Page 34 of Hunter

“Deliver us from perversion,” the low chant starts, voices overlapping, all male, all older. “Cleanse this child of unnatural desires. Drive out the demon of same-sex attraction. Let the blood of the Lamb wash him pure.”

I can feel their breath on my neck. One of them—Pastor Dale, I know it’s him even though I can’t see his face—leans in closer, his voice dropping to that intimate, venomous whisper he always used when no one else could hear.

“You were born broken, Charles. God made you a boy, but you keep trying to twist yourself into something filthy. Stop fighting it. Stop painting your eyes like a whore. Stop wanting what you were never meant to have.”

My chest heaves. I try to pull away but the hands only press harder, forcing my forehead down until it touches the floor. Tears burn hot trails down my cheeks and soak into the carpet. I’m sixteen again, small and shaking, every inch of me screaming that this is wrong, that I’m not broken, that the only thing perverted here is what they’re doing to me.

But the words won’t come. They never do in the nightmare.

Instead, the chant grows louder, drowning out everything else.

“Deliver us… deliver us… deliver us from perversion…”

The hands slide lower, one gripping the back of my neck, the other pressing between my shoulder blades until my ribs ache. I can taste salt and snot every time I swallow. Somewhere far away I hear myself whimpering, small and pathetic, the same sound I made the night they held me down for three hours “praying the gay away.”

Then the scene fractures.

Hunter is there.

He’s standing just outside the circle of men chanting over me, watching with those dark, steady eyes. Not helping. Not stopping it. The corner of his mouth twitches—not quite a smile, something colder. In the dream, I reach for him anyway, desperate, because some stupid part of me still thinks he might be different.

He doesn’t move.

The hands on my shoulders squeeze tighter. Pastor Dale’s voice slithers into my ear again.

“See? Even the ones you want will only watch while we fix you.”

I wake up gasping, sheets twisted around my legs, heart trying to punch its way out of my chest. The apartment is dark except for the weak gray light of early morning leaking through the three big windows. Sofia is curled on the pillow next to my head, purring like nothing’s wrong. I sit up fast, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes until white sparks explode behind my lids.

My whole body is shaking. The prayer-room smell still clings to the inside of my nose—incense, old carpet, sweat. I can still feel the phantom weight of those hands.

“Fuck,” I whisper into the quiet room. My voice cracks like I’m sixteen again.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stumble to the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face until the nightmare starts to loosen its grip. The mirror shows me exactly what I expect: smudged eyeliner from last night, pale cheeks, eyes too wide and too haunted, and the growing bags under them.

Hunter’s face flashes behind my eyelids—standing there in the dream, watching, not saving me.

I grip the edge of the sink until my knuckles go white.

No. I’m not letting him in. Not even in my sleep. The walls stay up. They have to.

I dry my face with the towel that still smells like cheap detergent and my fabric softener, then pad back to bed. Sofia meows softly and headbutts my chest until I lie down again.

The city is waking up outside the open windows—honks, distant sirens, someone yelling about parking. Normal. Alive. Mine.

I pull the blanket up to my chin and stare at the ceiling, waiting for the daylight to burn the last of the nightmare away.

It doesn’t.

Not completely.

Chapter 14

Hunter

The physical therapist is a sadistic little shit who smiles too much while he makes me twist and stretch like my shoulder isn’t still raw meat under the bandages. Second-degree burns don’t heal pretty, and every time I reach for the resistance band, my skin screams like it’s happening all over again—the fire, the smoke, the way Robby’s name got ripped out of my throat that night. I grit my teeth, sweat dripping down my spine, and count the seconds until the hour’s up.

When I’m finally free of the clinic, it’s a little after one, the city bright and loud and indifferent. I should be heading west, back toward my shitty studio and the half-empty bottle I swore I wouldn’t touch today. Instead, my feet turn east the second I spot him.