A/N: Hello to all! I know I shouldn't be starting another story, but my friend and I wanted to write one XD

This will be co-written by myself and a friend of mine. She does not have an account here though(even though I've tried to convince her numerous times .)

It will be slow updating(like all my others haha) but it will never be abandoned, so you don't have to worry about that. All ideas are welcome :D

Warning: Contains one-sided incest. Don't like, don't read. But please don't flame.


By Cameron D. McCarthy

If you ask anyone, they will tell you that my life is perfect.

I will tell you that they are wrong.

They will tell you that I am lucky because I lived in France for six years.

I will tell you that it was a hell that I am glad to have escaped.

They will tell you that I am blessed to be naturally attractive.

I will tell you that it is a curse.

They will tell you that I am lucky to have such a pretty older sister.

I will tell you that I wish she was dead.

They will tell you how envious they are that I have such nice parents.

I will tell you what cruel, heartless bastards they truly are.

They will tell you how awesome my new mustang is.

I will tell you that my parents only bought it to ensure I had a way to leave, should they desire it.

They will tell you how wonderful it is that my family has a picnic every Sunday.

I will tell you that I hate Sundays with ever fiber in my being.

They will tell you how cool it is that my father designs video games.

I will tell you that it is only to cover up what he really does.

They will tell you how nice it must be that my mother does not have to work and that she can stay home with us.

I will tell you that I wish she, too, were dead.

They will tell you how sweet my little sister is.

I will tell you that she is the devil incarnate.

They will tell you that we are the perfect family.

I will tell you that we are the farthest thing from it.

I nearly jump when the door cracks open to reveal my older sister, Jennifer. She is wearing her long blonde hair down today. Long, terrifyingly yellow hair that I hate. Her lips are a bright, cherry red. A horrifyingly vibrant red. Her skin-tight halter top is a striking orange. A horrendously vivid orange. Her nails are painted to match, alternating between yellow, orange, and red. They are shimmering brilliantly in the light coming in through my window.

I shiver briefly before setting my paper down and wrapping my arms around my knees to stop my trembling. I hate orange, red, and yellow. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that I am afraid of them. I realize fully how silly my fear is, but I simply cannot help it when the only colors that Jennifer ever wears happen to be red, orange, and yellow.

She smiles, those horribly red lips lifting in a predatory sneer that chills me to the bone. "Hey there Cammy," she greets lightly. Her voice, which most would call beautiful, grates painfully on my ears. I cringe.

"Why a-are y-you here?" I ask. She shouldn't be here. She was supposed to go to a friend's birthday party today. Did it already end?

"Oh Cameron love," she purrs, the French accent we had picked up while living in France surfacing. "I wanted to see you!"

She walks further into my room, swaying her hips as she does so. Her short white shorts enhance her tanned legs. I bite back bile as those legs come closer and finally stop in front of where I am sitting on my bed. A hand with those scarily painted nails reaches for me and I flinch back. She sighs loudly.

"Cameron…you know what happens when you do this. Do you really want to be punished?" she asks lowly.

"No," I whisper, tears welling up in my green eyes. I feel her hands on me seconds later, pushing me back until I am lying flat on my blue bedspread. I hold back a sob. She settles herself across my hips, placing her hands on my stomach. I swallow and look at the ceiling, the wall. Anything but those nails, those lips, her shirt, that hair.

I hear a rustling sound and turn to see that she is holding my paper in her hands. At least they aren't on me anymore. I watch as her expression darkens considerably. I swallow again, fighting the urge to just push her off and run. She turns icy blue eyes my way. I flinch.

"You wish I was dead do you?!" she hisses, eyes narrowing, hands crumpling the paper.

I stare up at her, eyes wide. I can't exactly deny it, can I? "I-I do," I say, the fear I'm feeling saturating my voice.

She slaps me. Hard. I bite my lip and hold back another sob. Why didn't I just throw the paper away when I saw her standing in my doorway? Note to self: do not show diary or any other writings to crazy sisters.

She grabs a handful of my light brown hair, yanking on it. I whimper. She leans in close, her minty breath washing over my face in disgusting waves. "Get undressed. If you still have clothes on when I get back, I will show you the true definition of pain," she whispers menacingly.

Then she gets off of me, ripping the paper to pieces and scattering them all over my floor as she makes her way to the door.

Once she is gone, I stand and hastily start to remove my over-shirt. It's not that I want what I know is coming next, the opposite in fact. But…I know that it will be so much worse if I disobey. My sister is four years older than me, several inches taller than me, and she is training to become one of those rather frightening female weight-lifters. So she is older, taller, and much, much stronger than me. I really can't disobey her, even if I wanted to. She can literally force me to do whatever she pleases.

My white shirt joins my blue over-shirt on my cream-colored carpet and I bend over to remove my black vans. My socks follow shortly after.

My fingers hesitate when I reach my jeans. I close my eyes and take several deep breaths before unbuttoning them. I hear footsteps in the hall and I sidle them down my legs quickly, pulling my boxers down with them. I don't want to know what the "true definition of pain" is.

The door opens and I cover myself with my hands, staring at my polka-dotted socks on the floor. I hear the door close and my lock click into place, but I don't look up. I don't want to see her, I don't want to see the colors.

"Oh Cameron," she calls. I know that she will hurt me for it, but I don't look up, I can't look up. I'm too afraid.

Her hand comes down hard on the cheek she already slapped. It hurts twice as much and I can't hold back a small cry of pain. She leans in close to me, her hot breath washing over my neck and says, "Now here's what we're going to do…"

A short scuffle, three slaps, and one death threat later, I find myself on my floor on all fours, staring wide-eyed at Jennifer. There is a sadistic gleam in her cold blue eyes as she takes in my clothes-less state, the dog collar that she forced me into. It's so tight I can barely breathe.

She is sitting in my computer chair, my trashcan between her legs. Before she had situated herself in my chair, she had picked up my paper that she had ripped into four pieces and proceeded to tear it up as much as she could. Looking at it now, there has to be over thirty pieces.

"Now Cameron," she says smugly. I raise my eyes fearfully, trying with all my might to focus on her blue eyes and not the horrific colors she is wearing. "You'll pick up every piece of that damn paper, crawl over here, put it in the trash, and say 'I apologize Master.' Got it?" she asks.

I nod hesitantly, reaching out to the nearest piece of paper but she stops me with a small noise and a wave of her finger. "What?" I whisper.

She smiles and I shudder. "No hands allowed. Pick it up with your teeth."

I pale. She just smiles again and motions for me to begin.

I swallow once before slowly lowering my head to the floor. I spend several seconds trying and failing to get the stupid piece of paper. I sigh, giving up on that approach. Instead, I carefully slip my tongue out, trying not to touch my dirty carpet, and the little paper successfully sticks. My stomach turns at my sister's aroused gasp, but I crawl forward nonetheless, intent on finishing this as soon as possible.

I reach the trashcan and spit the paper into it, the taste of graphite strong on my tongue. She grabs my hair and yanks, forcing me onto my knees and closer to her. It's an awkward, painful position, and the plastic of my trashcan is cold against certain places.

"Say it," she demands, tugging at my hair and making me whimper.

"I-I a-apologize Master," I choke out.

"Good boy," she whispers, pressing her lips forcefully to mine. I try not to gag and resist the urge to bite the tongue invading my mouth. She tastes like mint and cherries—two more things that I now hate.

By the time she pulls back, I am gasping for air and struggling desperately to keep the tears at bay. She keeps a hold of my hair with one hand, reaching into her back pocket with the other. I nearly shriek when she pulls out a red sharpie. She uncaps it with her teeth and lets my hair go, only to grab my right arm in a bruisingly tight grip. There is no way that I can get away without breaking something.

The tears spill over and I whisper, "No," repeatedly as I watch her draw a small heart on my forearm just beneath my elbow.

She lets me go, recapping her stupid pen. Her heated blue eyes focus on me and she licks those horrible lips. "Again," she says breathlessly.

A/N: Thanks for reading it! My friend and I appreciate it very much XD (We also like reviews too haha)