I was suddenly embarrassed. I had small pointy breasts and I never wore a bra to bed. I could feel them now, poking out the front of my t-shirt; his eyes were drawn right to them.
"Excuse me," I mumbled, feeling heat color my face. "I wasn't expecting anyone up." His blinking eyes were locked on my twin points, his face coloring just like mine. I crossed my arms over my chest, wrapped myself in them really, but that only made it worse.
No, worse was that I was standing there in my underwear, my skimpy panties plainly visible beneath the hem of my t-shirt. Worse was that I had gone to sleep with my hair up in a barrette, and it looked like an explosion around my head. Worse was that I had to pee badly enough to make me squirm like a six year old. Worse was that I dared not look at the obvious bulge that Walter had met me with.
"Excuse me," I mumbled again, slipping by.
My name is Emily and I was 14 years old. The boy I'd just humiliated myself in front of was Walter, my 14-year-old half-brother. Walter is named for my grandfather, and is the product of Dad's 2nd marriage. I'm a product of his first marriage. I have two older sisters, Constance and Chase, who were 19 and 18 at the time. Both were away at school.
Closing the door and locking it, I bear-hugged myself and refused to let my eyes anywhere near the mirror. I moved to the toilet and pulled down my panties at the same time that I dropped the seat down and sat upon it. I purposely angled myself to keep my pee from drilling right down into the water below me, aiming it instead at the porcelain just above the water line. At home, I'd never had to worry about sitting down on the unprotected rim of a toilet bowl, nor had to worry about males listening to my overextended bladder empty. I hated this house.
Walter and Robert are my twin half-brothers and six days older than myself. Dad got Mom and Pam pregnant at the same time. He and Pam followed up with Michelle, now 10, and then Angela, who turned 7 in September. My birthday, and Walters' and Roberts' are six months away in May.
Finished, I rolled out a length of tissue and wrapped it around my fingers into a rough square. I wiped myself and dropped the tissue into the toilet to evacuate along with the pee. It occurred to me that Walter had just evacuated himself into the same bowl a moment before and I scowled, imagining his pee soiling the rim of the bowl right below me. Sure enough, the rim was wet, beaded with droplets of urine. Grumbling, I wiped the rim clean with another handful of tissue and got off the bowl.
Two months. Two months this had been going on.
The hallway was empty and I hurried back to my room, eying the doors either side suspiciously. The house was three levels high, with rooms enough for every member of the family. Mine was up here on the second floor, along with Walters' and Roberts'. Michelle was downstairs with Mom and Dad, and so was Angela; Mom and Dad on one side of the house, and Michelle and Angela on the other. Being adults, Constance and Chase were afforded rooms in the basement. They even had their own entrance and a kitchenette. They could come and go as they pleased, though, being away at school left this theory untested. It would be shortly. Thanksgiving was a week away.
In my room, I locked the door and stood against it with my arms crossed, hunched over. I was so miserable. I couldn't be any more miserable. To grow up fatherless in a household of women, free to do as I pleased (within reason), two big sisters to protect and watch over me (that's not always how it felt, of course), wishing as any 14 year old would that her mom and dad would get back together, miserable now that they had. I just couldn't believe that I had ever wished for such a thing.
Eyes stinging, nose stinging, lips trembling, I crossed to my bed and sat down on the edge. A full-on crying jag was trying to break loose; I had to control it. Not only would my brothers hear, but also they'd smirk at me every time they saw me for the rest of the day. Emily, crying again, they'd think. I hated them. I hated everyone. My cell phone rang.
It was Trisha, my best friend. "It can't be that bad," she said.
"Wanna bet," I countered.
"It's only nine o'clock in the morning, Em. How can you be miserable at nine o'clock in the morning?"
"I'm still miserable from last night," I complained, bitterly.
Last night my dad had threatened to spank me in front of Walter and Robert. Not that he would, of course ... he'd never do something as despicable as that. He'd only made the threat in front of them, totally humiliating me. Every time I saw them they had snickered, knowing Dad had read me the riot act, threatened to wail on my bare behind. Over his knee, no less. I had a right to be miserable.
"I have a right to be miserable," I complained.
"Oh, get over it," Trisha said. "It's not like he did it."
"He didn't have to. He embarrassed me just by saying it. Every time I meet their eyes, it'll be like, You're mine, bitch. You're my slave. I'll spank you myself, you give me any trouble." I didn't tell her what I had dreamed last night. That Robert had grabbed my wrist and twisted me with it, made me put my backside in his reach, bent me over so that he could easily get his hand on the back of my pants and drag them down while I wailed in protest, trying to get away, couldn't. I woke up with a cry, before he did anything to me.
"You're too sensitive," Trisha said.
"I am not."
We talked another fifteen minutes about boys and school and sex, or the general lack of it. Trisha was the prettiest friend I had, brunette with the prettiest green eyes. She had the breasts I craved, a perfect shape, and legs that made mine look like something rejected at the chicken factory. I weigh 98 lbs; Trisha weighs 125 and has it in all the right places. She is extremely popular.
"I have to go," she said.
"I have to go, too. Call me later?"
"You call me."
"Later. Or text me. Text me, anyway. And stop worrying about your damned brothers, Emily."
"Easy for you to say," I griped. "You don't have any."
I folded up the phone, laid it on the bed and got up. I crossed to my dresser, kicking assorted stuff out of my way as I went, grabbed clean underwear out of the top drawer, a clean t-shirt out of the drawer below, and a pair of my tightest jeans from the drawer below that. Stopping to think about it, I grabbed my 2nd tightest pair of jeans instead, put everything over my arm and headed toward the door. No sense inviting looks at my rear end.
In the hallway, I turned right and made for the bathroom at the end of the hall, not the one I had just peed in. That bathroom had a walk-in shower. The enclosure was made of textured plastic, and I hated the way it let anyone look in at you. Too many movies, I guess. Seeing a girl naked in a shower not aware that a camera is watching everything she does. Not that anyone snuck into the bathroom to watch me. I wouldn't put it past them though, especially that fucking little Robert.
In the bathroom, I locked the door and stripped off my t-shirt. Paranoia made me stop with the t-shirt still on my arms, and suddenly anxious, I pulled it against my chest and checked every square inch of the bathroom for a hidden camera. I wouldn't put anything past Robert. I already knew he regularly searched my room and invaded my laptop. I knew he read my email, or suspected it strongly. I also strongly suspected he knew more about me then I knew myself.
Opening the closet doors, I eyed the stacks of towels for any telltale lens. The doors were wooden with slats wide enough to look through—or for a camera to film through. I wondered if Robert had seen me nude yet. He'd caught me topless once, though that was my fault. I wondered if I was more embarrassed or mortified by the thought of him seeing me nude. Or perversely aroused.
Face it, I thought, sourly. You're a freak.
Pam and Dad divorced two years ago. Dad did nothing for a year, and then began dating a woman named Mariska, like Mariska Hargitay from Law & Order SVU. She looked nothing like Mariska Harrgitay, more like Goldie Hawn on a good hair day.
You know who Goldie Hawn is, right?
Mariska had kids of her own, a son and a daughter, and the son was just my flavor of Jell-O: delicious cherry. I really got excited about Dad dating someone new, even someone as skanky as Mariska, even if I wasn't Daniel's favorite flavor of Jell-O. The fact that I wasn't ignored was good enough for me. But just as Daniel began to notice my existence, Dad got tired of Mariska and took up with someone from his office, a woman named Rachel. I never saw Daniel again. Rachel's kids lived with their father.
Mom and Dad getting back together was a total fluke. It happened six months ago. Rather, they met by accident six months ago, Dad out with this Rachel woman on a Friday night, Mom out with her sometimes boyfriend Richard, running into each other in the waiting line at Red Lobster. Mom said it took a minute to realize the man she was peeking at across the room was her ex-husband.
Dad had no idea Mom was there, only discovering this when Rachel's sudden annoyance made him look around for the source of her irritation. Aware she had been caught staring, Mom turned away and Dad was left to wonder why the person with her back to him, her arms folded defensively over her chest, seemingly embarrassed, looked familiar. It took him most of the next hour and a half to realize who she was.
.... There is more of this story ...