The same person
"I used to think we were the same person."
"We are."
The chapel echoes her curt footsteps as they move towards the pew opposite to where she had been sitting. She positions herself next to him and, while holding his gaze, lifts the skirts of her dress and straddles him, adjusting her garments and body to fit his familiar form. She takes hold of his face on either side and kisses him with a bewildering mix of fervour and detachment. He puts his hands on her hips and reciprocates the kiss with undiluted ardour, pressing his mouth against hers. All of a sudden, she breaks away and tries to lift her leg in order to leave as quickly and decisively as she had come, but the hands on her hips hold her down firmly on his lap, as firmly as his fixed stare. She gives it a moment's pause, her quick breath audible in the otherwise silent chapel, before attempting another escape. Using every strength in her body, she claws at his face, letting out fearsome cries. He raises his arms to fend off the attack. A wordless struggle ensues of growling, biting, tearing at fabric, by the end of which she finds herself with her arms bent behind her back, her wrists securely constrained with one firm hand, writhe and protest though she may. His other hand he carefully places on his lower leg. She lifts her head to meet his gaze, her eyes large and wild, filled with fury and longing. This is their cue, this is the sign he had been waiting for. The struggle is over. He releases her arms.
When they were children, Zilpha had been fond of reading, but once she had discovered Gothic novels and poetry as a teenager, her fondness turned into obsession. When she found a new book to read, she would not be seen for days on end except for meal times and she would spend all her time in her room reading. James became increasingly disgruntled and sullen over her hours of absence, more so than could be explained by a brother missing his former childhood friend. He came to hate her books. He hid them from her or threatened to burn them and would only give them back for a furtive kiss behind the living room curtains. He locked the cabinets of their father's library, in attempt to cut off her supplies, and made her search him for the key. He would follow her up to her room after every meal, as she walked up the stairs already reading, only to find her standing in the door frame, grinning, book in one hand and slamming the door shut in his face with the other.
One day after lunch, door in face, James did not turn away as he normally would, but paused a moment and then unleashed all of his anger on the door. He pounded the wooden panelling with his fists in such a rage until his legs gave way and he slid down the door frame onto the floor. Brace, the only one left in the house that afternoon, stepped outside the kitchen door for a moment, alarmed at the clamour upstairs, but knew when it was time for him to attend to the copperware. Zilpha's door slowly opened and she popped her head around the door frame to look down on her brother's tearful face. "Would you like to watch me read?", she asked as she offered him her hand. He dried his eyes with the back of his sleeve and nodded. "I would like that very much."
He took her hand and she led him into her room, carefully navigating him across stacks of books. She had been reading on her bed, her book face-down on her night stand. Suddenly, she let go of his hand, leaving him in the middle of the room as she made for the bed and plumped down on it. She nestled herself in the pillows against the headboard and she patted the bedspread next to her, beckoning him to sit down. He obliged and she picked up her book and started to read. He watched her for minutes, drinking in the sight of her, trying to conceal his quickening breath from her, while she lay there unperturbed. Without taking his eyes off her, he carefully placed his left hand on her lower leg, soft and silk covered, the part that was just visible between her lace-up boot and the hem of her dress. He left his hand there for a while, waiting for a response, but none came. Ever so slowly, he started marching his index and middle finger up her leg, as he would have done during nursery rhymes when they were children. He could feel her leg muscles moving and twitching. Still, no acknowledgement. His fingers had meanwhile marched underneath her skirts, but he brought them to a halt at her garter. He watched her intently, waiting for a sign that she wanted him to go on just as much as he wanted to. Finally, she wrested herself away from her book and looked at him with eyes so fierce and wide, beaming with fire and impatience, before abruptly turning her attention to her book again. Momentarily taken aback, he continued his march along her upper leg and onwards to her sex, where he satisfied her, guided by her breath and attuned to the movements and tightening of her body, until finally she closed her eyes on her book. As she arched her back against the pillowed headboard, she let out a low, wailing groan, soft at first but increasingly loud. So much so that he was compelled to stifle the sound with his other hand, which she gnawed for a while in return. Relishing the moment only briefly, she got herself up from the bed, straightened her skirts and proceeded to march away as if nothing had happened. Just before she opened the door, she turned on her heels and faced him. "I think I am done with reading for the day and quite fancy a stroll outside. Would you like to accompany me?" James was still sitting on the edge of her bed, crestfallen. "Books are patient. We can always return to them tomorrow." She smiled and held out her hand, which he gladly took.
In the chapel pew, James' fingers start their slow, familiar ascent along her leg. "I will never march away from you again, dead or alive, you know that, don't you?" Zilpha smiles against his neck, her head resting on his shoulder. "I know".