Sister!Sister!

Fri Nov 29 2024 23:11:47 GMT+0000 (Coordinated Universal Time)

Saved by @CallTheCops ##stories ##en ##nsfw ##docs

I’m the only one who can see my dear departed sister. Which is probably a good thing because her ghost is always completely nude. She’s got the body of a slim 12-year-old. She’s cute, precocious and sneaky. “Sister?!” The man exclaims, “This wee las is your sister?!” I nod proudly. The man eyes her critically. “Not much boobs on ‘er, then.” He mumbles. I open my mouth to protest, but he continues, “Nice, round bottom.” He turns her around so I can see. The man squeezes my sister’s ass. “Firm.” He notes. My sister just turned eight years old, but her boobs have already started growing. She even has a modest little bush going, too. “Aye, lass, where ya headed?” The boy snarls, grabbing at my blouse. I jump away from him. The metal chair digs into my bare thighs as I watch General Hospital on the ancient TV mounted to the wall. Someone's getting married to someone else's evil twin, or maybe it's the other way around. The sedatives make it hard to follow plots. Hard to follow anything, really. Time slips through my fingers like water here in the ward, days bleeding into nights and back again.  --- God, Tom is so depressing. I mean, sure, this place sucks, but you gotta look on the bright side, y’know? Yeah, it’s boring as shit, but at least I’m not getting my ass kicked by my Mom’s drunk boyfriend. Sure, the tranquilizers make me dumb and sleepy but at least I have a place to sleep. I remember wandering the streets late at night, wrapped in a blanket but still shivering. My breath making clouds in the air before me. Okay, the food DOES suck, but at least it’s food! I’ve eaten worse out of a dumpster, I’m sure. Tom slides my paper-thin gown off and kicks it against the wall. I cover my chest with one arm, between my legs with my other hand. “Turn around.” He states. I turn around. “Bend at the waist.” He says. I do it. “Spread your cheeks.” He says. I look over my shoulder at him. “You just wanna see my butthole.” I say. He scoffs. --- Jack, the afternoon orderly, catches my eye from his desk. He's new—only been here three months—still young enough to think he can save us all. Still naive enough to treat us like people instead of case files. His dark hair always looks like he just rolled out of bed, and his scrubs are eternally wrinkled. But his smile is kind, and he's one of the few staff members who doesn't talk to us like we're children. "You should sit up straight, honey. Your posture is terrible." I don't have to look to know Mommy's there, wearing that old, tattered bath robe she loved. “Just look at my posture. Perfect!” Mommy arches her back and her robe falls open. “Look, sweetie!” I shake my head and look, hiding a grin. “Perfect posture, Mom.” I mutter under my breath. I know I shouldn’t talk to them. She'll be wringing her hands, like she always did when she was worried. Which was always. Worry killed her in the end—a heart attack at fifty-two, probably brought on by the stress of burying two daughters and watching the third one lose her mind. "Not now, Mom," I mutter, then catch myself. Rule number one: don't talk to the hallucinations. It only makes them stronger, more real. More insistent. --- Mom looks exactly like she did when I was a kid. I guess that’s not too surprising, considering she exists only in my messed-up head. You really wanna hear how messed up I am? She’s always dressed in only bra and panties. Yeah, figure that one out. Memo pops up on my phone screen and pouts at me. “Where have you been?” She cries, pulling her pigtails. Grandma flows across the room and gazes out of the frosted window. She lifts her dress and leans over the windowsill. “You seem sad. Want me to show you your secret gallery?” She bites her lower lip. --- Jack glances up from his paperwork, concern flickering across his face. He's seen me talking to them before, knows my history. Unlike some of the other staff, he never mocks us for our conversations with the invisible. A familiar giggle echoes from behind the orderly's desk. Memo—my mind's version of Mary—pokes her head out, gap-toothed grin flashing. She's wearing that yellow sundress again, the one she was buried in. She darts past Jack's desk, though of course, he doesn't react. Can't see what isn't there. "Found you!" she chirps, bouncing on her toes. "Now it's your turn to hide!" I turn up the TV volume instead. Jenny's been dead for twenty years, taken by leukemia at twelve. She never grew out of her hide-and-seek phase. Neither has my hallucination of her. I remember the day I visited her in the hospital, near the end. She was thin and frail, but her big blue eyes exploded with life. She smiled when she saw me and squeezed my hand. "Hey, big boy," comes Tigg's voice from behind me, carrying that same teasing lilt Sarah always used. "Want a little entertainment?" Great. The gang's all here. "Hey," Jack says softly, suddenly beside my chair. "You doing okay? You seem a little overwhelmed today." His voice is gentle, like he's talking to a spooked animal. Maybe he is. "He's cute," Tigg observes, moving into my peripheral vision, a flash of denim and auburn hair. "Bit scruffy, but cute. You should ask him out." "She can't date her orderly," Mommy scolds, materializing by the water cooler. "It wouldn't be proper." I manage a nod to Jack, trying to focus on what's real. He's real. The metal chair is real. The TV drone is real. My dead family having a debate about my love life? Not real. "The doctors say your condition is deteriorating," Mommy frets. "They're talking about adjusting your medications again." She's right about that, at least. My hallucinations are getting stronger, more frequent. Used to be I'd just see one at a time. Now they're having family reunions in my head. "We could bust you out," Tigg suggests, perching on the arm of my chair. She smells like cigarette smoke and that vanilla perfume Sarah used to wear. "Jack could help. He likes you, you know. I can tell by the way he watches you." "Can Jack play hide-and-seek too?" Memo asks, skipping in circles around my chair. Her pigtails bounce with each step. "He looks fun!" I dig my nails into my palms until it hurts. Pain helps sometimes, reminds me what's real. "You're bleeding," both Jack and Mommy say at the same time. I look down. They're right. Four tiny crescents of red on my palm. Jack kneels beside my chair, pulling an alcohol wipe from his pocket. "Here, let me help with that." His hands are warm and solid as he cleans the cuts. Real hands. Real touch. "He's good with her," Mommy approves, as if she's evaluating a potential son-in-law instead of someone just doing his job. "Ooh, he's holding your hand!" Memo giggles, because even as a hallucination, she's still an annoying little sister. A nurse appears with the medication cart, and Jack steps back, returning to his professional distance. "Time for your afternoon dose," she announces, rattling paper cups like tiny maracas. "Don't take them," Mommy pleads. "They're poisoning you, baby. Just like they poisoned your sister with that chemotherapy." "Race you to the cart!" Memo challenges Tigg, because even as hallucinations, they never stop competing. I push myself up from the chair, legs shaky. The nurse—her name tag says Linda, I think—holds out two paper cups. One with pills, one with water. Her smile is professional, practiced. Unlike Jack, she never makes eye contact. I swallow the pills. Two blue, one white, one pink. They taste like chalk and broken promises. Jack watches from his desk, that same gentle concern in his eyes. "Spoilsport," Memo pouts, cross-legged now on the floor. "You never want to play anymore." "Let her rest," Mommy tells my sisters—because even as hallucinations, she never stops mothering. "She's had a long day." I sink back into my chair, waiting for the meds to kick in. Waiting for my family to fade like old photographs. Waiting for blessed chemical silence. Jack brings me a cup of water I didn't ask for, sets it on the table beside me. Such a small kindness, but in here, small kindnesses are all we have. "You have good taste," Tigg approves. "Better than that loser you dated in high school." The TV drones on. The woman on television licks her lips. “You wanna get off?” She says from the screen. Memo remembers the last time you heard this song. It was late at night, a weekday, in your little sister’s bedroom. “Remember this?” Memo asks, popping up an image of his sister on her knees. I look at it and smile. Just another Tuesday in the psych ward. Or maybe it's Wednesday. Time is flexible here, but madness keeps perfect rhythm. I close my eyes and count backward from one hundred, waiting for the drugs to sweep my family away like autumn leaves. They'll be back, of course. They always come back. After all, where else would they go? The dead have nothing but time, and I have nothing but madness to fill it with. When I open my eyes, my family is gone. Only Jack remains, watching over us all like a rumpled guardian angel in wrinkled scrubs. For now, that's enough. Tigg leans back in her chair and laughs. “Show him your tits.” She suggests, lifting her own top to demonstrate how easy it is. “Show him your ass.” Tigg turns around, bends over, and smacks her ass. Elizabeth Parker pushed her thighs rhythmically up and down, driving the pedals on her bicycle around and around. The wind was blowing her short, boyish blonde hair as she rode down the center of the street in her tree-lined, suburban neighborhood. The dappled late morning sunlight streamed through the leafy vegetation from above and sparkled on her smiling face. It was a gorgeous day and tonight promised to be even better. Elizabeth Parker drops her bike in the front yard of her family home and dashes inside. Caleb is sitting in the kitchen, poring over a book. “’Sup, bro?” She asks while opening the fridge. Caleb grunts at her and she buries her head in the refrigerator. Elizabeth Parker sheds her dress and steps into the shower.