My Sister Syn (incest, non-futa)

Story by Hardcover

Here's a new story, dealing with incest. It's kind of a dark story, tinged with black magic, mental illness and tragedy, but ultimately a story of a man's unquenchable love for his sister, and how love can still exist on the fringes of society. It's not as pretentious as I make it sound, at least I hope not. I do feel it's pretty uplifting in its way. The tarot cards mentioned are fictional, to the best of my knowledge there is no Asteroth Tarot deck (the Crowley one is real), and the reading is much simpler then the actual way tarot cards are read.

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vivahardcover

MY SISTER SYN

By Hardcover

For most of my life, my sister Syn has been my constant and inseparable companion. For so many years it was like we had our own little world to together, I suppose that what transpired was inevitable. I spent my whole life, most of my childhood and all of my teens taking care of her; and that spawned a bond much deeper then any ordinary pair of sibling could ever have. Sure, most brothers and sisters say they ‘love’ their sibling, but it’s very seldom the truly deep feelings of love that my sister and I have for each other. Perhaps, one could say that it is too deep, or inappropriate, but I now know I wouldn’t have it any other way. I love Syn, with all my heart and soul, and body as well.

My name is Lexington Bloodworth, but everyone calls me Lex for short. My parents had a flair for the dramatic, and as such they named my sister Synthia with an‘s’. We all called her Syn for short, and she never seemed to mind. Syntia was a full four years younger then me, so I was always the older brother, protector, and mentor to her. We were pretty much the standard nuclear family, tooling around town in an SUV, going to parks and movies, having dinner together the whole nine yards. I believe my parents loved us very much, but our time with them was going to be all too brief.

All four of us were on our way home from a church picnic when a large pick up truck loaded with gardening equipment ran a red light and slammed into our car. I remember a violent lurching, blood curdling screams, and the sound of broken glass. As the car turned over and over from the impact, I remember seeing the shards of glass flying around in the air almost like they were weightless, glimmering slightly in the afternoon sun. It was almost beautiful.

When I woke up, a few feet from the crash, I suffered only a few broken bones, and some cuts and bruises. Both my parents were dead; my mother had been decapitated by a flying lawn mower blade. My sister survived, but she was not as lucky as me: Her face had been showered with the flying bits of glass that I had found so pretty, and they had penetrated deep into her wide open eyes, destroying her retinas and blinding her instantly; and quite permanently.

When I opened my eyes was greeted with a horrific sight that will be seared into my mind forever: Synthia, crying with blood pouring out of her useless eyes, clutching the severed head of our mother to her chest.

I remember lying at her side in the hospital, crying and praying to god that she would be able to see again. But no god ever answered my prayers.

We were eventually taken in by a couple of born again Christian foster parents, who seemed to think just about everything was against the rules, including Synthia’s nickname, which they forbade us to use. We used it whenever they weren’t listening, which was hardly ever. We were allowed very few friends, so I became Syn’s best friend as well as her brother. We lived a few years in this sterile, stifling environment, constantly being lectured on god and morality. For a time, we believed them. As it turned out, it was all a lie.

While I was out with some of the few friends that they let me have, my foster mother discovered a homosexual affair that my foster father was having. In an indignant rage, the pious and ‘moral’ woman stabbed him over sixty times with a large kitchen knife, and then slit her own throat. And she did it all right in front of my sister. It was indeed fortunate that should couldn’t see the carnage; but the screams and other sounds left their scars anyways. It would be a long time before she started talking again.

I was bitter and disillusioned; how could the ‘good’ god my foster parents described be anywhere in this lousy rotten world? Their priest tried to consol me by telling me that it was all god’s plan and that it worked out in the end. I broke his nose, called his god a lying sadistic son of a bitch, and neither myself nor Synthia has ever set foot in any house of worship ever since.

My sister was in bad shape. We were moved to new foster parents, and I begged the social workers not to separate us. It was a long fight, they seemed really determined to bre

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