“Shh,” he coos quietly. “Don’t cry, Young Master Atlas. Whatever it is that you feel you’ve done wrong, I’m sure you’ll be forgiven.”
He’s not wrong. The Lord always forgives. But that does not mean I feel any better about what I’ve done or the fact that I’m here, again, on my knees begging for redemption.
“T-thank you,” I say, because I do appreciate his kindness. And his hand against my skin.
Julian continues to caress my cheek softly, his warm breath leaving his slightly parted lips in puffs before landing against my own.
As my eyes begin to clear and the tears less frequent now that I’m so focused on him, I realize that he’s no longer looking at me with pity and concern. But rather, he’s watching me with a panicked interest that clouds his eyes and has his chest rising faster by the second.
Not in the chapel, damnit, I want to scream. But I can’t move; I can’t speak. Julian is observing me the way a lion stalks a gazelle—as if he’s deciding in which way he’ll devour me.
“Julian,” I finally manage to force out, and his eyes fall to my mouth as it forms the word. As it calls to him. “What are you doing in here?”
“I…” He searches for his words, his eyes ensnared by my lips. “Checking on you.”
“I’m okay,” I tell him.
“I haven’t seen you in days. Were you… really sick, or something?” he asks hesitantly. As if he knows he shouldn’t be inquiring.
“Or something,” I offer, because I didn’t have a cold or anything.
Even though Iwasburning up.
“They won’t tell me anything about you,” he whispers, his fingers sliding from my cheek to run lightly over my curls.
“You’ve been asking about me?” I can hear the hope in my voice, the way it raises an octave. Julian nods once. “How sweet.”
His hand disappears, having been pulled away in an instant.
“I’m sorry,” he repeats. “I’ll… let me know if you need anything, Young Master Atlas.” Then he’s standing and fleeing from the chapel.
I can think of many things I need from him, and not a single one of them is innocent or acceptable.
“Dear Lord,” I murmur once I’m sure I’m alone again. “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. Dear Lord…”
And the cycle repeats.
I watch a sappy romcom with Atticus, then I play with dolls with Abigail for a while. When I enter her bedroom, she sobs like a baby, clinging to my slacks. It breaks my heart.
And after dedicating a ridiculous amount of time to being the mayor of her made-up doll town, I finally grab my black puffer coat and make my way to the back courtyard.
Standing before the Pacific Ocean, with its waves thrashing violently below me, I sigh.
“Where are you?” I whisper to the wind. “Come save me.”
One day, the cure will come. That is what both of my parents, the psychic, and Atticus have told me—that I won’t have to suffer forever.
But I’ve waited by this ledge almost every day since we heard of thiscuresix months after my eighteenth birthday, and nothing has happened.
There has been no ship in the distance, no flash of holy light, no indication that things might change. I feel hopeless; I feel lost.
I want to be normal; I want to be the kind of man who doesn’t have to drop to my knees in despair every other day.
If I’m cured, will this insatiable lust go away? Or will I continue to be a pretty little creature who chases his next orgasm as if his life depends on it? I want to be as pure as I look. And if not now, I at least want to have thechoiceto be that manlater on down the road.
Yet, as the waves drown out my own whispered pleas, I know that this mysterious cure will not be coming today. If ever.
Maybe I will always be a sex crazed maniac. Maybe I will always suffer under my own shame.
