“She doesn’t understand what it means, Atlas,” she says quietly.
“Please,” I beg. “It would make me feel so much better knowing she’s not so close.”
My mother is silent for a long moment. She washes my hair thoroughly and uses a nearby glass to pour water over it, rinsing out the suds. When she’s done, she nods once.
“How about we compromise? We can switch her and Atticus’s rooms. That way she’s further, but not alone.”
“Okay,” I concede. “That will be fine.”
My mother leans down and presses a chaste kiss on my wet hair before standing and wiping her hands on a decorative towel. “Come down and eat, alright?”
I only nod in response, watching as she floats gracefully out of the room, and I wonder for a moment if things will always be like this.
If I’ll always be the man hidden away, drowning in his own shame and hurting the ones he loves.
Will I… willIever be loved? Would the monster even allow it? Or would he hurt any man who tried to touch me?
And if it did allow it, who would want to hold a man who’s been fucked by a demon?
I sink below the hot water, my eyes open and stinging in the blurry water now contaminated with soap and sweat. The answer to that question is nobody; no one in their right mind would love someone who lies with a monster.
Because, by extension, doesn’t that make me a monster as well? At the very least, I’m tainted by one.
My mind wanders to Julian. Beautiful, curious Julian. Even if he were into men, and even if I were his type, I couldn’t seduce him. Not while in my right mind, at least.
I wouldn’t want to contaminate him as well.
I’m notthatterrible. I’m not that cruel.
It’s time to pray.
Julian
8
I’M AWOKEN TO THEsound of knocking on my bedroom door. It’s a loud and steady knock, one that wakes me immediately.
It’s Christmas Day, and I was expecting to sleep in at least a little. We aren’t required to work today, and the Chastains are undoubtedly going to be together and busy with various holiday activities.
Groaning, I sit up, running a hand through my hair.
“Julie?” my father calls.
“Come in.”
The door opens, and he slips inside the room, shutting the door securely behind himself before he sits down on the mattress a few inches away.
“Merry Christmas.” He grins, his brown eyes twinkling. In his hands is a small box.
“Dad,” I say pointedly. “We said no gifts.”
“Hush, son. Open it.” He places the box before me on the bed, and I pick it up wearily.
We were broke as all hell when we got here. Aside from our small savings, we had nothing but the four suitcases we draggedbehind us. When did he have the time? We’ve only gotten two paychecks since arriving.
Opening the lid of the box, I find a watch. It’s sleek black all over, with the face being an almost metallic black color. It looks fancy; it looks expensive.
“Dad,” I start.
