I Killed My Sister. No one knows about this.

We were siblings. Were pretty close. We had to be. We would fight all day. But we had to share the same bed in the night.

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I killed my sister. This is my story. No one knows about this. We (I and my younger sister) belonged to a lower middle Indian family. She was one year younger to me. We were four people in total. We had only one room in total- big enough to accommodate two beds and one trunk for all the valuables we had. This means my parents shared while we shared one bed.

We, the two siblings, were pretty close. We had to be. We would fight all day. But we had to share the same bed in the night. Summers were tough. There would be no electricity at nights. Tin roofs- which were much useful in the rain – made the room a fired furnace – a living hell.

Winters were, though, much better. We would take all the stuff- worn clothes, bedsheets, cotton for fluffiness, and stitch into a quilt. We- I and my sister- would hug each other at night if any of us felt cold. It was more instinctive then planned. There was nothing sexual about all this- we were young siblings helping each other with battling the cold.

One reason we were very close was our father was a habitual beater. He would beat all of us- my mother and us. He wasn’t an alcoholic. Perhaps it was the stress of the job and poor upbringing- Grandmother died when he was young and Grandfather knew nothing about parenting except beating your children.

As I said he was a habitual beater. He would beat with anything he would fancy and could get his hands on- sleepers, shoes, belts, broomsticks, curtain rods, and suchlike. Belts were his favorite, though. I think he enjoyed their sound and the kinds of scars they left. So we did everything to save ourselves from his beating which included outrightly lying.

At nights we would tend to each other’s wounds. This mostly meant we would stroke and caress each other’s affected areas. We also applied some ointment if that was available and the wounds required such treatment. My mother used to buy these ointments using the money she has stolen from him. This tending, sometimes, included private parts like bums.

I don’t know when but at some point- perhaps when puberty hit us – we realized that we really enjoyed being touched around private areas. With practice, we learned how we liked to be touched. Slow slender touches at the beginning and almost vigorous rubbing towards the end. At this point, no holes were involved. So no insertion and stuff. We did bums, breasts (more like chest bumps), penis, testicles, clitoris region.

The other thing I realized that she enjoyed being touched more than she liked touching me. Also, she had much better self-control than me. That she could hold off her urge to be touched if terms were not in her favor. On the other hand, I was desperate. I guess what I am saying is that power dynamics were skewed in her favor. By the way, I did not mind this skewed power dynamics for I did actually enjoy touching her. creondly, I had not much choice in this matter.

One breakthrough we had is when I figured out using tongue was more pleasurable for her than simple rubbing. Quickly I became a master in using tongue. It made her joyous. How do I know? Her rapid breathing and muffled moans were big clues. But more than anything that tipped me off was that sometimes she would pull down her trousers and panties, sit on my face and rub her clitoris- I did not know it was called clitoris back then – on my tongue.

We were siblings. Were pretty close. We had to be. We would fight all day. But we had to share the same bed in the night.

Now her breasts were more developed. Nipples were more prominent. I liked sucking at it. I enjoyed caressing those chest bumps. The soft of her supple breasts were like nicotine – mildly additive at first but with time its stranglehold becomes stronger.

But this did not go for long- my playing with her boobs. Her breasts were developing rapidly. She suspected I was the reason behind it. Maybe someone told her not to play with her breasts too much for they grow big. Whatever be the reason, I was the casualty. She did allow me time to time to touch her breasts. But sucking at her nipples- my most favorite activity- was disallowed.

By this time I had learned that I could use my finger for more than rubbing. I could put a couple of fingers inside her vagina and explore her wet insides. I also knew the use of my erect penis- it was to be put inside that hole. I tried a few times but failed miserably. My ego was mightily hurt. My penis was too small and limp to go inside her. Now I sometimes think it was by design. She did not want to be penetrated and she made it deliberately difficult to go inside her.

This continued for a while. We had some major hiccups. Sometimes we – generally she – would get to get excited and moan waking one of my parents. Sometimes when she was not in the mood and I wasn’t backing off, she would deliberately make some noise to wake up our parents.

On one particular day, she wanted to be penetrated. She herself took my penis- I was always the one who did this before. And gently rubbed it to make it erect. When she thought it was ready, she commanded me to come on top of her. I obliged jubilliantly. She spread her thighs and directed it inside her vagina. It swiftly went inside her- like a snake returning to its snake-hole home.

It was as if I was in the wet paradise. She was fully lubricated inside. The tunnel was large enough to accommodate it while tight enough to joyously grip it. I pushed myself in. Almost reflexively. She gasped a little. I sank a little and planted a big kiss on her lips- we had never kissed before. Then I took it out. I fervently tried to put it back inside her. She again helped me enter her. A valuable lesson was learned – you don’t take it out completely. After about a dozen (maybe I am overcounting) of ins-and-outs, I pulled it out and came on her thighs.

We didn’t get to repeat this act next day. I went away for a week. For some entrance exam. I was looking forward to coming back to home and repeat this exhilaratingly joyous activity. But I had no choice but to wait for a while. I would masturbate whenever I could get time- thinking about her, recreating in my mind that godly hour of our sexual intercourse.

A few days before I was to return, I got a call. From her. She said, “Bhaiya, I think I am pregnant.” I almost dropped my phone. How could this happen? I did not come inside, I thought to myself. I replied, “Yar you are necessarily freaking out. You know, menstruation is sometimes erratic.” She reverted back, “My periods are always in time. I am scared, Bhaiya. Papa will kill me.” I knew that already. I said, “Wait till I come.”

I know it was going to be tough. For her to wait. More than I. Simply because she would have to face the brunt of it. But I could not do anything to calm her down. I was a thousand miles away. I know she was anguished. She was hurting. I wish I could ease some of her pain.

Sometimes we – generally she – would get to get excited and moan waking one of my parents.

In the meantime, I thought I would do some research and determine if pulling out can prevent pregnancy. All articles said pulling out is not a viable method of prevention of pregnancy except some Islamic nonsensical articles. Precum contains enough swimmers to get a girl pregnant. Then I looked up things which can reverse or at least terminate a pregnancy without undergoing any surgical abortion. Next day I got a call again. She updated that she hadn’t had her period yet. She sounded very worried. I was horrified.

The next couple of days I was traveling. I wasn’t that far away. But railways are horrifyingly slow in Bihar and Uttar Pradesh (two backward states of India). The network was broken. So there was no way I could connect to her. I was helpless. She was desperate.

After continuously traveling for 36 hours and reaching home in the afternoon, I was told my sister- my kid sister whom I loved more than anything in this world- had committed suicide in the morning. She did not leave any suicide note. The police came just after. All the family- my parents and I- was interrogated.

One senior policeman was a close friend of my father. He knew my father is a habitual beater and in case her body – my sister’s dead body – is subjected to postmortem, it would reveal those beating scars. He didn’t press any charges on my father. In his report, he wrote, “the girl was mentally unstable.” He invented an entire medical history for her in no time.

Her body was cremated the next day. I was the Karta- the one performs final rites after someone’s death including kindling funeral pyre. Nobody suspected I was the responsible for her death. Nobody was invited. It happened in the blink of an eye.

It has been 20 years now. I still miss her every day. I could not marry anybody because I was still in love with her. I failed her. No amount of sacrifice will absolve me.

I killed my sister when she was 16 and I was 17.

Nobody knows why she is not with us.

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