her with a dog that died a year ago. Her and a boyfriend she had while I was locked up for eight years—her fucking doing by the way. Some pictures with friends.

And my favorite, the largest on the wall, one of the two of us. Her kissing my cheek when we were sixteen and seventeen, when I was in a state of confusion over why I hit a boner every time I looked at my sister.

She has a necklace over the frame. There’s a smaller image of us in that too. Younger. Me on her back at the beach. I’m a slim dickhead in it—no ink, no muscles—and I’m wearing a blue shirt that says something about fucking sharks.

Mom knew I hated sharks, but she bought me it anyway.

Fuck her too. I drew a moustache on her picture, but Olivia has yet to notice.

Fuck that entire family.

Except the daughter. She’s hot and kind of imprinted on my brain.

My dear, sweet, innocent sister. I still see her distraught face while I sat before her in handcuffs, the way she couldn’t look at me while she testified against me, ultimately sending me to prison for attempted murder on her precious daddy.

Dad ended up with brain damage—loss of memory and use of some body parts. So she got away without losing her Vize status, since our dad has no recollection of why the fight broke out.

He interrupted my meal—maybe now he’ll know better than to take away my food, the fucking asshole.

He should’ve died. I wanted him to die. I still do. He takes up so much of Olivia’s attention—she’s always wheeling him around in his chair, opening his food for him, feeding him. She kisses his cheek every time she leaves the manor. I know this because I have cameras set up there too. I have cameras everywhere she goes.

My girl never needs to worry about anyone hurting her, because her wonderful, ex-con, apparently psychotic brother is free and keeping her out of harm’s way.

It’s a pity I can’t protect her from myself. Her betrayal isn’t something I can shrug off like everything else. Her fucking people while I was locked away, having relationships, being happy, was unacceptable, but I let it all slide after squashing each element. But earning my forgiveness won’t be easy—I’ll have the whore begging on her knees for me to forgive her for all her fucking sins against me.

Her laptop dings, and I drop my feet and walk over to her small desk. The screen brightens, and I watch the messages fly back and forth between her and her friends in a group chat. They’re discussing Halloween this weekend, a festival they want to go to. One of her friends, Anna, the one who caused this entire colossal fuck-up, says she’s not going to a party while pregnant with twins, and another asked if they’re too old to party.

Not gonna lie, Anna is lucky I care about her friend and her opinion of me, because I fully intended to strangle her when I got out. I even went to her address in the middle of the night and made a plan for where I’d stash her body—but, of course, she had to go and get pregnant, didn’t she? Olivia would never forgive me if I killed her. I’m mad at my sister, but I don’t want to give her any more reasons to hate me.

It’s not a fair game yet.

Olivia gives her the middle-finger emoji, and I chuckle while sipping my coffee in her This Princess Loves Hugs mug.

Abigail: We’re 26, you asshole! Just because you settled down doesn’t mean we need to. Stop being a party pooper and get a costume picked.

Olivia: I already have my costume. Did you get the Poison Ivy outfit?

Abigail: Yes! I can’t wait to see yours. Are you still going as a goth bride as a fuck you to your parents?

Olivia: *Wink emoji* I’m very mature.

I straighten, glancing over at her bedroom. It’s tidy. The entire fucking house is tidy, the little clean freak that she is. I kind of love watching her putting music on and dancing around in her panties while she vacuums. One of my favorite pastimes with my cock in my hand.

I pull open her wardrobe and spot the costume that wasn’t there yesterday, and my dick hardens at the thought, the fucking image in my head of her dressed up as a bride in black—the black tutu and corset, black netted tights and garter… I rub the material of the veil, gulping at the possibility of losing her to some other asshole when she marries.

I slam the wardrobe door harder than necessary, fist my hands, and screw my eyes shut. Breathe, Malachi. Fucking breathe and don’t wreck the place.

Focus. Repress.

I open my eyes and shake it off.

If my girl is going out for Halloween, it looks like I am too. I can’t wait to reacquaint my cock with her cunt—that one time with her over Dad’s prone body replays in my mind, but it’s not enough.

After reading in her journal that she would love to be taken while unconscious, I’ve been tempted to fuck her in her drugged-up state, to ram my cock in her ass too, but I want her eyes on me—I want her lucid, watching me fucking take what she took away from me.

I want to hear her screaming in both fear and pleasure while she reacquaints her throat with my cock and cries for mercy.

I won’t show her any. That little shit took eight years from me. And this weekend, while she dresses up as a slutty bride, I’m going to make her pay.

Once I eat one of her apples and toss aside the core, I intentionally kick over her laundry basket and leave the toilet seat up, then place the chocolates on her table. I look around her place once more before I leave, then pull on my motorbike helmet and fix my gloves onto my hands as I make my way across the street to my bike.

The closest costume store isn’t too far away, and I can’t help but feel excitement—she likes to be scared while turned on, and she’s going to be fucking terrified while I chase her down and choke the life out of her.