Ch 4

But when James looked at his stepsister, the feelings were different—stronger, more intense, and impossible to escape. This time, none of the excuses he'd told himself worked. It hit him hard: this wasn't love, at least not the kind of love that was normal. It was something else, something darker and more confusing.

And then, the unthinkable happened. He began to fantasize about his family, his thoughts no longer under control. It didn't stop there—it progressed to dreams, vivid and inescapable, invading his nights. He woke up every day feeling haunted, confused, and overwhelmed. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't shake the feeling, and he couldn't figure out what to do.

In his desperation, James began to distance himself from his family. He isolated himself, avoiding conversations, avoiding being in the same room as them. Every interaction felt like a weight he couldn't carry, so he kept it to a minimum. But it didn't help. The thoughts still came, the dreams still followed him, and the distance didn't bring any peace.

What made it worse was that James didn't stop watching. Despite everything, he kept returning to the videos, drawn into the same cycle that had started all those years ago. The more he watched, the deeper the guilt and shame became, but he couldn't break free. He was trapped in a loop, and the line between what was real and what was in his head blurred further with each passing day.

Then a silly thought came to James' mind—*maybe it's normal.* Maybe it was just like the videos. And just maybe, his family had the same thoughts. The idea was absurd at first, but it started to take root, growing like a weed in his mind. He kept coming back to it, turning it over, trying to justify it.

I won't go into the details of how that thought grew in James' head. But if you can imagine a bottle on the verge of exploding, that's how big it became. The pressure built up inside him until it felt unbearable. His thoughts shifted from *"How could I?"* to *"How could I not? How could I not fulfill what I imagine are their dreams?"*

His mind had completely tricked him by now. It had twisted reality so much that what was once unthinkable seemed almost inevitable. The guilt and confusion he had been feeling were now overtaken by a dangerous sense of justification.

That weekend, when his sisters were staying over as usual, James made a decision. He decided to act. His heart pounded in his chest, and his mind raced as he approached his sister's room in the dead of night, sneaking toward the door. He had convinced himself that he wasn't crossing any lines—that somehow, this was what they wanted too.

---

When James entered the room, his heart was pounding, but his thoughts were louder. *Will she let me? Will she refuse?* And if she refused, *would I force her?* He told himself she would enjoy it after a little while, just like in the videos.

He was standing in front of her bed, watching her lay there, but just as he got closer, she shifted in her sleep. Now she was lying on her back, and her face had a look of safety and peace. There were small droplets of water on her face. James realized, with a shock, that the drops were his own tears. His crying had woken her up, and now she looked at him, confused but concerned.

Without hesitation, she pulled him into a hug. "What's wrong, James?" she asked, her voice soft, full of concern.

His tears fell harder. His heart ached, overwhelmed with guilt and shame. He couldn't do it. He pushed her away and tried to leave the room, but she wouldn't let him. She held on tight, demanding that he tell her why he was crying.

Panicked and ashamed, James lied. "I… I had a dream," he said, choking on his own words. "I dreamed that I killed you. It was so real... I thought it was true."

His sister stroked his hair and tried to calm him down. "It was just a dream, James. You would never do something like that. It's okay." After a while, she let him go, and he left the room, his mind still a whirlwind.

James went back to his room, pacing, his thoughts in chaos. He moved from the bathroom mirror to his bed, over and over again. He'd look at his reflection, wash his face, and then circle back. Finally, he sat down on the floor, exhausted. *I should be the one protecting them from danger... not becoming the danger myself.*

That's my story, Dalia. And reader. There's just one thing that wasn't true: I'm the oldest. I'm sorry I stopped so many times while telling this, that it's taken us forever to reach the second floor.

Dalia: It's okay. I have all the time in the world, so I don't mind.

Mark: About your father's situation... if you don't mind me saying, you've already grown up. You could leave and just visit him from time to time.

Dalia: "My father is dead."

To be continued....