Inevitable Fate

CHAPTER 4 : The Day I Accidentally Kissed My Sister (It's Not What You Think)

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Weekends, for me, were always sacred. A time when time itself seemed to stretch, inviting me to be nothing more than a kid, unburdened by the world's responsibilities. It was an unscripted escape, where I could indulge in the luxury of laziness or run wild without a care in the world.

No school. No homework. No meetings or phone calls. Just the intoxicating sweetness of doing absolutely nothing. I reveled in it, like a cat curled up in a sunbeam, stretching lazily through the afternoon.

And that Saturday, I felt... lighter. For reasons unknown, the air felt cleaner, the world more forgiving. Maybe it was the gentle warmth of the sun, or maybe the way the shadows shifted lazily across the yard. But whatever it was, I was on top of the world.

And then, of course, there was Dad.

Yes, Dad. The elusive figure, the man who'd spent more days working than I had fingers to count. But today? Today, he had taken the day off. A rare gift, a breath of air in a world full of deadlines and obligations. A day where the concept of "work" was only a distant memory, a forgotten worry.

The implications were clear: this was an opportunity to bond. To enjoy something pure, simple, and free of complication. Ice cream. A walk in the park. Maybe even a video game. This wasn't just any Saturday. This was a golden chance to remind myself that, despite the chaos life sometimes handed us, there were still moments worth savoring.

It should've been perfect.

There was just one... slight detail I hadn't anticipated.

Did I mention my dad had a tragic accident? That he was paralyzed from the waist down? No? Well, it happened. And now, any family outing required him to be wheeled around like a knight on his steed. Not glamorous, but it was what we had.

That day, however, I was filled with enough hope to believe that it wouldn't matter. I was determined to make this day count. To laugh, to feel like the world was not an endless series of setbacks. To make memories instead of just surviving through them.

I found him in the living room, sitting in his wheelchair, quietly reading. The man who once ruled the house with his booming laughter now looked like a quiet island of contemplation. His eyes met mine as I bounded into the room, brimming with excitement.

"Dad! Let's go out! Ice cream! I'll push the wheelchair like the cool son I am. It'll be awesome!" I declared, nearly vibrating with anticipation.

He blinked slowly, perhaps considering the weight of the suggestion. The idea of leaving the comfort of home was a major deal for him. But finally, after a long pause, he gave the slightest of nods. I could see the reluctant joy in his eyes, as though he too wanted to break the monotony of our days.

"Alright, champ. Lead the way," he said with that half-smile I cherished so much.

And so, we set off. Me, full of unbridled energy; him, as composed as he could be, but undoubtedly relishing the rare escape.

We navigated the streets of our neighborhood, everything feeling like a slow-motion movie scene. Birds chirped overhead. The warm summer breeze danced through the trees. It was the kind of quiet beauty that only made you appreciate the simplicity of life even more.

For the first five minutes, nothing went wrong. Not a single obstacle. No rogue skateboarders. No spilled drinks. No running into a dog that had apparently been trained by a circus performer to take out anything in its path. It was... perfect. Unbelievably perfect.

Maybe today was different. Maybe, just maybe, the universe had decided to cut me a break.

Spoiler: It didn't.

I had asked him about his week, about work, but the conversation was short, our words punctuated by the occasional distant honk of a car or the rustle of wind. Dad didn't have much to say... he never did, always so lost in his thoughts, but I didn't mind. The moments of silence between us felt like home, warm and familiar.

And then, it happened.

A sudden shift. A sharp turn in the narrative. Dad's chair, which had been gliding smoothly, inexplicably lurched forward. He hadn't touched the wheels. He didn't need to. The slope of the road, the unpredictable quirks of gravity, decided this was the moment for everything to go catastrophically wrong.

Before I could process what was happening, he was careening down the street. Fast. Too fast.

"DAD! NO!!" I shouted, but my words were useless. The wheelchair gathered speed like an out-of-control roller coaster, and Dad? Dad was helpless, caught in the momentum of a force far stronger than any of us.

I ran after him, my heart leaping into my throat, my legs pushing against the pavement as if the very act of running could stop fate. But it wasn't enough.

The inevitable collision... a truck, bearing down on us, was already upon us. I could hear the screeching of tires as I dove, body first, toward my dad.

Please. Please let this not be the moment.

The world slowed. The truck's headlights swelled into blinding halos. I could feel the pounding of my heart, the heat rising in my chest, the terror clawing at my throat.

And then

BAM.

The truck swerved. Tires screeched. The sound of metal against metal was deafening. But by some miracle—by some divine intervention—Dad's wheelchair was tipped, spinning into a neighbor's front yard like a spinning top. The truck missed us. By an inch. By some cosmic margin, we were spared.

Dad was... well, still alive. But now, he was embedded in a bush, his arms outstretched as if he'd been caught in some strange, tragic ballet. He didn't move for a moment. Neither did I.

I rushed over to him, heart pounding in my chest. "Dad! Are you okay?! Oh my god, I'm so sorry, I didn't..."

But then, the unthinkable happened. He started laughing. Loud, booming laughter that broke through the tension like a crack of thunder. It was a strange, hysterical sound, born of shock and fear, but somehow, it was the most comforting thing I'd ever heard.

"HAHAHAHA! Well, that was something! That was more terrifying than my last board meeting!" he laughed, his voice rough with disbelief.

I stared at him, dumbfounded. "You... you're okay? Seriously?"

"Of course I'm okay," he said, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. "I'm a professional at surviving disasters, son. This was just... a warm-up."

We both collapsed into fits of giggles, laughing so hard it hurt. It was the kind of laughter you could only share with someone who knew you inside and out.. someone who, in that moment, wasn't your parent or your protector, but just another person trying to make sense of a bizarre world.

As we caught our breath, the chaos of the moment began to settle. The truck had vanished into the distance. The street was once again calm. And for the first time in a long while, we both felt the weight of relief.

We didn't speak about it again that day. Instead, we continued on, our ice cream run now more of a pilgrimage to normalcy than a quest for sugary indulgence.

Back at home, we met Mom and my sister. They'd been sipping tea, blissfully unaware of the near catastrophe. No one asked what had happened. They didn't need to. We all knew.

But later that evening, as we gathered in the kitchen, the real chaos unfolded.

Baking time. A sacred tradition in our house, where my sister and I could never seem to make anything without burning it, spilling it, or accidentally introducing the flour into places it never should have been.

We ventured into the pantry... where the mystery of ancient spices and forgotten food lurked. As I grabbed the ingredients, my sister was, of course, tripping over her own feet, as usual. But just when I thought I was safe, when I thought fate had exhausted its tricks for the day.

I stepped on it.

My cursed toy. The one that had tormented me for years. The one that always seemed to appear at the worst possible moment.

And so, as if in some cruel twist of fate, I went down.

I couldn't stop myself.

But this time? This time, I didn't just fall.

I collided with her.

And for a split second, before the world could catch up, our lips... met.

Time slowed. The room seemed to hold its breath. My sister's eyes widened in horror, and I'm pretty sure mine mirrored hers.

The seconds stretched. Stretched into eternity.

Reality rushed back in. My ears rang. My mind screamed, What have I done? I stumbled back, a flurry of apologies pouring from my lips, but nothing could undo the damage.

We stood there, silent.

And that, dear reader, is how I accidentally kissed my sister.

We froze, utterly, helplessly... like two characters in a broken simulation, caught in a glitch the universe forgot to debug. Our lips were pressed together. Our eyes, wide open, locked in a state of mutual shock. For a split second, time fractured. My thoughts scattered like shattered glass. I couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't think.

Just… frozen.

And before you get the wrong idea... no. This isn't that kind of story.

This wasn't the big twist in some taboo-laced drama or an over-the-top anime with a questionable fanbase. This was no dark secret, no buried truth.

It was an accident.

A painfully awkward, utterly mortifying, gravity-assisted catastrophe of cosmic proportions.

It happened so fast. One stumble, one misstep.. and fate, cruel as ever, decided this would be the moment my life fell apart in slow motion.

When reality finally snapped back, I recoiled like I'd been electrocuted. My entire body jerked away, trembling, voice cracking in a dozen shameful registers as I tried, tried... to explain myself. To say something. Anything.

But I didn't get the chance.

A sharp, thunderous crack split the silence.

Her hand.

The slap.

It landed with a force that defied logic. My cheek burned. My ears rang. My vision flickered.

I'm pretty sure I saw the afterlife.

My ancestors were up there.. staring down at me in judgment, shaking their heads in solemn disappointment.

The sound echoed, not just through the room, but through existence. Through time. Through space.

The birds outside stopped mid-chirp. The oven's timer gave up on life. The wind itself seemed to hold its breath.

For a second, I swear the Earth rotated in reverse.

And I couldn't even argue.

Because I didn't just trip.

I didn't just fall.

I didn't just humiliate myself in ways I'll be unpacking in therapy for the next thirty years.

I stole her first kiss.

And the horror didn't end there.

Because as my mind spiraled in guilt and shame, another realization struck like a second slap to the soul:

She stole mine too.

Does that make us even?

Or does that somehow make it infinitely worse?

I wanted to scream. To cry. To crawl into a washing machine and put it on "sanitation mode." My skin crawled. My stomach twisted. My heart pounded in panicked, disoriented beats. I wanted to rewind time, delete the last five minutes, and start the day over like none of this had happened.

Instead, we did the only thing that made sense to two traumatized child.

We scrubbed our mouths like maniacs.

Toothpaste. Mouthwash. Gum. Saltwater. Lemon juice. If it foamed, burned, or promised spiritual purification, we used it. Not once. Not twice. For hours.

By the end, our mouths were numb, our gums sore, and our souls irreparably scarred.

And somehow… we still finished baking.

Silently. Mechanically. Neither of us daring to speak or even look at each other. Every second stretched like an eternity.

When we finally left the kitchen, red-faced and mint-scented, no one asked. No one mentioned it. If anyone noticed, they buried it deep, classic family survival tactic.

Pretend. Smile. Move on.

And so we did.

That was the day I accidentally became my sister's first kiss.

The worst, most soul-crushing, emotionally scarring plot twist of my life.

We never spoke of it again.

But even now… even years later…

Whenever I see a chocolate cake.

I flinch.