Fic: Bound in Blood ~ Sister My Sister

[hyena_gal]

Title: Bound in Blood
Author: hyena_gal
Fandom: The film "Sister my Sister", directed by Nancy Meckler
Summary: Christine deals with things.
Rating: R. Warning: Incestuous relationship ahead, so if that makes you go 'Eek!' as it naturally *should* - tread cautiously.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Just my personal take on the film, based on the real-life sisters Papin.
Author's Notes: Umm... Watch the film. Then read this. Or something. Title taken from one of Christine's lines. 

* 

And you know that it is wrong...

But you just can't seem to care.

Shoving her down into the blind whiteness of the mattress, making her take it, through her and (maybe) on to the pad beneath the two of you, consuming, swallowing this (please?) and... all the rest of it up...

It is becoming hard. You both know it.

Lately....

And it is dark around you, but you can still see her eyes under you. Always her eyes. Brown and soft and with something everlastingly *wounded* in them.

Like a doe's, you imagine. Or no. More like a fawn's.

So obvious. It makes a place deep within your stomach twitch for a split second at the realisation.

But...

It can't change this. Doesn't change...

"Christine --"

And oh, it's a choked sound, a breathed whisper drifting up to your ears. Maybe because...because she shouldn't...talk?

Not when it's *this* you are...

You can't help the groan rumbling from you then, falling out and carrying a small ''sshh, Lea'' with it, surrendering, and that is what this is all about, what *everything* is about.

Your hips thrust hard following that, one rounded thigh grounding into her, and ah, her own surrender, a whimpering moan, and it only makes you want to do it again, as well as harder.

So you do.

And holding yourself above her, one hand covering her open gasping mouth now to smother the louder noises forced from her, you let your head fall back.

All that it can be.

Your eyes slip shut. Not against anything. There's only you and her.

The blackness is deeper here under your eyelids than it is in the cold chamber.

You've learned not to be scared anymore.

*

So alive, vibrant.

Young and sweet and slight, everything she always was, and how you have ached, * yearned* to see, hold your little sister again.

Of course you can't let her know this. She tells you she has felt the same way with a mild smile. The sun is hidden it.

But secretly, what you won't tell, is that you are just as glad, pleased to have succeeded in snatching her away from Mama's claws.

Mama is a beast. But Lea cannot see this.

Never could.

That is why, you reason, you took her away, brought her here, to be with *you*.

To save her.

You give her a satisfactory answer, a convincing one when she asks: it involves money, the world's golden blood, (will never fail) and really, she is here, because...

Because you needed to have her near you once again. And far far removed from Mama.

That is what you are certain of. What you have been all along.

When she presses her thin body against yours, embracing ---

It's. Almost not there and yet.

Strange *heat* prickling the tender flesh behind your ears.

Odd.

But you ignore it, like the time when you were hungry and scrawny together with her.

She is here. Lea is here. It is all that matters.

*


Black. and. white.

Lea innocently mentions Sister Veronica one grey dreary morning.

You remember the nuns at Saint Mary's long ago, faded picture.

Oh yes, you remember them.

The old hate and pain and feeling of *lost* rises in you and you grit your teeth in response, biting *back* at it. You'll be damned if you are going to allow crumpled memories to tear at your mind again.

No one who would understand -- the stairs were a descent, further and further down, leading you down to (your?) Hell, or perhaps simply more helplessly *into* it. None of the others would *see*.

And you tried to explain. You truly did. That your tiny feet *sensed* and that there were certain rules you had to follow in order to save yourself.

One step each and every time, the distinct clicking sound trailing you like a condemned ghost as you went...where?

It's too much. Too much. And you despise the way it leaves you behind weak and broken, struck as if by one of the sisters' stone hands.

No. No 'sisters' were they.

*Lea* is your sister. Little. Sister. She is both and each, too.

You look at her. At her long hair and brown wide eyes. Her lips which pull into a gentle smile when she notices you looking at you.

She opens her mouth to speak.

*

Says it scares her -- the way Madame Danzard checks everything.

The two of you are in the kitchen, your domain, working effectively, machine-like.

But you have been watching and you know.

Gloved firm fingers, vicious, and wandering and they are *hunting*. Meticulous. That is what Madame is.

And you are relieved that she is. In fact, you have thanked her wordlessly many times, simply because of this certain characteristic.

And why? Because it *settles* upon you. The lines are drawn, carved into your consciousness, not to be crossed not to be crossed! -- and dear confused Lea who thinks they are cutting her, tying and holding her down when...

When they are there to help. To protect your very soul (her soul?)

To keep (that feeling, heat) the thoughts at bay, chase them across and into the blankness, to dissappear.

You *crave* the restrictions, because if they weren't there...how easy wouldn't it be then? How easy wouldn't it be to just...

(Careful now). *That* thing again.

And you aren't gazing at Lea at that moment, as much as taking her *in* for the first time.

She appears...almost mousy, sitting hunched over, concentrating on the green pea pods like that. You watch as a pointed pink tongue darts out to wet lips, leaving them full and slightly moist.

Lea doesn't pay attention to the shudder pitifully curling your shoulders.

*


//If Mama is afraid of me, then are you as well?//

The sentence is there in your mouth, between teeth, ready to be spit out like thick blood, at her, but it never comes.

Like all the rest.

And oh God, you can't bear this. Not this -- when it is *her*, face pure and innocent, too far away even now when you can reach out and *touch* her.

And that she doesn't see, still doesn't, that she has *doubts* when it comes to either you or Mama, even now...

Makes it. indescribably. painful.

There's the solid wall of anger crushing instantly inside your head, kicking grimy bone at the back of your eyes, and you are grabbing, and that's your baby sister's silky hair crunched in hateful hands, palms, and your are hurting her, but you can't.

The hate. The pain. Catches in your sour throat like too too much syrup and it *suffocates*, no breath.

Breaks from you, her fear potent and drenched in tears and hearty sobs -- it is your fault.

Right then -- you *do* realise it. Your mother was correct.

A monster.

You.

Are.

"...not a monster."

And even then, when Lea lets you come to her, touching her and all those bone-deep old frustrations burned from you for now, forgiving and forgiving and no doubt *believing* her own words ---

You know that it is a lie.

*

It is the truth, horrible truth, and this is *not* a game.

Not something which can be replaced or traded for a dirtied coin.

When you had returned, entering your shared space -- you needed to erase your mistakes, the ones that came before your own, and so you talked and the words were against Mama, turning your younger sister around and right ---

//into my arms.//

It worked. The blanket, stretched tightly between two pairs of hands, should have ripped like Mother's terrible bonds on Lea, but instead.

You only ended up having that looming suspicion confirmed.

Her body above you, breath dancing teasingly across features, the unmistakable *closeness*.

Sinks its teeth into your heart and you recognise the sign.

It's...what has been asleep inside and is stirring due to her nearness.

The stench of prey.

("Mama is a beast")

She is so *soft*.

("Not. You are not a")

Want to taste the smoothness of her skin...

(Monster)

This is you.

And what else can you do?

You push her off, stumble across the room, breath gone, heart thudding maniacally and you are frightened -- and at the same time, not.

But the knowledge is heavy, like the continuing rain outside, and so real, and you can't stand to be close to her all of a sudden.

With her (forest animal) eyes beckoning, questioning upon you.

With your -- desire -- raging mercilessly.

"Don't you want to play anymore?" Childishly inquired, eyes gleaming, cheeks flushed.

Lea is *blind*.

You yourself cannot afford such a luxury.

You clearly see now what you are.

And you see what she is...

What you *want*.

*

There is a design to it.

To everything.

And so it fits in, and *can* be...can be done, can't it?

You haven't made this --- it was there all aling, and now. Now you are simply accepting it, reaping it, a gift, laid out for you.

(You wish all of it was more *intricate* than it really is)

There *is* a pattern in it, woven into it: in the gowns you have sewn, in your lust.

(To explain it, give it a head and tail)

Know she won't refuse you when you hold out the dress for her to take. She admires your work. And you admire her.

It is a fair sort of deal -- both parties getting what they are interested in, right? You convince yourself of this as your dim eyes rest languidly on her form that nervously senses your new (so primal) nature.

(Deformed hard skull beneath the scrabbed stretched skin)

And *still* she she comes to you, sits on the bed, invites you and it's more than you.

Can take. The scolding fire jerks inside your flesh, loud roaring beast.

Feel the howl of hunger in your ears as you lift Lea's girl hand up to your wanton lips.

Just want it to stop. Your kisses are the fiercest ones as you share, only like sisters could, and the drumming builds...

(Strong tail lashing, swirling and redrawing, grasping at desired out-of-reach things)

Builds, and...oh God, must *drown* it out, with the beat in her blood, the heat racing through her skin.

Drink your fill, be sated, and you almost, but only almost, expect Lea to scream, hit at you, cry tears of lost when you urgently push her back on the narrow bed, instinct older than you taking control, and your hands are not *yours* and they're under the hem, gliding up soft yielding parting thighs --

(Monstre)

And you can't recall ever having touched her here before, not even when you were both too young and you had to help her bathe, and she's wet beneath the mass of curly hair, your weight holding, pressing her down, stay here always --

(Stop me.)

Lea moans. She can't help it, and you can't help it, and that is why you lick at her exposed throat before biting down with a snarling sound, fingers probing demandingly, and then...

Then you *in* her, where you always belonged. Where you always wanted to forget yourself in.

Deeper then.

You never wish to leave this place now, letting your hand bury itself alive, and your mind drifting peacefully.

Lea cries your name soundlessly. In fear, pleasure, pain.

You feel yourself letting go as well. The whiteness of the light behind your eyelids is too sharp, slashing.

(I am)

*

"Broken."

Nothing.

Hasn't changed. Anything. Only traces of blood (yours and hers) on your right hand. Not much. Not much.

Lea is still *beautiful*, and young, and your little sister, frail, always...

But...

You only noticed now. She is most beautiful when she is scared. When she cries.

(Broken)

You didn't do it. It was an accident --- traitourous table and the object not shattering like it *should* have.

Because it is in the nature of things that they break when. Pushed too far.

Nothing. is. broken.

You calm her, voice soothing, murmuring, and she comes to you, *trusting*...

Her hands taste sweet, like berries. Dear Lord, how you *love* her!

Immediately want to shove her back against the stairs, tear her maid uniform apart, hold her down with one hand while the other glides into her, keeps pushing -- *pushing* -- until the spine moistly *snaps*, claiming her mouth at the same time and swallowing each and every scream drawn from her.

Of course you don't do it.

The time will come where you will go back to your room...the wind rushes inside your head.

No.

Is. broken.

Nothing.

*


When the pair of you *do* attend church on Sundays, you are bitter.

Isn't yours or Lea's place. Never was. Would be.

Useless. But you have to, are forced to. Is expected of you.

The nuns. Mama. *Their* abode.

At least more than God, who seems like a mere nonentity in His own house. Chilly stonewalls towering, closing darkly down over your heads, and the building is an open *grave*.

Pointless, you think, when you are there.

Glancing up and dead Jesus on the cross is just...sad. So lost in the sorrow, *not* enough strength to help anyone else.

Rosary clutched -- the small round stones, cold, measured, many, circling and circling within the confinement of giant cosmos hand. Has a long scar running down it. Ties you to, *cuts* you into Lea forever.

And you remember Saint Mary's, the stories, stern-faced nuns.

//Brand of Cain//.

Abel. and. Cain.

Cain.

and. Abel.

Lea. and. Christine...

Cain was the older of the two. Exactly like you.

He was just (misunderstood) so awfully *frustrated*, and Abel was good and kind and all the life *adored* him unaskingly, held him as a sought treasure, and then his brother had to come, with all his tampered fire --

There is one thing you will never do, though.

You would *never* kill Lea. Never.

Love her, love her so much, so much it's a searing pain, and you think of the night before when she was beneath you, around you, writhing and shuddering and you had four fingers inside her, biting at her bottom lip as you *drove* them up in her rippled sin.

Hands folded in front of you in mock prayer, warmth and moistness kindling between impatient thighs.

Imagining how your thoughts rise from you, like fat black flies, fly up, only to then fall - fall - rush down in, into you, once more.

It is a lovely kind of agonising punishment.

Leaves you feeling ---

*


Why does she do it?

When all you can feel is a devotion for her that transcends absolutely *everything*.

Why does she *do* it, when your eyes are lit hatred and your face must look.

(Like something that ought to shy from the light, but is too stubborn, crazed to do so.)

It is because she is off to that other world, seeing, seeking escape routes in this realm, clutching on to all potentially valid things (persons) that can bring her there.

(Thought alone drags your pulsating heart from your very breast, tug by torturing tug)

But Lea *knows* there are *rituals*, cannot -- *cannot* -- be shared with simply anyone, with anyone else, only you and her, the two of you.

The body gives it blood, and the hair has its thousands of strands --- all the same.

The kitchen therefore has to witness (the beast) the anger explode in ruptures, want to smash the entire place *apart*, rotten sentence only serving to goad you on:

//How can you betray me, Lea? How can you...//

When she enters the kitchen shortly afterwards...

You are not Cain. But you are. a. Monster.

And she has to pay for it, Pay for it in whispers, in sobs, in breathy gasps, in *moans*.

Wring it all from her wiry body, over and over and *over* again, tongue inside her mouth, licking across straigth teeth, and slamming her back againts the nearest wall.

Will Lea break?

More importantly -- will you?

Grunting, already pulling her skirt up with sure fingers, and then you are kneeling before what matters to you, *your* fragile Messiah in flesh, the flesh which is swollen, dripping, the scent causing your nostrils to flare, wolf-like.

Push your mouth into it; sucking like the child at its mother's breast that you never were, playing tongue across, further in, looking up, and Lea is watching you, face coloured, mouth gaping and the *eye-contact* the two of you share...

You both hold it as you grow more ravenous.

*

It is always there, scratching at the surface.

Can't help wondering *exactly* when you grew used to pretend being a human. As a child? Not sure -- the sisters are crowding, and you do not like that. Of course not.

And sometimes.

Sometimes it is just -- hard.

Because you know that you are doing it right, you know how to do this, and yet Madame keeps insisting...

That this is another failure, her breath sharp and precise, invading the curve of your ear, the back of your neck, and you are struggling now, with a steady hand (is it really your own?) and you almost non-existing control of will.

No. It is...always hard.

Maddening chirping -- would she just shut *up* already?

Your grip on the pair of scissors is turning your knuckles chalk white and, still -- still, you *try* to calm yourself, but then you see... Lea's expression, and...

You would have done anything in the world *not* to, if you could.

But it is too late, and the rage seeps through your form like a sickening lethal virus. And you squeeze your eyes shut, just for a prized moment, as the images dance, dance ---

Imagine the shiny blades carving through the wrinkled flesh at Madame's left eye, the sweet *horror* reflected there, directing them (like an angel), drooling blood, to Mademoiselle's breast, stabbing wildly into the area above her palpitating heart. Not directly at it. Important.

So you flee. Abruptly turn, walk quickly from the room, Madame's accusations following you, but you can't care.

Because having stayed any second longer...

(Any second.)

Minutes. Hours. Days. Months now.

You are losing it all. Everything.

Dear God, please, *please*.

Just...

*

Lately.

In the last couple of weeks, you've noticed that you have grown more violent when it concerns...

Lea.

Can't get fast enough back to your shared room, and then.

Pushing her onto the bed, onto her small hands and knees, her back presented to you like a horse's, (submissively) you pull the dress up, all the way up, around her waist, and when she is bared you take a few moments, studying her vulnerable posture, able to see her firm bottom, really *see* every single fold of your little sister's sex, slick from arousal that even she can't fend off.

Your own cunt twitches instantly in sympathy.

Letting one hand travel up her shivering back, up, up, through loose silky hair until grabbing forcefully hold of her heated nape, you enter her from behind with the other hand, two fingers sliding into thick wetness, three then, your pelvis thrusting, right hand positioned in front of it.

Isn't this the way animals do it?

Suits the situation, somehow. You can't possibly do this and think it *clean* in any way, can you?

Lea jerks her head slightly, as if reacting to an insect flying near her head.

And you are almost certain that it is ''Christine'' from her you hear, but it is too low, too indistinct, could just as well have been the kind of noise hares make when caught, or a plea for you to stop.

The dim darkness around you. It gives you strength.

You ram your fingers viciously into her until she gives a muffled scream.

It gives you the strength you need.

*

"You would never leave me, would you, Christine?"

Many nights. Dark following dark, and there is no light in-between.

This night, you are spooning her in the cold bed, soothing her with a song, because she is so frightened, so scared it makes you feel uncomfortable as well.

Fear is infectious. What you *are* isn't. The only difference...

And right then, what you ardently wish for is to suck all her pain up into yourself, you can take it, it won't matter to you, and Lea is so young, so *fragile*.

That is why you have tried, (you were too curious, of no good), wanting to see if you could make her fall apart, //I am a monster// and maybe you succeeded when your entire hand was resting within her, or you made her ride your thigh *hard* as you bit her breasts until they feebly bleed.

Maybe. Is starting to become unimportant.

Lea is shaking. But not because of your closeness. Because of her own mind.

Almost like...

You love her. Love her more than you could possibly ever describe. She is ...Lea. Perfect and all that ever needed to be.

"You won't, will you?"

Sounds saddened, frightened at the prospect, as if realising the crushing seriousness of the situation.

Smile sleepily, nuzzle her neck ever so tenderly.

//Never.//

*


Of course it was you.

It *had* to, didn't it, with all the molten black beast fire rolling in your veins?

Lea only delivered the killing blows, heavy enough against Isabelle's head, and then, when you both stood panting from your excursions above the dead women.

Brown eyes, wet with tears, long bloodstains across her adorable confused face and in the hair you had cut and washed not long ago, had your fingers trailing through.

Felt yourself grow hungry for her, for the *blood*, again, but didn't go to her. It was...different, with the blood of dead. Didn't know why, or why you knew, but.

(*Never* kill Lea.)

Yanking mademoiselle Isabelle's frilled drawers down, her buttocks obscenely meaty and pale, not at all like your Lea's, and all of sudden you had a *knife* in your hand, weight reassuring, and you knelt...

*


Her wrists.

You are *always* absentmindedly afraid when you take hold of them, pin them down above her head, that you might accidentally pulverise them, somehow.

They are...so thin.

You feel the fine bones beneath, between index and thumb, marvel at the delicacy that Lea *is*.

When you are in your room.

She submits to every single thing, because she can't hide, and she doesn't realise, doesn't know the numbing answers to all of this, but you do.

And it is because of this that you *let* her submit to your fancies,

--- and you punish her.

Punish her, because she cannot save you. Probably never could.

Punish her, because she is... Lea.

Punish her, because she means to leave you, to let you battle yourself all on your own.

(To save herself.)

Can't take it -- not fair, so you make her share the all-consuming pain, slices it into strips and forces some of them inside her.

Kisses turn into bites. Strokes grow into unconcerned thrusts.

And you look down at her, so far below, and there are bright tears in her sad eyes.

And you know that it is wrong.

But you just can't seem to *care*.

end.