Redefining Normal
Brigitte has always been yours.
You are sisters, you are best friends, and your love makes you vicious towards those who would dare make a place for themselves in her heart. Brigitte needs no one else, because you are there--always and forever--and being Brigitte's everything is what makes you you.
Other people--outsiders--don't understand you, or Brigitte, or the utter rightness of the two of you, together. You don't care about the rest of the world, but you aren't ignorant to the reality of other people's lives. There are other families who live along your street, and girls who go to school with you, and you've seen and heard enough to know that what you and Brigitte have is special.
Henry doesn't think that it's healthy, the way you and Brigitte act, the way you are together. Henry is a fucking dick, and you'd rather be a freak than be anything less than what you are to Brigitte, than to have her be anything less than what she is to you. Even when you're angry, even when you're at your worst, it always has been and always will be you and Brigitte against the world.
Small minds don't understand love--real love.
The girls at school look at the two of you with sneering disdain, tell themselves that you're together only because no one else can stand your company. The boys. . . you've heard the things they say, too. Lewd things, sick things, and they leer at you while the girls laugh, high and shrill. Brigitte's lips always tighten, and she walks closer to you, defiant. If she would give you so much as a nod, you'd leave those boys choking on their own balls, and send shards of teeth down the girls' throats.
You're sisters, and you are best friends, and you are together. . .
and you aren't sure when that stopped being enough.
You are growing-up, growing older, and all those feelings Pamela so celebrates aren't making the woman out of you she always wanted. Looking at boys, and finding them looking back, doesn't make your heart speed up and your knees tremble. You don't find yourself caught in a timeless moment, entranced by the flex of muscles, the lean angle of a lightly fuzzed jaw. When you touch yourself at night, there is no Prince Charming invited into your fantasies. You keep your eyes closed, listen to Brigitte breathing evenly across from you, and try not to think at all.
Fucking Jason was a physical necessity--like taking a piss after a long car ride, and just as meaningful.
This is what makes your body flush and your mind whirl: laying next to Brigitte, your arm flung over her thighs, and your face turned in towards the warmth of her body with your face pressed into her belly. When you were younger--when you being Ginger and Brigitte being Brigitte was enough--you used to wait until she relaxed beneath you before tickling her, making her squeal. Now, you wonder what she'd do if you moved lower, pressed your mouth--hot and wet and open--against her.
You want to tangle your hands in her hair, and trace the familiar contours of her face with your lips. You want to feel her breasts pressed against yours, her hands on your hips.
You want so very much: you want to keep her wrapped up in your arms, keep her yours forever and ever, always. You want to tear Jason's dick--that ridiculous piece of meat and flesh and blood--from his body, and forget that Brigitte ever looked at you as she would someone she didn't care to know. You want to tear Sam open--slowly, slowly, cock on up--for daring to even look at your sister.
You're going fucking crazy, and the thought isn't as frightening as it once was. Crazy isn't anything more than knowing what you want, and the willingness to reach out and take it. Brigitte may be screaming, and crying, and frightened, furious, sick, but she's still here, with you. She's always been yours, and you know how to make sure she always will be.
That's worth all the crazy shit you've been through.
That makes what you've become better than all right.
Maybe what you want isn't normal, and maybe it isn't right, but it's you, and it's Brigitte, and it's the both of you, together. Looking at her now, pale and shaking, wild-eyed, you feel fierce and tender, and you love her so fucking much.
So. Fucking. Much.
"I feel like I could do anything," you say, and step forward, towards Brigitte.