Crimes
She didn't love me.
We were just lonely.
We had to take care of one another. That's what siblings did. Our mum had raised us properly in a modest home somewhere near Calgary with strong-willed morals and self-confidence that other children lacked. We were lucky to have each other, she'd tell us time and time again during time outs as children and before groundings as teenagers. Some children didn't have siblings at all.
Sometimes, I didn't want Tegan. I fantasized about what it may be like to be an only child who never had the burden of sharing bedrooms, clothes, and closets. When we finally moved into a bigger house, I relished my privacy and the fact that I could quite literally close Tegan out with the simple shutting of my bedroom door, banishing her to the hallway when our screaming matches became far too irritating to handle face to face. I would scream such ugly things through that wimpy plywood door. I would tell her how much I despised her entire existence. I fucking hate you, teenage me would shriek to teenage plus eight minutes her. I never want to see you again!
Fifteen and some odd years later, here we are. No wimpy plywood doors to separate us—only curtains. We sit in separate bunks across the aisle from one another, Tegan with her legs open in some sort of seated power stance, me with mine neatly folded. She watches on as I toy with a button on my jacket, identical orbs forming a heavy gaze that I cannot shrug off. Our mum has us here as she stands to our right, arms folded with tired eyes that say, I'm disappointed in you kids. You should know better than to fight. Tegan, you're all Sara has. Sara, you're all Tegan has. But Tegan isn't all I have. Mum would shame her elder daughter with such a declaration, but wouldn't shake my perspective. I'm not sorry for whatever it is that I said while I was fuming a moment ago. I'm never sorry. But Tegan—she's a different story.
You're thirty three years old, for Christ sake. That's what mum says. Tegan lowers her head. Her power stance becomes a trembling, knee-to-knee withdrawal. She's always had trouble with criticism and scolding.
Mum—
Tegan's trying to chime in. Mum raises a hand to indicate that she isn't interested in hearing whatever argument she's prepared to take our mother onto her side.
Save it, Tegan, mum says. I don't want to hear it.
She doesn't want to hear it, you ass-kissing dick.
Go to the back lounge and talk. Close the curtain and talk this out. These are our mum's instructions. She treats us like we're a couple of her therapy patients. We are, in a sense. We have been for years. We're no different than those without a blood relation who come to her for mediation. Aside from the fact that our healthcare doesn't pay her for our spur of the moment sessions.
Tegan opens her mouth to speak, but mum's pointing at her with a warning finger. It stops Tegan in her tracks. Standing on her wobbly knees, my sister wanders to the back lounge with her head hung low. She doesn't stomp, but instead drags her feet in defeat. I follow behind, not even wishing to cross our mother, who disappears down the front stairs and through the doors of the bus to join our band members and crew for lunch while we "talk things out". They'll be lucky if we're both conscious by the time they return.
Tegan draws the curtain closed once we've both made it to the back. The leather sofa looks welcoming but worn. We've all fucked someone here—the bunks aren't properly sized for such endeavors. I wonder whose cum stains are still lingering, whose sweaty shame sunk into the stitching. It's disgusting yet intriguing, at the least.
My eyes meet those of my sister when we're surrounded by silence. Even the driver has stepped off the bus to give us our space. We know what needs to be done here. We know why we've been fighting. The tension of loneliness has gotten to us. Lindsey's taken a small hiatus for this leg of tour to be home in LA for a few weeks; she'll re-join our crew eventually. Stacy's professional life has become more important than her personal; she'd left for New York almost a month prior to this moment. Tegan and I didn't believe in groupies and meaningless sex with anonymous and nameless whores that hung around backstage doors in hopes of getting an invitation. We knew what our options were, and masturbation had grown boring, redundant. Tegan's fingers were longer. Stronger. They served more purpose than my own.
With a simple nod, those fingers were latched to my throat, every ounce of her strength pinning me back against the nearest wall. Tegan's mouth forced itself against my own with such hunger that I wondered if perhaps she felt emaciated. The fury in her eyes was enough to get me off on its own, as was the concentration with which she clamped her stupid teeth onto her stupid lip while she grew dizzy watching the color of my face change from pale white to early sunset pink to blood red. Why are you so angry, Tegan? I always wanted to ask her. But her hand always choked so tightly that I couldn't form an audible word if I tried.
And I liked it. I like it.
Mum said that once, when she was pregnant, Tegan's cord had wrapped around my neck and the doctors were afraid that they'd have to do an emergency c-section four months early, but somehow, we'd corrected it on our own. The doctors had joked about sibling rivalry. Just don't let them do that with each other when they're born, they'd told mum. Everyone had shared a laugh over it.
Tegan's other hand was roughly shoved into my pants now, though her eyes were still intently watching the subtle color changes in my face. Her fingers, those fucking fantastic fingers, had found the embarrassing wetness they were in search of, teasing against my throbbing clit before burying themselves in my unusually tight cunt three at a time without warning. I grunt to the best of my ability, but not much sound comes through. I trust that Tegan can feel it attempting to form beneath her choking hand.
Tell me you hate me now, you slut. Tegan's words come through her gritted teeth like daggers aiming to kill. We fuck with plenty of feeling, though the feelings are less than positive, absent of love. I squirm then, desperate to get away because she likes it that way. I may be furious with her over a stupid disagreement in regards to a setlist, but something inside of me still wants her happy. When I struggle, she grins like a starving animal baring its teeth.
I wish I knew how to explain the euphoria that comes with erotic asphyxiation. I recall explaining to past partners why I enjoyed it, though constantly gaining nothing in return but a consistent stream of confused and uncomfortable glances. You want me to choke you? They'd ask. And I'd sigh, irritated over the fact that I could still breathe normally. Tegan was the only one willing to do it without question. Tegan, I was sure, was happy to do it.
Dizzier with each passing second, I allow my eyes to close to avoid the momentary spots forming in my path of vision. They're distracting me from watching Tegan's primal fury, and the darkness drowns out the idea all together. I encourage her with the bucking of my hips against her expert hand, thumb applying constant pressure to my clit while her fingers destroy my cunt. I love her so much in this moment simply because she is relief that I am blind to. When I open my eyes, I will despise her again for all of the agony this dysfunctional fuckfest of siblinghood has caused me. I don't care if it has hurt her, too, because it has hurt me more. It's always hurt me more.
My lungs burn as if they were shriveling beneath the sun of the Sahara desert, though the euphoria of being without proper oxygen has left me momentarily careless. Tegan knows to be careful though, too careful, and begins to release her grip. Her hand remains against my throat, but refuses to squeeze as she kisses me with such fervor that I swear she believes she's kissing life back into me. That selfish son of a bitch.
The hand that was one at my throat finds its place against my side as her entire arm snakes around my lower back and cradles me, drawing me closer to her body as she leans me against the wall while my legs begin to give beneath me. Clawing at her, I try desperately to destroy her favorite sweater. I want my angst to be tangible; I hate her so much.
Her fingers pound into me like I've never been fucked before, my cum soaking her entire hand and drenching her wrist and forearm. I can see it glistening in the light of the lounge as I refuse to look into her face. It hurts so terribly to know that she's looking at me with anger that's faded and love that's bloomed in its place.
Within moments, I'm reduced to a crumbling pile of incestuous shit in Tegan's arms, screaming out her name as if it were my religion. She catches my weight effortlessly, holds me, whispers to me how sorry she is for fighting. I love you Sar, she tells me. I love you so much that it fucking kills me.
But I separate our bodies with a rough shove as if she were some sort of cheap whore and replace the button and zipper of my pants just as our mum's come back onto the bus with food for us. Tegan catches herself against the cum-stained couch and my wrist with her free hand, forcing me to turn and watch her clean mine from her fingers. It's her pained retaliation for being shrugged off so carelessly; a reminder that she owns me no matter how many times I deny it.
We sit, side by side, eating lunch with our mother as if we'd sorted through our problems like functional adults.
She doesn't love me, but I love her, and we're just lonely.