My Sister Syn (incest, non-futa)

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 per