“N-no, thank you,” I respond, my voice choked with tears.
What did she hear?I feel revolted. I feel weak for giving in to the sickness that courses through me.
It’s one thing to suffer through it and another to feel the pleasure of it. I’m uncertain as to when most of the fear turned into desire, but I hate myself for it all the same.
Disgusting, sweet little thing,I think.
I’m such a temptress, a dirty desire, even to myself.
“Okay,” Hannah says softly. “Call if you need me.”
I hear her footsteps retreat, and the door at the base of the stairs close in the distance.
I stay this way for two more days and three more nights, suffering through my dreams and masturbating all day to fight off the heatstroke of desire.
I only allow Hannah to leave food at my doorstep, opening it once I hear her depart. Momma and Papa were smart to add on an en suite bathroom up here long before I was diagnosed.
It’s a half-conscious series of days, where I am stuck in an endless cycle that exhausts my mind and body.
As the third day finally rolls around, I wake up to the morning sun, and my skin only feels as hot as it does on a good day. As if I have a fever.
I don’t feel as rested as I did before the beginning of my flare-up, but the uncontrollable desire has simmered to a mild need, and I feel as if I can be in the presence of others again.
I miss my family. I want to see Julian.
So I take a long shower, where I wash myself thoroughly, ridding my body of the sins I’ve committed. Then I dress in a pair of charcoal gray slacks and a sheer, white, flowy top. My dress shoes shine as I descend the steps of the west tower for the first time in days.
My curls are damp from my shower, and my skin is paler than it was when this flare-up started.
As I open the door that leads into Hall W4, I spot Atticus sitting against the wall, his head tilted back to rest against thewallpaper. He looks as if he’s barely slept, his straight brown hair ruffled and his black slacks wrinkled.
When I close the door, alerting him of my presence, he jumps up. Wide hazel eyes roam over every inch of me, and I can see the panic and concern on his features.
“Atty,” he breathes. “Are you okay? Was it bad? I haven’t heard from you or seen you in days.”
I smile, and it comes easily in the face of a family member I’ve missed so much, so I nod.
“Yes, Atticus,” I tell him. “I’m better now. It was… bad, sure, but it’s over.”
A moment later, I’m wrapped up in his arms, and he’s breathing in the smell of my hair.
“You had me worried sick. Come, let’s pray.” Atticus grabs my hand, dragging me toward the west staircase so we can descend to the first story.
He always does this. After a particularly bad flare-up, he’ll go with me to the chapel, and we’ll fall to our knees and pray to God to give me relief, to end my suffering.
Or, rather,heprays for that. I pray for forgiveness. For the Lord not to condemn me to hell for taking an ounce of sick pleasure from my condition.
As we enter the chapel, we walk through the rows of pews, and I kneel before the large cross that displays Jesus Christ behind the podium at which our hired priest stands when he’s called upon.
Staring at the Holy Spirit’s crestfallen face, I wait for Atticus to finish lighting the candles on the low table to our right. Then,he joins me in kneeling, and we put our hands together and bow our heads.
Dear Lord, please forgive me for my weak disposition. Grant me mercy in the face of my misfortune and allow me to repent for my own sick desires. I’m sorry, amen.
I repeat the rehearsed prayer, the one I crafted a few months after my eighteenth birthday. Atticus mutters to himself softly, and I feel a warm ache in my chest at his dedication to me and my healing.
He truly is a wonderful brother.
After a few minutes, Atticus sighs. “Alright, Atty. I think that’s good. Want to watch a movie with me?”
