Growing up, I was never told it was wrong to love my sister. All I knew was that I had special feelings for the blonde, beautiful twin sister I had know since birth, and that I would never let her go. Never. And I knew she felt the same way.
We were never told our love was immoral or wrong, and so ever since we were little, we shamelessly shared countless kisses in public places, hands shooting up each other's skirts in the process.
And before you wonder, no, we never did that.
It was love, not lust.
Anyways, it was when our parents died and we were sent away to an orphanage that we finally learned that our love was wrong. That our sharing a bed and shower was gross. The looks people gave us hurt, but not as much as it hurt when my sister was finally taken away from me. When we were seven, a strange woman with white hair and a thick accent took her away. Took away my Elsa, and I was left behind. All alone. Eventually I was adopted myself, but it made no difference.
I wanted her back. I would do anything to get her back. And when I finally would, I would run up to her and kiss her, right in front of everyone, just like the old days.
At least that's what I thought.