Page 55 of Man On

Noah: Wanna talk it out?

Not really.

Lane: I'm just… confused, I guess. Overwhelmed.

Noah: Is it because of your grandpa?

My eyes feel hot, but I sniff back the tears that keep threatening. I'm a man. I'm in control.

Lane: He wouldn't approve.

Noah: Fuck his approval.

Lane: You wouldn't understand.

Noah: Tell me then. Make me understand.

No. Never. I'll never tell him or anyone else.

My eyes squeeze shut. Flashes of light flare behind my eyes, still images of core memories imprinted in my brain. My phone pings, but all I can hear is bells.

A chair. Leather belts. Chris smiling, running after a soccer ball. Laughing and talking. Singing. My grandfather's cold glare.

"Sin is infectious, Isaiah. You are made unclean by his disease. You must repent and submit to be cleansed of the devil's touch."

A round drain in the floor, gurgling. Water dripping from wet hair. Tears. Pain. A single hanging lightbulb. Red light.

"It's a sickness. I'm trying to help you wash away the filth of your sins."

"I haven't done anything."

"It's inside you. I can see it. The sickness will eat you from the inside out, until even the flames of hell won't be hot enough to purify your soul."

Retching, I drop my phone and scramble to the small wastebasket beneath my desk. I clutch it to my body as waves of nausea pass through me, but I keep my meager breakfast down.

My phone pings again. And again. It pings two more times in quick succession before I come back to myself and pick it up.

It pings again as I register all the messages Noah has sent me over the last couple of minutes.

Noah: I'm a good listener, believe it or not.

Noah: You alright in there?

Noah: Lane. Don't ignore me. I won't bring it up again, okay?

Noah: Lane, I'm sorry.

Noah: Lane?

Noah: Damn it Lane, stop jerking off and answer me before I break your door down.

Noah: I'll fucking do it, and I'll make you sorry.

Adrenaline courses through me as I text him back as quickly as possible.

Lane: I'm fine.

It's just two words, but hopefully it's enough that he won't make good on his threat. I studiously ignore the part of me that is excited by the prospect.

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