"I need to punish myself..."
Sorry for the wait! I've been pretty tired and off it and hell knows what else recently. I do have the next eleven days off work now so I might be able to get some pace going again!
In my semi-inebriated state I hadn't closed my curtains properly the night before, and the morning sun rudely woke me from my shitty sleep, its rays trying to touch my cheeks softly. Trying, but failing. Fuck the sun.
I slid myself off the end of my bed and pulled the curtains closed before throwing myself back to my pillow. My red satin bed sheets clung to my skin; I should really switch to cotton sheets. I could smell my sweat, but I could also smell other questionable fluids. And if I could smell it then Chris surely would if he entered at this moment. He wasn't stupid; he knew what my own sweat smelled like, and I'm willing to bet he knew what the 'other' smell lingering in my room was.
So not only did I have the hangover from hell pounding the inside of my skull, I also had full memory of the two times I masturbated along with the thoughts that I orgasmed to. What kind of fucked up, dangerous game was I playing, exactly? I discovered ONE TIME that I could get myself off to Chris, and now for the fourth time in less than twenty four hours I had done so! It's almost like discovering turning the tv volume up using the remote rather than getting up to press the buttons on the actual tv; just because it's easier doesn't mean you should! Why was a tv the only comparison I could make?! This is so much fucking worse than a goddamn volume button!
I drank the rest of his whiskey last night without his knowing and for what? Nothing. I still remember. I still remember exactly what I did. Every twinge every twitch every moan every murmur every...everything.
He's not possessive over many things, but he definitely is over his precious whiskey. He'll share a lot with me, but that whiskey belongs to him and him alone.
I stole his drink, then stole his image and his personality and his trust in me as his little sister. I stole him into my mind for my own sick personal gratification. Taken without permission. I held him there like a kleptomaniac holds onto their ill gotten goods. Except I didn't wield it like a trophy, I didn't gloat or brag to myself about it.
Once was too much. Four times is a ticket to Hell and then some. I don't think even the Devil would appreciate me down there at this point.
I rolled onto my front and pressed my tears into my pillow, my throat forcing out sobs, it cut and it burned like razors slashing at me each time I drove out air from my lungs. I gripped my fingers together above my head, deliberately bending them in directions they shouldn't be bent. If I broke them I wouldn't be able to finger myself anymore, and I could restore the image of Chris. I could return the stolen goods. I continued to force them in the opposite directions, hot white pain tearing at the inside of my palm pads. I cried harder through the agony, pushing my face deeper into the pillow.
WHY DID I MASTURBATE THINKING OF MY BROTHER?!
I heard a pop in my hand and oh God what an awful sensation! I shakily raised my face to look at the damage. I had pulled the pinky and ring finger of my right hand out of their sockets at the proximal interphalangeal joint, and they sat slightly up from their original positions.
Dislocation. Not the break I was hoping for. My palm burned from the overstretched tendons and visibly turned my flesh red as my blood rushed to mend my self infliction.
I stared and my fingers, fascinated at how I could've managed to do this to myself. The adrenaline had already begun to wear off, and the pain slowly crept in. Good. It's the wake up call that I needed. Stop. No more thinking of Chris in that manner. Stop. He's not yours to claim in the night. Nor will he ever be. He's your brother. He fucking raised you, and he certainly didn't raise you to sully him like that. Show some respect to the man who was there for you when you needed him the most, Claire Redfield!
I pushed my hair off my face, stuck to the tears that had fallen down my cheeks, and sat on the edge of the bed facing the door. Ok, so how was I going to explain to Chris why my fingers were dislocated? How am I going to explain to him why my fingers were dislocated AND why my room smelled of me? I needed to think of a respectable excuse. My bedroom door suddenly bursting open shook me from my action plan as Chris ran in and dropped to the floor in front of me, his brown hair unkempt, his blue eyes glazed. Good to know it's not just me that's hungover this morning.
"Claire I'm so sorry for getting so drunk last ni...what happened to your fingers?!" He shouted in alarm, and he delicately lifted my hand to inspect my contorted fingers. Shit. Quick! Think of something!
"I fell out of bed."
…
Fucking jesus, Claire, really? That's it?!
Chris raised an eyebrow and glanced at my face, I could tell he was looking at the streak of tears that stained my cheeks. He raised a hand slowly to my face, and I sucked my lip as he touched my cheek.
"Another nightmare? What did you do, land on your hand?" He gently and sweetly brushed my tears with his thumb, and I felt a warmth I couldn't describe in my chest. I only fucking hoped it was the warmth I felt from the comfort of my brother, and nothing more. I couldn't look at him, but I took advantage of his assumption.
"...Yes! I, er, had another nightmare, I panicked, and I fell onto my hand." I tried to milk it for what it was worth, and he totally bought it. God I'm such a bitch. He raised my hand just a little more and tilted his head about it. I saw his eyes shift over the top of my knuckles as he looked into my eyes..
"Does it hurt, sis?" He asked.
"Yes." I whispered, and more tears began to form. I mean, I wasn't lying, but I felt a horrible urge to just make him feel sorry for me. Pitifully, I coughed a sob, one of those forced sob and coughs that you'd normally associate with a five year old after a temper tantrum, not a twenty nine year old grown ass woman, and Chris sat next to me on the bed, putting his free arm around my shoulder.
"Let's see what we can do. Where do you keep your socks?" Chris asked. Socks? What was he going to do, strap them up? With socks? Whatever. I pointed to the drawer just inside my closet and he got up to fetch a pair. He folded them up into themselves to make a rolled up ball before holding it to my face.
"Bite."
I hesitated, but I took the socks in between my teeth. He inspected my fingers once more, careful not to touch them. Again he looked up at me.
"Alright, Claire, listen. When I've finished talking I want you to take some big deep breaths. On your third breath I'm going to try to relocate one of your fingers. We'll give you a minute or so, then we'll do it for the last finger, ok?" Chris instructed.
Fuck.
I didn't argue. I knew he wouldn't let me argue. I looked at his face, and he carried a look of stoic concentration as he positioned my arm over his, hovering his thumbs over my finger joints.
I took the first deep breath, and another...then the third…
And I clenched my teeth hard against the socks, a whimper leaving my throat as my brother attempted to push my ring finger back into the socket. It felt like forever but in fact it was merely seconds as I heard the pop of my finger resetting; my whole right hand now burned with fury. I didn't want to break in front of him, I didn't care that I could share any of my emotions with him, I didn't want to share this time. My fingers are fucked because of my own dirty and sinful actions, I had no right. I wanted him to pity me at first, to feel sorry for me, but now I don't. Why should he feel sorry for me after what I did to him without his knowledge? What does it matter? I already stole, what difference would it make if I now stole his brotherly love from his unwary arms?
Still he held my hand up, my pinky finger still awkwardly placed, and he rested his head against mine, whispering words of encouragement to me, telling me to take some more deep breaths. Yes. Maybe I'll just fucking steal everything from him, like the possessed psychopath that I was, let him show me his love for his little sister in her shitty and fake time of need.
This time however he didn't let me take the full three breaths and he proceeded to slip my pinky finger down and back into the joint. I cried out involuntarily as the hot agony only grew. I spat out the socks and through a fresh cascade of tears I watched them bounce off my knee and to the floor. Chris pulled me into him, STILL hovering my hand. He stroked at my hairline behind my ear and kissed my tears away, and I knew he was only doing what he normally would when I was upset, but I couldn't bring myself to return the affection.
This poor guy had no idea what I had done. No idea what I had used him for. Here he was, blissfully ignorant of what his baby sister had been capable of in the last twenty four hours. His big arms only suffocated me, his affection tore at me, his sweetness cursed me. His words, though soft, rumbled against my eardrums like a freight train thundering down the rails.
He slipped his hand under my armpit and stood me to my feet, holding me there as the last of the adrenaline seeped out of my wretched body. I cried like a weak baby, barely able to keep myself upright through the nausea from the shock I was now going through. He guided me, so damn tenderly, out of my room and to the dining table and sat me down, resting my hand on the glossy black surface. I sat there wallowing in my self pity and the hatred I harboured within myself bubbled and churned like the percolator I could hear behind me.
I needed to tell him to stop trying to help me, to tell him to stop being the overprotective, ever so caring brother. I hadn't even noticed that he had left and returned with the metal first aid box from the bathroom; I watched with glassy eyes as he rifled through for the gauze pads and a small bandage, presumably to "buddy wrap" my fingers.
He carefully wrapped my ring finger with gauze and a small rigid piece of plastic, and with some level of gentleness I never knew the man possessed bound three of my fingers together.
"To be honest Claire," Chris started, not taking his eyes off his medical work, "you should probably go to the hospital with this, but I know how much you hate hospitals."
He tucked the end of the bandage behind one of the bounds and tilted my hand about by the wrist. Satisfied with himself he held my arm across my chest.
"Keep your hand elevated, it will help to ease any swelling. " he remarked. I scoffed quietly.
"I'm a first aider, remember?" I said dryly," thanks, but I didn't need your help." I forced a sigh.
Did he notice the sigh?
He smiled wryly.
Good.
He noticed.
"I couldn't just leave you like that, Claire. It was either that or the hospital. If you start losing feeling in your fingers then you'll definitely need to go. I really shouldn't have done what I did but after last night I felt like I needed to show some sort of responsibility as a big brother."
"It was my own fault anyway, Chris!" I raised my voice and a brief but very awkward silence fell between us. I saw Chris blink once. A truck rumbled by the apartment, its grill rattling as it travelled, no doubt, to the nearby grocery store to drop off the morning delivery. I used it as a distraction from the situation, but Chris used his finger to move my face to his.
"How was having nightmares and falling out of bed in your moment of terror your fault?" he asked, touching my good hand with his fingertips. My mouth twitched at the corner as another lie formed in my head.
"Because I shouldn't have gone to Raccoon City!" I snapped at his face, "Your silence should've been enough of a hint for me to stay away! You kept telling me things were fine and not to worry and I should've just listened!"
I kept telling myself that Chris didn't need to know that the nightmares hadn't been about bioterrorism for months now. Unfortunately it only meant he became a bit more...overbearing.
"It's all my fault, Claire, you know that! I should've just told you!" Chris answered, frustration etched into his words. He got up and walked around the partition shelf in the centre of the room, snatching up his cigarettes as he did so. He unlocked the balcony door and lit up. His slow, deep breath as he inhaled the nicotine sounded...oh for fuck's sake, Claire, stop it!
He exhaled just as slowly.
Claire. No. Stop.
I crossed my legs, scared of the forbidden feeling I was experiencing down there, without any assistance from my own hands. Chris chuckled and looked through the shelving to grin at me.
"Do we need to talk about what is in your drawer in your closet?" he smirked. I blinked wet lashes at him. In my drawer? What did I keep with my socks and panties? Oh…. I quickly looked up at him wide eyed, and my expression made him laugh, almost enough that it made me smile. But not quite enough. He took another breath of his smoke, still grinning to himself.
"You caught me yesterday, Claire. It's no business of mine what you use to get your kicks. If you wanna use a vibrator or dildo or, I dunno, a carrot, then hey, whatever. You do you and I'll do me and we won't do each other." Chris chuckled. I smiled weakly as he took another puff of his cigarette, still musing over his discovery. I held my right elbow up with my left hand and turned to walk into the kitchen, my legs shaking from the shock of the morning. I pressed myself hard into the counter as the percolator finished.
Won't do each other.
If only, big bro.
If only.
The song for this chapter is 8th Commandment by Sonata Arctica.
Kinda pulled this one out of my ass, the song I mean. But once I picked it I found trying to write it a bit easier.
Also I know exactly what the next chapter will be called so LETS GOOOOOOOO!