• “…swifts on a fine morning in May, flying this way, that way; sailing around at a great height perfectly happily. Then one leaps onto the back of another, grasps tightly, and forgetting to fly they both sink down and down in a great, dying fall. Fathom after fathom until the female male utters a loud, piercing cry—of ecstasy.” –Mr. White’s Natural History

    If the mountain won't come to Muhammad, Muhammad must go to the mountain; if you cannot be tempted, be the temptation. The individual is lured out from their want of something; learning the ability to achieve things by themselves, whereas at the same time grows the greed creeping from your conscious. The greed of what we truly lust for; money, power, and what one may consider “love”. Yes, these lusts, this “love” I am too well acquainted with, along with the tire souls of young men throughout history; held captive by the Geishas of Japan, the concubines of Siam, the catamites of Greece, the harlots of India, the courtesans of Bombay, and in modern times: my older sister, Charlotte.

    I was only six when it started, thinking the most impure thing was the dirt upon the ground. On the other hand, Charlotte was at the age of 13. My sister and I held a very standard relationship, each of us barely grasping one with our parents. Point is we wouldn’t even make it off the ship in the Swiss Family Robinson. Charlotte would walk to me school, place me in the line of other students, turn her back, and walk away. I wasn’t one to understand hate, but I had a paucity of understanding love and care. I eventually grew out of this, spending the most hours at school; I allowed myself to switch the importance of the two places, school and home. Home was to learn, school was to love.

    Days before my seventh birthday, I did what any normal child would do: beg for what they wanted the most. I can’t remember what it was, but I remembered how I got it. My parents said no when I asked, and soon my eyes streaked with tears. Refusing to believe it, I ran about the house when my mother was at the store and my father at work; leaving me in Charlotte’s care. I looked in the most obscure parts to find my present. Finding nothing, I entered what I thought was the scariest room in the house: Charlotte’s room. I scarcely remember how it used to look, my memories too clouded with my childish thoughts of the present. I could only remember the bed, with its rumpled bedspread, the clothes at the foot, and to my surprise at the time, crumpled dollar bills under it. I was not of age to understand the importance of money, but I knew if the amount was large or not, but it was enough to get me my present. My ignorance/innocence made me believe that Charlotte somehow got the money to buy the current present of my dreams. During my celebration of happiness, Charlotte walked in, pulling in a boy with her. His large hands grabbing her below her waist, his face being buried in the nape of her neck; lead by her pulling hands on the back of his shirt. Charlotte turned her head, her giggling face turned sour, to see me crouching on the floor, money in hand. She whispered quickly into the boy’s ear, he scoffed, turned his ears away from her lips, and started yelling.

    “Damn it Char, I already paid you half-way!”     he spat out, ignoring me trembling on the floor; my hands, still clutching the money, turned sweaty. She hushed him to keep his voice down, which was overruled, as he kept raising his voice even louder; making her eyes tremble as much as my knees were. The boy walked off, muttering something about money. As I look back now, it reminded me of a young business man, being cut out of a deal.

    The worst was yet to come. My hands would not let go of the money, afraid that any movements would cause the earth to open and swallow me whole. The next thing I knew is that she struck her hand across my cheek, loosening the hinges of my fingers, and knocking me onto the floor. I was lucky enough the floor was carpet, but the shock was painful enough for me. She told me to get out, reading no emotion in her tone or face. I obliged, running to anywhere that wasn’t that room. I somehow configured my mind to believe that Charlotte was in a bad mood, and we soon had the same quiet relationship we had before. On the morning of my seventh birthday, I was surprised to see that Charlotte got what I wanted. I took it again as an act of love and forgiveness, when now I see it as bribery to keep a kid’s mouth shut. That time in her bedroom was locked away, but soon would be nothing compared to what would happen later in the years.

    I already knew about Charlotte’s prostitution scheme when I entered middle school. When I thought I was “too mature” to have a babysitter, my mother and father gave me the privilege to stay at home by myself. Of course, this never stopped Charlotte from bringing home business. The many boys that she brought home were around her age, and I even had moments to be acquainted with them. I learned after a few times not to get attached, for when one customer came in the door once, they never came again. I’d cringe every time she told mom and dad how her “part-time” job was going. I was disgusted, but too scared to say a word. She was my fear.

    We both grew up, the memory in the bedroom long gone. Charlotte started commuting to college every morning, came back in the afternoon, and disappeared in the night. I was entering high school myself, and lusted among my friends over the fine female beings around us. My friends seemed to categorize Charlotte as one of these beings, and curiosity killed my feline instinct; as I couldn’t help look at her when she walked by. Her long black hair cascaded on her nimble shoulders, bouncing as she walked with her long legs across the kitchen for a glass of water. Since when was the thing I feared the most so beautiful? I never considered her my sister, since I had better relationships with girls outside my bloodline. But the fact that she was in the blood made me feel excited, and I felt more and more tempted. Every time she would pass by my eyes would drink and my mind would digest for my body to nourish its pleasure. The dirt on the ground had no comparison to my soiled mind. I was obsessed, but I took it as love. My last morsels of dignity kept me from attacking her every time, the thoughts becoming more monstrous every time. Until one afternoon, she came home dragging a middle aged man by his belt hooks. Giggling and whispering to him as I sat with my back turned. I knew nothing of the man or the situation. All I knew is that it drove me mad.

    She pulled the man upstairs to her room, and paid no heed to my presence. I was no longer her brother, but more like a prop that was just as important as the bowls in the cupboard and the plants in the pots. The dead silence in the house made it more difficult for me to block out the images coming from the two of them. His eyes upon her face, his hands upon hers, his lips caressing hers, were more than I could stand! No fantasy of mine could be done without the image of her being with another man. I stayed frozen until I heard the creak from the door hinges. The man descended the stairs, tucking his wallet into his back pocket as he passed me by. I locked the door behind him, my hands shaking not in fright like before, but in madness. My dignity didn’t matter at this moment, for I headed up the stairs and literally pushed myself into the door. There she was, still bare under a thin sheet, straightening and folding slick dollar bills in her slim hands. She asked me what I was doing here, and walked closer to her, one knee leaning on the same sheet that was on her figure.

    “I love you, Charlotte.” was all I could say. I may have been a fool, but I was a fool in love; determined to carry her along for the ride. I expected her to respect me, or in hope, to say she loved me as well. But she laughed, still counting her money. Laughed and threw my words right back to my face. I answered back by saying I was straight up serious and would prove it to her. Of course my words were just in spite of her laughter, and I had nothing to prove my “love”. She obviously ignored the “love” business, and waved the money near my face, brushing off the tip of my nose. She simply stated that if I wanted love, she needed money. I was dumb-stuck, thinking how in the world she could think I was another customer. I was furious, stubborn, attracted, and of all things: foolish. I made my move, my face towards her, catching her by the lips. It was sweet, and thought it only lasted for a few seconds, filled me with happiness. She paused before her reaction, and then decided that it couldn’t be helped. She pulled my shirt towards her body, and returned my move. This time, longer and farther than a kiss, her body pressed against mine. It was like my spirit traveling through my own body and spread to hers. This was love, to me.

    She never asked for money that first time. Or the second or third time. I always thought she really did love me without charge, which were all lies. Charlotte never brought another customer home after that afternoon. I wasn’t sure if she stopped prostitution all together, or if she just didn’t bring them home for my sake. Either way, I was just a stupid teenager, mistaking our pleasures for love, but nothing was stopping me. My fantasy love kept on for two years, always waiting for her every afternoon in her bedroom. I was obsessed with her, and would kill anyone who laid a hand on her.

    After Charlotte, I was incapable of making a standard group of friends. There was probably one boy who I tolerated enough for the title of ‘friend’, and soon he came over to hang out often. He commented once or twice about the beauty of my sister, but I had no need to be jealous. I believed that I had her wrapped around my finger; whereas it was the opposite. I can’t remember my friend’s name, for after he shocked me with his news, I didn’t bother to care about anyone but myself. He pulled me aside and told me that my sister was a prostitute. I acted surprised and asked how he came across this lie. He told me that he slept with her the afternoon before, when I wasn’t home. I remained frozen while he told me after the experience, he was charged with a fine. I didn’t say anything and departed the scene, my fists shoved into my pockets. She had betrayed me. My crazed obsession grew into jealous rage, as I gathered anything that used to be of value to me, and sold it, cheap or expensive. Money had no worth to me now. That afternoon I slept with her one last time, and threw the money I collected into her face.

    “I paid you, whore. Thanks for curing my obsession.” I said, turning my back to her and leaving. I could hear her crying though the wall that separated our rooms. I bit my lip to restrain my own tears, which were ready to burst, as soon as I heard her do downstairs and literally shouted at Mom and Dad what she had been doing for the past years. I listened through the door as Dad yelled at her, saying what type of daughter she was, what a disappointment and shame she was to the family. I had half a mind to go down and tell them that I was having sex with her. But I was scared; the idea of being with Charlotte no longer felt exciting. It felt shameful.

    The days passed by so quickly before my parents sent her to an institution for those with obsession. My parents were too ashamed and embarrassed to help her themselves, so they abandoned her into the hands of strangers. I was never to hold her hands again.

    …


    Two years have passed. I am eighteen. My parents never found out about the incest, but with the way I acted with Charlotte, they somehow had a glimpse of what was there. I was no longer in love, finally maturing enough to see past my ignorance. The boy who was the reason that I was so furious with Charlotte, apologized to me for bad-mouthing my sister; though he only said it in sympathy after hearing about her depart. My mother burned all the money my sister gained, and refused to believe that she even had a daughter. My dad on the other hand, had more compassion, agreeing to drive me to see Charlotte at the institution.

    I hung my head outside the car window, enjoying the quick passing white lines and the cold breeze. I felt like a dog that never been outside. I was tempted to start drooling.

    “Get your head back in, kid. “My dad said, breaking my thoughts of canine behavior. I sat back down on the sweaty leather seats, and shot steaming glares at the back of my dad’s head. I noticed that he had a petite bald spot on the back of his head. I never really noticed it before, and had trouble believing it, thinking I could reach out and there would be an invisible tuft of hair where that patch of bare scalp was. I guess it was the stress that always got him down, when he found out that “daddy’s little angel” wasn’t being so angelic. My eyes locked off my dad’s head as we started to slow down. It was my first time being there, at that house; Charlotte’s new home.

    The nurse led me down to her room, a metal door with no windows. I opened the door slowly, and there she was. She sat with her back straight, her body full of confidence, but her face was worn with trauma. Her skin pale and her figure gone. The girl who was once a love goddess was reduced to the appearance of a peasant on the street.

    “Hey Charlotte.” I said, hearing my voice echo off the bare walls. She then moved her gaze to me, her eyes still as sparkling as ever.

    “Eric.” She whispered, as I closed the door behind us.