1. THE AWAKENING
My parents were finishing packing their suitcases in the living room. Three huge bags, tickets to Europe, fancy hotel in Paris and then Madrid. I had heard the conversation a thousand times: "family issues," "grandma's inheritance," "we need to handle this in person." Blah blah blah. The only thing that mattered to me was one: they were disappearing for three whole weeks.
"Dad, I'm already eighteen," I said for the third time, leaning against the doorframe. "I can stay home alone. I'll take care of the house, pay the bills, no parties, nothing. I swear."
My father didn't even look at me properly. He was busy closing a suitcase zipper.
"Lucas, we've already talked about this. You're still irresponsible. Last week you left the gas on and almost burned down the kitchen. We're not taking any risks."
"It was one time!" I shot back, feeling my blood boil. "I learned. And Mom? She trusts me."
My mother came out of the bedroom with a toiletry bag in her hand, wearing that look of someone who had already made up her mind.
"Lucas, honey, Aunt Margaret offered her house. It's better this way. She lives alone, has plenty of space, and you need supervision. Oregon isn't that far by plane, but her house is quiet. You'll be fine."
Quiet. The word made me sick.
I hated that house. Fucking isolated, surrounded by dense forest, on the outskirts of some shitty little town called Ashland, Oregon. Far from everything. The kind of place where you could scream your lungs out and no one would hear.
And I hated Aunt Margaret even more.
"I don't want to go there," I muttered, but I already knew it was useless. "She treats me like a dog."
My mother sighed.
"She's strict, but she's a good person. Some discipline will do you good. Now stop complaining and go pack your backpack. The Uber will be here in forty minutes."
I clenched my teeth and stomped up the stairs. In my room, I threw clothes into the backpack angrily. T-shirts, jeans, sneakers. While closing the zipper, my mind was already drifting. Images of Aunt Margaret invaded my head without permission.
Forty-five years old. Flaming redhead, freckles scattered across pale skin like milk. Heavy tits that swayed when she walked around the house in a thin robe. Firm round ass, thick thighs, waist still slim for her age. A hot bitch who knew exactly the effect she had. And she used it to humiliate me ever since I was a kid.
"You're nothing but a useless kid, Lucas."
"While you're in my house, you'll obey like a real man."
"Look at you, still jerking off in secret, I bet."
I had lost count of how many times she made me feel like nothing. Superior looks, cutting comments in front of my parents, little laughs when I messed something up. Years of poison. Years of rage stored in my chest.
This time it wasn't going to be the same.
I wasn't the fourteen-year-old kid who lowered his head anymore. I was eighteen now. A defined body from working out to release the anger. A thick cock that had already fucked a few girls from school. And a head full of very dirty ideas about how to make that arrogant redhead pay.
The Uber arrived. My parents hugged me quickly, gave me stupid recommendations, and got into the car for the airport. I watched the car disappear down the street. Then I got into the other Uber my mom had called to take me to the regional airport.
During the hours of travel, I stayed silent, staring out the window. The closer we got to Oregon, the more my rage mixed with something else. A sick, twisted horniness. I imagined her opening the door in tiny shorts, nipples showing through thin fabric, freckles on her cleavage. And this time, I wouldn't look away.
The house appeared at the end of a dirt road. Big, dark wood, surrounded by tall trees that blocked the sun. Fucking isolated. Perfect.
I paid the driver and got out with my backpack over my shoulder. The front door opened before I even knocked.
Aunt Margaret was there.
Flaming red hair loose over her shoulders, pale skin covered in freckles, a black silk robe way too short for a "respectable" woman. Her heavy tits almost spilling out of the neckline, thick toned legs showing up to mid-thigh. At forty-five, she was still a hot bitch. And she knew it.
"Look who's here," she said in that sweet-yet-poisonous tone, her breath smelling of alcohol. "The useless nephew. Come in quickly, Lucas. I don't want dirt in the living room."
I walked in without saying a word. Her scent — expensive perfume mixed with something sweet and alcohol — hit me like a punch.
"Your parents told me everything," she continued, closing the door and locking it. The sound of the key turning was way too loud. "Three weeks. You're going to follow my rules. Set times to wake up, eat, sleep. No mess, no porn on my Wi-Fi, and you're going to help with the housework. Understood?"
She stopped in front of me, crossed her arms under her tits, deliberately pushing them up. She looked me up and down like I was a stray dog.
"Yes, Aunt," I answered, forcing a neutral tone. Inside, my mind was already boiling.
You have no idea what I'm going to do to you, you arrogant bitch.
She smiled, satisfied.
"Good. Your room is the same as always. Drop your backpack there and come help in the kitchen. Dinner won't make itself."
As I followed her up the stairs, my eyes glued to that ass swaying in the short robe. Each step made the fabric ride up a little more. My cock was already half-hard just from looking. In any other situation, I might have felt disgusted for getting turned on by my own aunt. But her... no, she deserved it.
In the room, I threw the backpack on the bed and stood still for a second, breathing deeply. The house was silent. Only the distant sound of wind in the trees. No one for miles.
I took out my phone and opened the gallery. I had a hidden folder. Old photos I had secretly taken of her years ago — her changing clothes, getting out of the shower, sleeping in tiny shorts. I kept them all.
This time I'm not letting it slide, Aunt Margaret.
I went down the stairs slowly. She was in the kitchen, with her back to me, cutting vegetables. The robe had ridden up, showing the lower curve of her ass. No panties.
My blood boiled. Rage, hatred, lust. All mixed together.
"I'm here," I said.
She turned her face, freckles highlighted by the kitchen light, a superior smile on her lips.
"Then start washing yesterday's dishes. And do it right, kid. I don't want to see a single dirty plate. I'll go change clothes while you do that."
I approached the sink, my shoulder lightly brushing against hers. She didn't move away. She just looked at me from the corner of her eye, as if expecting me to lower my head like always.
This time I didn't.
I smiled on the inside.
The countdown has begun, you bitch.
Dinner was a festival of humiliations. Every word of hers was a knife, every look a dose of poison. I ate in silence, swallowing the rage along with the food, while she drank wine without stopping. The skirt rode up, the robe opened, her body displayed itself like a constant provocation.
"You've gained some weight, haven't you?" she commented, not even looking at me. "Arms are fuller, but you still look soft."
"I've been working out, Aunt," I replied, my voice neutral.
"Working out? For what? To impress the little girls who probably let you fuck them for free? Pathetic."
I didn't answer. I kept eating.
After dinner, she threw herself on the couch with a full glass, her legs spread in a relaxed and vulgar way, the TV on some random show. She ordered me to clean the entire kitchen. I washed every plate, every pan, every piece of silverware. The hot water burned my fingers, but the physical pain was nothing compared to what was boiling inside me.
When I finished, I went up to my room. I lay down on the bed, but sleep wouldn't come. Images of her repeated in my mind — the open robe, the mocking laugh, the eyes that looked at me as if I were trash, the smell of wine on her breath, the freckles on her pale skin.
The rage grew.
A wave that rose from my chest and took over everything, a fire that burned through my veins, that squeezed my chest, that made my teeth grind. I saw her face in my mind. The mouth that laughed. The eyes that despised. The hands that pointed and humiliated.
Years. Years of poison. Years of feeling like nothing.
And then, in the middle of that darkness, the rage reached its peak.
It was a silent explosion. My mind burned for a second, and then it cleared.
A cold, brutal, absolute clarity. As if a veil had been ripped from my eyes. As if I had spent my whole life seeing through frosted glass and someone had just wiped it clean.
And then came the burning.
My eyes stung as if sand was being rubbed into my pupils. A dry, pulsing pain that spread behind the orbits. My vision went blurry for a second — everything distorted, shadows dancing — and then it cleared. Clearer than ever.
Every shadow in the room was sharp, every detail of the wooden ceiling, every speck of dust dancing in the dim light. The sounds of the night — the wind in the trees, the creaking of the house, the slow breathing of silence — reached me as if I had the ears of an animal.
I could hear my heart beating in my chest. Strong. Calm.
I could smell the forest outside. The smell of the room. The smell of me.
I got up from the bed. I went to the mirror hanging on the wall. The moon came in through the window, bathing my face in a silvery light.
And I saw.
My eyes were lilac.
Not a weak or grayish lilac. It was a deep violet, crystalline, brilliant — like a liquid jewel embedded in my eye sockets. Dilated pupils. The gaze of someone who sees the world without filters, without veils, without lies.
The gaze of someone who finally understood.
I touched my cheekbone with the tips of my fingers, feeling the warm skin. The reflection in the mirror stared back at me. And, for the first time in my life, I didn't see a scared kid or a humiliated boy.
I saw a predator.
A slow smile formed on my lips. It wasn't a smile of joy. It was a smile of recognition. Of liberation.
Now I understood. Now I knew what to do.
The rage was still there, but it was no longer that blind, uncontrolled flame. Now it was a calculated, cold, precise flame. I could see each step ahead as if it had already been planned. Every movement. Every word.
Her body. Her fear. Her surrender.
Everything was going to be mine.
The house was silent. Downstairs, she slept — or pretended — on the living room couch, the sheets thick with wine and arrogance.
But tomorrow everything would change.
I went back to bed, lay down, and stared at the ceiling. My breathing was calm. My heartbeat was slow.
My lilac eyes glowed in the dark like two precious stones.
And, for the first time in years, I smiled for real.
The countdown was over.
The revenge started now.
