Chapter One

Varen

"Kayla, I'm gonna get you!" I shouted, chasing her through the house. We passed a bookshelf, then the dining room table whizzed by me.

Kayla was 9 years old, 7 years younger than me. She had long brown hair that was straight, and she was tall for her age.

"Varen, you wish!" She squealed, tramping down the stairs. I followed close behind as she turned right, into the living room. I cornered her there; the only way out of the living room was through the door we had just gone through.

Knowing that escape was hopeless, that I had her dead-ended, Kayla ran at me, knocking me to the floor. I flipped us over so I was on top of her, pinning her arms down and tickling her feet.

She screamed and hollered and whooped as she resisted my grasp on her wrists. It suddenly occurred to me that I was in total control here.

The only reason we dared to roughhouse this night was because our parents were out on a fancy diner date for their anniversary. They would have kicked our asses by now if they were home.

Rain pounded the roof outside as we played, taking turns tickling one another. We rolled around on the floor, making so much noise we couldn't hear the thunder starting to rumble outside. We were sure the neighbors could hear us over the storm.

It was rare that Kayla and I were able to have fun like this. Our parents were very strict, our mom being a congresswoman and our step-father being the Governor. They couldn't have their own children ruin their precious reputations, now could they? They raised us with lots of corporal punishment, our step-father delivering slaps across the face, spanks, and whips with the belt regularly. Kayla had a mental disorder that made her have no remorse for things that she had done, which meant she didn't understand why she was punished- she didn't know what she had done wrong. Therefore, no matter how much she was punished, she kept doing it again. She had scars over the expanse of her back because of our step-father losing his temper and whipping her hundreds of times with a belt until her back was almost shredded. It really irked him that no matter how much he beat her, she didn't do what he wanted.

Whenever he went into one of his what I called rages, our mom tried to calm him down, tried to defend us, but never dared to touch him, knowing that this would start his wrath on her. She couldn't risk getting bruised for that would bring questions. She always tried to talk him out of beating us, but it never worked. It was the same thing every time. him tromping towards us, a belt in his hand, malice in his eyes...

But every time he went towards Kayla with his belt, black with a shiny silver buckle, I would stand up for her. I would take his wrath because she did nothing to deserve it. I loved her so much that I protected her every time I was able.

What killed me was that sometimes I wasn't able to protect her. Hence the scars on her back. Sometimes I wasn't home when Matt went on his raging spree. Sometimes he knocked me unconscious, then beat the s**t out of her. It killed me that I wasn't able to protect her as much as I wanted to.

Naturally, I would never hurt Kayla. I was the one to hold her after Matt had scared her by beating the crap out of me, even with how much pain I was going through, sitting her on my lap and letting her cry into my shoulder. I was the one that drove her to school, to her friends' houses. I was the one that comforted her from her nightmares.

But tonight, I would become her nightmare.

She wriggled underneath me as I "tazered" her, squeezing her sides and sending a jolt through her.

It was then that I felt a small stirring down South.

I instinctively pulled away from her. She looked up at me, confused, and a little hurt. But as soon as she met my eyes, she knew immediately what was happening. Our mom had warned her multiple times about this, and what to do, while Matt, our step-father, grumbled about how "she deserved it."

Now was her time to show that she had paid attention through their endless lectures.