This story is fictional and an original work. The characters portrayed are completely fictional and in no way relates to anyone living or dead. All rights reserved, unless permissioned by the author. I merely wrote this story on a whim, and I hope you enjoy.
Moonlight
The night's moon shone with a majestic brilliance, pouring into a small window and between red polyester curtains to land softly on a pillow. The pillow was soon covered by a carelessly tossed jean jacket. Hands, shaking with barely contained fury unbuttoned their way down his shirt. After it was fully opened, he tore it off throwing it to the floor, leaving him bare at the chest. He stalked to the window next to his bed and rested his forehead to the cool glass, shaking so hard he could barely stand. He wasn't surprised as tears filled his eyes, and slid down his cheeks. He wiped his eyes furiously, men weren't supposed to cry. Silence, being his only friend, he embraced it, and let a few moments pass. He opened the window, letting the bite of a winter's night gnaw at him. He looked out over the streets of the small neighborhood. None of them knew. None of them cared. Most of them were the reason for tonight, and the night before, and the night before, and the night before, all the way back since he and his family had moved to this God forsaken town.
Snow covered the ground like a mother's hand, reflecting a soft, pure light from the gentle glow of the silvery moon. He cursed, he couldn't help it, he hated his town and the people in it, he hated his school, he hated his family, he hated himself, he hated his life. Letting the sheets of the bed catch him as he fell backwards, he stared through the ceiling, noticing nothing but the revolutions of each fan blade as they slowly turned.
There was a soft knock at the door. He checked his alarm clock, 1:09am, it read. "Come in," he said. The door opened slowly, revealing his sister, two years younger than him, wearing a long cotton shirt that showed a little less than modest part of her shapely legs. He glanced at her, asking, "Aren't you cold with only that on?"
"No," she replied in a melodic voice, always sounding as if she were close to singing, too many years in choir he mused, "I like the cold as much as you do."
A moment passed, she walked closer to him leaning against his wall. She smiled slightly, "At least it's trimming you. It looks like you're starting to get that six pack you wanted."
"Is there a reason you're here?" he demanded, his voice as cool as the air, eyes still fixed on the ceiling.
"Chance..." she let his name hang in the air with a note of frustration.
"Go away, Sarah."
"Chance!" she grimaced, then letting her voice grow softer, she curled her legs beneath her as she sat down across from him and asked, "Please, tell what what's wrong?"
"I don't want to talk about it."
"But I do. Every night, you come home, and won't talk to anyone. It's really starting to piss me off," she ended in a hard note, then reigning, her anger again, she let out a hand to stroke his chestnut, wavy hair, "Chance, where's my big brother?"
He looked at her, seeing only love in her eyes reflecting back. "It's just the school," he gave in, "us, and maybe thirteen, fifteen other guys, are the only whites there. Do you know how hard it is to just walk the halls with a thousand spicks shoving you around?"
"Don't call them, that," she interjected, "Just because they're Hispanic doesn't make them any worse than us. We're all equal."
"No, they're spicks, Sarah," he replied bitterly, biting off each of his last few words, "every last one of them."
"It can't be that bad."
"What the fuck do you know? You're fucking home schooled for Christ sakes! Don't even talk to me about how bad it is, until you actually fucking go!" he whispered furiously, still remembering to keep his voice low, so not to wake their parents, "Get out of here. Go!"
She sat there a while longer, tears forming in her eyes, she murmured croakily, "Alright, fine. I'll go. Just remember Chance, that Mom still loves you, Dad still loves you, I still love you," she emphasized the last part, before she quickly walked out of the room trying hard not to cry, leaving him, and the room, colder than before.
* * * * *
Time slipped by, he looked at his clock, 1:47am, it read. He drew in a deep breath, letting it out slowly; he could see his frozen breath create a mist as it formed between his lips. It was time to shut the window. Getting up, he closed it, and the curtains. Looking back at his bed not feeling any sleep, he whispered a curse, "Shit." His little sister always knew how to make him feel guilty.
He walked out of the room, and to his sister's door. He knocked softly, there was no sound. Knocking a little louder, but no less gentle, he waited again. Still no answer, he turned the knob and crept in. His breath caught in his throat at the sight before his eyes. Here was his little sister, lying on top of her covers, nude, except for the socks she wore to keep her feet warm. She was asleep, the moonlight from her window gently kissing her body. He slowly looked up her, up her toned legs. Her sex had a little tuft of hair on it, as blonde as her hair, he noticed. Her stomach was nicely shaped, and her small, but not petite, breasts rose and fell with her breathing, accentuating her rosebud nipples. Her hair circled around her in a wavy halo, as wavy as his hair he knew. Not until this moment, had he realized how beautiful she was. Not until this moment, had he realized that she was becoming a young woman. He drew closer to her, and gingerly pulled the thick blankets over her lithe body, up to her neck. Tucking in the sides, making sure she wouldn't be cold that night, he brushed a stray lock of hair off her forehead and gave her a small kiss there. She turned slightly, her lips imperceptibly parting, she murmured, "Chance," the corners of her mouth curling into a small smile. He turned away, stopping at the door, looked at her sleeping form again. Not until that moment, he disgustedly realized, had he ever thought of her as more than just a sister...
I really did just write this on a whim. If anybody has any comments, criticisms, or if you want me to continue this story, then please send me an e-mail, at steinumstein@msn.com. Thanks for reading!
-Monkey