Chapter 1

Copyright© 2013 by Timberwolf

Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 1 - A brother re-unites with his sister who he had thought long dead. The circumstances force them together until they become closer than they thought they would ever be.

Caution: This Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Consensual   Heterosexual   Fiction   Brother   Sister   First   Oral Sex   Voyeurism  

Rachel Higgins was a small girl. At sixteen, she had the body and looks of a twelve year old. Flat-chested, she was thin, and gangly. She stood at maybe five-two, but seemed smaller, because she'd walk fast, her head down, her long auburn hair covering her face, and she wore glasses. She was incredibly bright, with an I.Q that made Einstein look like a coal miner, I heard on the neighbourhood grapevine, and she was so painfully shy, it was a shame to see her literally run from human contact.

She lived with her Mom and Dad a few doors down from me. My grandfather had bought the house I'm living in as a wedding present for my parents, and I was born and raised in it. Now, it was mine, and freehold.

Let me tell you a little about myself. My name is Alfred Marks, Alfie to my friends and my not-friends can call me what they like, I don't care. I'm six-two, wide shoulders tapering to a slim (ish) waist, and I work by doing odd jobs and casual work here in my home town. Even with the economy the way it is, I never go hungry, or miss a bill payment.

When my parents died when I was seventeen, their insurance paid off the house, and I have to tell you, don't always believe what the press tell you about bank managers, because the bank manager here in town took me into his office, sat me down, and explained to me how much was in my parents bank accounts, and gave me options on how to invest it. Good business practice, I thought. The money stayed in his bank, he got a cut from my investments in the way of interest, and I ultimately made on the deal.

So, at thirty-three, I could live comfortably if I wanted to. But, sitting on your ass all day is boring, and I liked to keep busy with my hands, as it also kept my mind busy as well. I won't tell you how much I have in the bank, but you can bet I really don't need to work. Let's just leave it at that, shall we?

I'm single, and prefer it that way. I suppose you could get all psychotherapist about it, and say that I was afraid that I'd turn out like my old man, but, I drank beer on occasion, though I usually stopped after about a half-dozen or so. I also drank white wine sometimes, just to treat myself at the dinner table. I don't like red wine, I never developed a taste for it.

Like I said, both my parents died when I was seventeen, killed in a car wreck. My dad, an asshole at home, and a perfect gentleman away from it, took my Mom out of town to go on a drinking binge with his buddies, lowlife's and losers, every one of them. He did that on a regular basis, so no-one who knew him in town would know what he was really like.

People in town thought he was a regular guy, clean and sober, happy-go-lucky, but he was a devil in disguise, and made my Mom's and my life a living nightmare. He was an ugly violent drunk.

He would always force my Mom to go along, and leave me at home. He hated me. He blamed me for a lot of things while he was alive, one of them being the fact that I was an only child. Mom had got pregnant again when I was nearly sixteen, but the baby, a girl, had died the next day, they told us, and a nurse had taken the body away, and strangely, she never showed up for work the next day, telling Personnel that she was too traumatised by watching the baby die, so it was an empty casket we buried. Mom had complications during the birth, and to save her life, the doctors had to do a hysterectomy on her.

Dad, when he got drunk at home, which seemed to be all the time, would rant and rave at me, making me, a terrified young man, or teenager, take your pick, stand at the kitchen table and force me to listen to him yelling, telling me I had 'gutted' his mother, and I'd 'fucked up everything' for him. He had wanted a daughter, he used to cry into his booze, and I found out years later why. If he was still alive, I'd have killed him anyway.

I never knew what they did when Dad would force Mom to go with him, but he'd bring her home late at night, then while she'd run to the bathroom and make herself vomit into the toilet bowl, he'd be strutting around, cock-of-the-walk, and sneer at my Mom, telling her she was a 'cunt who'd got what she'd deserved', and mock her attempts to get clean, and she would spend hours in the bath, scrubbing herself, and weeping in shame.

It took me years to understand what that ammonia smell was that she'd reek of when she came home. Her face, hair, and clothes would be smeared, soaked, and matted with the stuff.

When Mom and Dad was coming home that last time, he was so drunk that no-one could understand how far they'd got before the wreck took their lives. He was literally pickled in alcohol. The car failed to take a corner, and went through a crash barrier, and plunged a hundred and twenty feet straight down like a falling star, and there literally wasn't much to save. The coroner found a large amount of seminal fluid in my Mom's vagina, and lots of it in her belly.

I managed to get my hands on the crash report, and the autopsy file, and they counted nineteen different sperm donors that had had their turn with my Mom. I wanted to dig the bastard up, and burn his bones to ashes, and then start all over again, I was that furious.

I went through the house afterward, and took everything that was his, and made a bonfire out of it, and I felt real good about doing so. I erased his memory from my house.

Rest in peace, Mom. You earned it the hard way, and I'm sorry I didn't know.

I used to watch Rachel over the years as she grew up, and she would always without fail get off the school bus, and hurry into her house, and the kids on the bus would jeer and hoot at her, the girls being the loudest. They'd throw insults and comments after her, and her face would always be red from shame, and most times, she'd be crying.

I never saw her parents much. When her dad would come out to mow his lawn, or do outside chores, he'd never smile, and then disappear back inside fast. Her Mom was a blowsy woman the wrong side of forty, and it always looked to me like a cigarette was nailed to her lips. Occasionally, I would hear screaming coming from the house, but it would quickly stop, and I'd wonder what Rachel's Mom was getting her britches in a twist about this time.

I felt sorry for her. But what could I do? I was a single man, and I'd get a hollow feeling in my gut when I witnessed her daily humiliation.

I'd go for walks sometimes in the early evenings, greet my neighbours and stop and talk to them, then carry on, lost in my thoughts. I always ended up at the park, where I would sit at a picnic table, and watch the few families that would congregate there, and sometimes, a family that I'd known most of my life would offer me something to eat or drink, and we'd chat, while the children played.

Most times, one child or another would come up to me, and hold their hands out, girls mainly, and I'd pick them up and sit them on my knee. You'd be surprised at the depth of conversation you'd have with six year olds!

Every now and then, one of the young girls of the neighbourhood would come down with a bad crush on me, sometimes it didn't last long, and they'd find a new boy-band to cry over, and sometimes, I'd have to have a talk with a parent or two, and there'd be tears, but they were made to understand the ramifications of wanting to give themselves to me, an older man, and the laws involved.

It was flattering, I suppose, when I'd have a girl or two, or three, standing outside my gate, sometimes for hours, trying to get me to notice them. One girl went so far as to wear clothes that were so small and tight on her, it was embarrassing. But, I managed to send her home, and told her I wouldn't tell anyone, and thanked her for the effort, and that I was grateful she'd tried to look nice for me. I had a laugh over it, but damn, it was sure tempting!

Rachel's family was 'new' in the neighbourhood, meaning she hadn't been born there. There were rumours floating around, each person giving their theory about where the Higginses came from, what their previous lives were, but as the family didn't mix with anyone, and kept to themselves, conjecture reigned supreme.

No-one knew what their problem was, and they sure didn't go out of their way to mix with anyone either. But, on the odd occasion that Rachel would come out of her house, and stand on the front lawn, she'd have a look of longing on her face, she'd gaze at the houses, and her neighbours, and then her eyes would tear up, and she'd hang her head and go back inside, her Mom standing on the porch glaring at her.

We didn't even know when her birthday rolled around. There were no parties, no sleep-overs, no friends come to visit. Everybody on the planet may as well not have existed.

Sometimes, as she'd be going home, having been made to get off at the stop before hers by the ravening pack on the bus as a joke, which I didn't think was funny, as she hurried past my house, and if I was outside, I'd wave and call out, "Hi, Rachel! Nice to see you!"

At first, she ignored me, tucked her head down more, and walked faster. Then, I noticed she'd flick glances my way, and one day a miracle occurred, and the sun stopped its forward movement.

She smiled!

It was a brief one, a microsecond's worth, but it was a smile, a good start.

I knew the lonely girl was sixteen, because when the Higgins family moved into the neighbourhood, Mrs Higgins was loudly showing off her cute little three year old to the women who'd come over to welcome them. Mrs Higgins was by herself at the time, and she tried to get a group of mothers together, but she began to use psychological tactics on them, playing them off against each other, and became bullying.

Mr Higgins turned up a few months later, and he was dropped off in a prison van. Not a good look, or a good impression to make in front of our little community. He ruled the roost as bad as she did, and from then on, they kept to themselves, and everybody was to blame.

One day, I heard a yelling match in the 'Hell house', as their house was called, and Rachel came out, shut the front door, and sat on the front steps. She hung her head, and I could see her shoulders shaking, and I knew she was crying again.

So, I cut some flowers, and tying them with a blade of grass, I casually walked past her house, quickly placed the bouquet on their lawn, and just as casually walked back to my gate, leaning on it. Then I stood there, pretending to look the other way. She had watched me, and giving the door a quick glance, making sure her jailors weren't watching, she got up, darted down to the flowers, picked them up, smelled them, and she turned her head, raised her chin, and gave me a big bright smile. She hugged the blooms to her chest, and rushed back to her seat.

Then her mother came barging out the front door, and grabbed her arm, hauling her to her feet. She noticed the flowers in Rachel's hand, and growled, "You got a boyfriend, you little slut? If you have, I'll fucking kill you, and your horny fucking dog boyfriend!"

My face went hard, and I began to stand erect, willing to take a hand if she went violent on the poor girl. Rachel cringed, and stammered, "No, Mom! Honest! I asked Mr Marks over there if I could have some, I thought you'd want them, they're so pretty!"

Her eyes went to me, silently begging me for help. I walked up to her Mom, and she watched me like a predator watching her prey, her blue eyes hard, no pity there at all.

I stood there loose and easy, and fixed this ugly-spirited woman with a hard look of my own. I'd spent five years in the Army, and it wasn't behind a desk, either. I'd retired Sargent, and still had my uniform in the closet, put away, but not forgotten.

There was a battle of wills between us, and she stood there, and began to squeeze Rachel's arm, making her whimper softly. She couldn't hurt me, so like the bully she was, she was taking it out on her own daughter.

Then Mrs Higgins broke contact with my eyes, and looked at the crying girl, and spat, "Go ahead, slut! Keep your fucking weeds! I hate flowers!" Then she turned to me, and as she opened her mouth to say something, I said, "Any time you want some flowers Rachel, you just help yourself, you hear me, now? It's alright; you take as many as makes you happy!"

Then Mrs Higgins stormed inside, dragging Rachel like a rag doll, and slammed the door behind her.

Then one day, both our lives changed. I think maybe Divine Providence stepped in and took a hand.

I was in my garden, doing some weeding, thinking of my mother, and then I heard a scream, and Rachel's voice yelled, "No! Leave me alone! I'm not going anywhere with you!", and then she was running for the dubious shelter of her house. I looked up, and one of the teenaged boys who lived down the street chased her, yelling, "You get back here, jailbird! I'll teach you what a real man can do!"

I knew him. He was Freddy Winton, he was seventeen, and his Dad was a pot-bellied beer-swilling 'good ol' boy', and had the attitude to match. Both father and son were losers, and Freddy was even worse that his father, a dope smoking vicious little cockroach.

As she passed me, Freddy was a couple of steps behind her, and I swung my arm out and clothes-lined him. His feet left the ground, and with a bounce and a 'whoof' of air leaving his lungs, he hit the sidewalk on his back, and his head hit the concrete with a thud.

He sat up, both of his hands going to his head, howling in pain. "You fucking queer bastard!" he screamed at me, and then he looked up, and saw Rachel running at him. She had a look of sheer rage on her face, her eyes hard, and she was terrible in her fury. She ran at him, her school uniform skirt flying around her legs, gave a skip, and then her sneaker-encased foot flew up toward his head, and Freddy went to roll out of the way but her foot connected with the side of his jaw with a loud thump!, and he rocked back, righted himself, and then his eyes rolled up into his head, and he flopped sideways, unconscious!

"Holy shit!" Rachel breathed, staring in amazement and not believing she'd had the courage to do that!

I stared at the sleeping boy, stepping up to her, put my arm around her shoulders, and without a second thought, she leaned into me, and put her arm around my waist.

"Rachel!" I said, stunned, "that was magnificent! I'm really proud of you!"

She stiffened under my arm, realised what we were doing, and she dropped her arm, stepping back away from me, shooting a look at her house. Then she looked at the bundle of meanness lying on the ground, she shuddered even though it was warm, and in a fearful voice, told me she was in so much trouble now.

I told her not to worry, this piece if trash had it coming, and when his daddy found out he was beat up by a girl, he'd have hide up in the Artic, he'd be so humiliated!

Rachel hesitated, and I assured her it was fine, to go home, and I'd take care of cleaning up the street. She gave me a grateful look, and went to walk away, but stopped, and looked back at me. "Did you mean what you said?" she asked.

"What? That I was proud of you? Of course I did! You stood up for yourself, and you fought back! Never let anyone put you down, Rachel. One day, you're not going to get back up again, and the world will be a sadder place with you gone!"

She stood taller and slowly walked back to her house, and she was smiling openly, for the first time in years.

I picked up the sleeping teen, and put him on my shoulders in a fireman's lift, and walked back to his house. The boy was rank with marijuana tar fumes, stale sweat and urine. When I got there, his father and a couple of buddies of his were in the garage, drinking beer and listening to country music. His father, Tom Winton, stood about five- seven, was obese, and was waddling toward me, bellowing, "What you done to my boy, queer?" I dropped his 'boy' on his driveway with a thump, and began to roll the sleeves of my shirt up. Tom Winton stopped, looking at my muscles, his buddies stood behind him, and only one of them looked even remotely like getting serious.

"First, asshole", I growled, "I'm not queer, and I'll thank you to remember it! Second, he was beat up by a girl, for trying to molest her! He got what was coming to him, and I was just cleaning up the trash!"

Then I stepped up to him, and looked down into his sweating face. He stank! Body odour was coming off him in waves, and I had to swallow to get the taste out of my mouth, and I wanted to spit.

Tom Winton looked at the still form of his boy, and he growled, "He got beat up by a piece of tail? I'm going to have to teach that boy a lesson he won't soon forget!"

"Tom Winton", I told him, pushing him with a finger, making him rock on his heels, "he touches any girl in a bad way, and I'm coming for him! Then, I'm coming for you!" I looked at his buddies, and gave them my hardest glare, and told them, "I'll be coming for anyone who disrespects girls!"

They wisely chose not to say anything.

Then I turned around and walked away, and left them to argue the merits of what I'd told them.

By the time I'd reached the street, I was grinning, remembering the kick Rachel had given that sorry lump of dung still asleep behind me!

There was a loud screaming match again that night at the Higgins place, and this time, there was another voice involved! I could hear Rachel's voice, even in my living room, three houses down. I couldn't of course hear the exact words, but the argument was a doozy.

Out of morbid curiosity, I went out to the street, and the argument got louder, and Rachel was in fine voice, disagreeing with something she wasn't going to do. I noticed a few of my neighbours had come out, and Mrs Sweet, from across the road, came over to me, and told me it was about time that girl had stood up for herself, but Mrs Sweet was worried, hoping her parents wouldn't beat her.

I told her what Rachel had done that day, and her jaw gaped open, and she cackled with laughter. She was grinning, and told me that guaranteed, everyone in the neighbourhood would know about it by morning. Nobody liked Tom Winton and his vile offspring, and we all sympathised with Mrs Winton, who had to put up with them.

Just then, the front door of the Higgins house opened, and Rachel was ejected from it, flying through the air, to hit the lawn on her feet, and then she was rolling, and stopped in a heap on the lawn. I was moving before I knew it, and then I was picking the abused girl up and pushed her to stand behind me, prepared to defend her from this angry, raging woman, who was supposed to be her mother. A large garbage bag of her belongings followed her, including her school backpack.

Mrs Higgins was screaming, "Fine! You don't want to live here? Well, that's easy fixed! Live on the street like the vermin you are! You'll come crawling back, and I'll make you pay for the way you spoke to me, and acted tonight, you little slut!"

Then she noticed me, and sneered, "Well, well! Looks like you got your first fuck for the night, girl! He'll pay you good money for your honey-pot, if he don't just take it first! I wouldn't be surprised if there's a line of men waiting for you by morning!"

Then she spoke one last time to her terrified daughter. "You don't go thinking you're welcome on this doorstep anymore, hussy! We don't have a daughter, we never did! Go away, we don't want you anymore!"

Cackling like a demon, she turned, and again, slammed the door behind her. Seems she loved making a point of doing that.

Rachel was in shock. Several of the ladies from houses around us came up to her, and surrounded her, talking and fussing over her, inviting her to come with them, promising everything they could think of to calm her, but Rachel pushed through them, and hugged me, gripping my waist tight, and then she was sobbing, great wracking sobs that broke my heart to hear them.

"What have I done?" she cried into my stomach. "Mom's thrown me out! What will I do? Will she take me back? I don't want to go back!" This is a shortened version of what she was saying in her shock, the words coming thick and fast.

She kept on in this vein for a while, and then became quiet, just crying, and sixteen years of pain and grief was washing out of her. I was so furious; I could have razed the Higgins house to the ground with my own two hands, and pissed on the rubble.

The consequences of her actions came crashing down around her, and she was a scared little girl, alone in the world, and I don't know why, but she had chosen me to be her protector, her knight in shining armour. I was trying to think of something to say, to do, but every time I went to say something, she'd sob louder, and all I could do was hold her, and stroke her hair. The women around us tried to prise her away from me, but she locked her hands behind me, and wouldn't budge.

Then one of the women said, "Well, we can't stay out here all night. Let's get her under cover and a hot drink in her!" I looked around, and had to volunteer my place, considering how the girl wouldn't let me go, but another of the women said, "Mr Marks, I really don't think that's wise, you know. She's a young girl, and you're a single man! What would people think?"

I had had enough, and told her, "I really don't care at this point what you, or other people think, Mrs Malman!" I looked down at Rachel, and she snuffled against me. "Come on, Rachel," I said, gently. "Let's get inside where it's warm, ok?"

We adjourned to my house, and the women fussed over Rachel, and some of them were like a flock of magpies, poking into every nook and cranny they could find, annoying me, but I kept the peace. This would give the neighbourhood gossips fuel for months to come.

Every time I went to go out of the room, Rachel would give a start, and make ready to follow me. I told her to stay put, I had something to do, I'd be back shortly, and several hard-eyed women accompanied me to the Higgins residence. I didn't know what I was going to say, but these people really annoyed me, and I hoped I could control my temper when I saw them, face to face.

When we as a group got the door, I knocked, and Mr Higgins opened it.

"What the fuck do you assholes want?" he growled. He stood five-eight, standing there in dirty singlet and grubby jeans, and he had biker boots on his feet. He was overweight, and his belly hung over his belt buckle. I could smell the rank odour coming from the boots and he was unwashed and several days' worth of stubble covered his face. "Where's my fucking slut daughter?"

"Apparently, you don't have a daughter, Mr Higgins," I told him. "Your wife made that point very clear tonight! I'm here to tell you that you and your wife are no longer welcome in this neighbourhood, and we'd appreciate it if you were to move on."

I looked at him, and he sneered at me, and tried to look mean, after five years in the Army, I'd seen men like him come and go, and he didn't frighten me at all. He knew it, too.

"Do it soon, Mr Higgins," I told him, "We can do without you two fouling up the place. We'll even help you pack, if you want!"

He gave a snort, and looked at the women behind me, and grabbed his crotch.

"Why don't you ladies come in? I got something that you'll remember me by!" He gave a disgusting laugh, and told me, "Don't you worry, honey! I won't muss your queer ass up too bad! You might even love me for it!" Then he cackled, and I was revolted by the mere fact he was inhaling the same oxygen we humans were breathing.

Mrs Higgins came to the door, two more full garbage bags in her hands. She tossed them at me, and said, "Garbage day! That should be all her stuff!"

"Enjoy her while you can, pretty boy! It might not be all that long before she's all used up," and she cackled in the same vile way as her husband. "Go on", she told me, "be a big brother to her! I'm sure she'll really enjoy that!" And then they slammed the door in our faces, laughing at a joke only they understood.

I was getting very annoyed at that happening.

In a cloud of fury I picked up the bags, and strode home, the women almost running to keep up.

I got home still furious, and as I walked in the door, Mrs Malman and her cronies were trying to drag Rachel off the couch, telling her to come with them, poor girl, and she was tucked up a ball, fighting them off, nearly hysterical. "What the hell is going on!" I thundered at them. "Leave her alone! Mrs Malman, I think it's time you and your 'friends' went home now!" Then Mrs Malman and her cronies got into a huff, and with their noses in the air, trooped out of the door. Mrs Atherton, a long-time family friend, quickly gathered up the rest of the ladies, and shooed them outside, promising to keep them advised of developments, and assured them the girl would be fine.

They left, and Rachel ran to me, and hugged me, and I gently untangled her arms, and sat down, the frightened girl following suit. She lay against me, hugging me, and with a smile, Mrs Atherton, Judy, went into the kitchen, and I heard her getting cups ready for coffee. I heard her move around, then my jug pinged, and then she came in, and handed me a coffee, and for the sad forlorn girl, a hot chocolate.

Judy had been a friend to my mother, and she was mine now as well. She had been a girl when she and Mom had first met, many years ago, and the two girls grew up together, and they'd been as close as could be, given our family circumstances. Judy never brought up the past, and I didn't tell her.

She had always come over when I needed a shoulder to lean on, and her husband, Peter, was a friend, although we weren't close. He was okay with his wife coming over, and told me one day, Judy was very good at listening to other people's problems, and giving sound advice, and he was right, Judy had seen me through some difficult times. I loved her in my own way, but it was as a brother for his big sister, and we three all knew that, and it remained so for us.

So that's why she knew where everything was in the kitchen, and knew how I liked my coffee.

Judy sat on the big chair opposite us, an old leather-covered recliner I had picked up at a garage sale. As she held her cup, she looked over the top of it, and said in a light voice, "Well, Rachel, what are we going to do with you? We'll have to call the authorities in the morning, and Child Welfare will become involved, and this, my dear, is a powerful big mess we have!"

I looked at the scared young girl sitting next to me, and I asked her, my voice as neutral as I could make it, "What were you all arguing about, Rachel? I could hear you from here, and you obviously didn't want to do something."

Rachel sat there, her hair framing her face, and she took a sip of her drink to gather her thoughts. I began to think she didn't want to answer the question, she took so long, but then she raised her head, and fixed me with an angry look.

"Today is my birthday. I turned sixteen today, and there was no presents, no card, nothing! There never has been! Dad, he, that man! wanted to take me to bed, to have sex with him! That was my birthday present, he said, and that woman, she wanted to watch! They wanted me to take my clothes off, and suck his penis!"

She spluttered in rage. "I would rather die first!" she spat, vehemently.

Judy spoke up, and said quietly, "We'll have to get the police involved, you realise that? This can't go unpunished. No man should do that to his daughter, or any woman, for that matter, Alfie."

She looked at me, and I knew what she was thinking. We didn't have say anything, we both knew what she meant.

Rachel shook her head, and said no. "They'll know it was me that told on them! They'll find me, and they'll kill me. They told me that many times before, and they'd do it too! They're real bad, dangerous, you have no idea!"

She looked at Judy and I, and she said, "I told them no, I wasn't gonna do that! I told them, I didn't care anymore, I just didn't want to stay there anymore, and I kept saying to myself what you told me today, Mr Marks, about standing up for myself, and fighting back, and about the world being sad at my not being here, and something inside me broke! I just couldn't stand them any longer!"

We sat up most of the night, Judy and I, going over the strange events and looking at it from every angle, and somehow, the police weren't called, although we should have, but we just kept putting it off. Somewhere along the line, Rachel had fallen asleep, and I picked her up, and because I knew that I wouldn't be getting much sleep, put her in my bed, and left Judy to take care of taking off the outer layer of her clothes and settling her, while I put the jug back on, and replenished our coffees.

When we were seated again, I could hear a vehicle outside up the road, and it sounded like a big one. I took no notice, because sometimes trucks would get lost, and make their way up our street, their GPS units confused.

I felt gritty, and told Judy I was going to have a shower. She gathered our cups, and took them into the kitchen, and as she washed them, told me to get some rest, tomorrow was another day, and we'd get this mess sorted out. I went to the bathroom, and she left, closing the front door softly.

Afterward, I lay on the couch, and pondered this strange turn of events. What was I going to do? I searched my feelings, and having the girl under my roof seemed natural, like a part of me, missing for years had been restored, and I felt whole. I was disturbed by this revelation, because I wasn't interested in young girls, and taking advantage of the one under my roof didn't appeal to me. She had put her trust in me, and she looked to me as her protector. I knew I'd have to talk about that with her.

But why me? What had I done that she had come to me and not any of the women tonight, when she should have? It confused me. My head was awhirl with these thoughts, tired as I was, and then I drifted off, and slept.

I awoke a couple of hours later, and Rachel was sitting in the chair that Judy was in last night, fully dressed, her legs tucked up underneath her, and she was leaning sideways, as she had been watching me as I slept. I yawned, and stretched; she smiled, and thanked me for letting her sleep in my bed. I sat up, and there was a cup of coffee on the coffee table, and it was still hot. Now that's how a person should wake up in the morning!

I asked her how she knew it was my bed, taking a sip. It was good! She told me with a smile that lit up her face that when she woke, she could smell me on the sheets, and so she lay there, wrapped in the blankets, all warm and cosy, and she told me she had felt safe for the first time in years.

We heard truck doors banging up the street, and Rachel's brow furrowed, and then she got up, and looked out the window into the street. She gasped, and in a panicked voice said, "They're leaving! They're going, and I'm being left behind!"

The truck engine revved, and Rachel was out my door, flinging it open, and dashing outside. There was a moving truck outside the Higgins residence, and it was about to leave. They must have been up all night packing. I quickly followed the distraught girl, and caught up with her as Mrs Higgins was climbing into the cab. Rachel was in a state of shock, pleading for them to talk to her, to tell her what they were doing.

I got up to the cab, and demanded to know what the hell they were doing. Judy was there beside me, and she held the terrified girl, who clung to her.

Mrs Higgins looked down at me, with a sneering superior attitude, and she laughed, a mean, spiteful laugh, and she held up a piece of paper that had been compacted into a small ball. She tossed that at me and it bounced off my chest, and rolled under the furniture removal truck.

"Well, Big Brother," she said spitefully, "did you enjoy your new pet? Why don't you read what's on that piece of paper I just gave you? I just know you'll enjoy it. We did for the last thirteen years we've been here!"

Then roaring with laughter, they drove off.

I found the ball of paper in the gutter, and I unrolled it. I hated those two. Bad enough that they threw their only child out like piece of trash, now they were driving away to parts unknown, leaving her behind, abandoning her! I swore softly at myself, because I realised I hadn't taken notice of the licence plate, or the name of the moving company truck. Hopefully, the police could track them down, and make the scumbags pay for what they've done.

Rachel was sitting on the ground, wailing in sorrow at her abandonment, despite what she told us last night. I felt for her. She would be in the Welfare system soon, and I shuddered to think of what kind of life she'd have, whether anyone would take her in, and a glimmer of an idea came to me.

I looked up, and people were watching us, and Mrs Malman had a spiteful look on her face, obviously not forgiving me for booting her out of my house last night. I didn't care what that biddy thought. Every time you'd think she was human, she'd bite you. Figuratively, of course, but she was spiteful.

As I unrolled the sheet of paper, I saw it was a birth certificate. Then smoothing it out, I saw the name on it, and the name of the parents, and the date of birth, and my body went cold, and I could taste bile, and I wanted to vomit. It couldn't be! It was impossible! Everything spun around me like a vortex, and I felt the ground lurch beneath my feet, and I wanted to faint. A cold sweat appeared on my body, and I was wracked as a shiver went through me. Judy asked me what was wrong, and so, numbly, unable to speak, I handed her the paper sheet. She took it; she read it and gasped, looking at me, at the sobbing girl, and back to the paper. She went pale, and started to cry.

"Oh, Alfie," she sobbed, "I'm sorry! I'm so sorry. How could we have known?"

The Higgins couple weren't human; they were demons from the deepest pit of Hell. For thirteen years, a sweet lovely young girl had put up with the hate, the spite, the sheer bloody terror of living under their roof, not a home, but a prison, not three doors down from me. It was the worst form of torture. So near freedom, yet never knowing it was there just within reach.

I should have been someone who could have given her love, kindness, and a pair of arms to hold her, to kiss away her tears, to raise her and tell her that life was worth living.

I could have protected her.

Written on the birth certificate was the name, Rachel.

Rachel Antonia Marks.

My sister.

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