Page 79 of Bloom: Part 1

“Nooooo!” Bloom rushed over and threw himself between me and the bathroom. “You can’t go in there.”

“Why not?”

“It’s a mess.”

“So? I want to know everything there is to know about you.” The door was already cracked open, so I reached over his headand shoved it wider. The black decor didn’t surprise me. He’d even gotten a black toilet, but what held my attention was the area where a sink basin should have sat. Bloom had transformed it into a kind of altar.

In the center was an enlarged photograph of me, one I didn’t recall posing for, framed by a thick ornate frame. Draped over the corner of the frame was a delicate chain with a forked cross pendant. Around the idol was a constellation of objects: a polished skull, its empty eyes seeming to gaze directly at my image, while to the other side, a goblet wrought from blackened metal and studded with small, reflective stones, stood ready, as if for a ritual. The small space was crowded with other offerings: a circle of wilted flowers, their petals a deep maroon; a lock of hair, which by the color I assumed was mine; a pen he must have taken from my desk; a knife and a tie.

The entire ensemble was bracketed by a series of candles in holders that ranged from simple black pillars to more elaborate candelabras. Their presence gave the impression that the space was both hallowed and haunted.

“I didn’t want you to see it.” Bloom sounded stricken. His face was pale. He ducked under my arm and made a run for it. I caught him around the waist and pulled him against my chest. He sank his teeth into my arm.

“Are you going to hurt me?” I whispered.

He loosened his grip on me, his chest rising and falling. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“What are you sorry for?”

“I didn’t mean to.”

“You didn’t mean to what?”

“Worship you. No one was supposed to know.”

My heart skipped a beat as I processed his words. “Worship me?” I swallowed hard, my eyes darting back to the altar. The items on the table suddenly held a darker, more intensemeaning. This wasn’t just about Bloom’s taste in décor; this was about obsession. This was about devotion, and I didn’t deserve it, but by god, I wanted to.

“You’re going to tell me it’s wrong, aren’t you?”

It was on so many levels. He shouldn’t put me on a pedestal like this. I was mortal like him. There was nothing special about me.

“Show me.”

“What?”

“Show me how you worship me.”

“What if you change your mind about me?”

“I won’t. I swear.”

With a reverence that bordered on sacred, Bloom entered the room. He picked up a lighter and lit each candle methodically. The soft sounds of the flame catching on the wick were like a call to silence, to respect. The flickering candlelight painted his features in a dance of shadow and warm glow, making the scene ethereal.

He took up the photo, my photo, with a trembling hand, and his lips met the glass in a tender, devoted kiss. He replaced the frame and kneeled before the altar, bowing his head low in silent prayer. Though I wanted to know what he was mumbling, he seemed so serious in his worship I dared not disturb him. His voice rose louder until I could make out low chants of vows and pledges of a lifetime of fidelity and loyalty as he bowed over and over.

“Today I vow once more to be only yours in my heart, mind, body, and soul. I pledge myself to protect, to revere, and to honor only you. For in you, I see the divine. You are my hope, my redemption, my salvation.”

He pressed his forehead to the floor, then straightened. “Nothing but death shall separate me from you. My hands arestained with the blood of men, but through the symbol of your blood, I am made clean.”

He rose to his feet and took the goblet and the knife. My breath quickened as everything became clear. This—this was what he’d been doing when he cut his thigh open. How much blood had he lost since meeting me to fulfill this ritual?

It would be so easy to laugh at him, to call what he did madness, to wash my hands of him and walk away. But his devotion humbled me. When I was pushing him away, he was treating me like a deity. Despite the wildness of it all, there was a certain beauty in his faith, a serenity that washed over me as I witnessed his devotion.

“Don’t.” I stepped forward and pried the knife out of Bloom’s fingers. I shouldn’t encourage him, but everyone needed something to believe in. Who was I to take that away from him? He wasn’t harming anyone.

“I have to,” he said, eyes desperate. “If I don’t, the ritual isn’t complete.”

But I couldn’t bear to see him lose any more blood. I made a shallow cut across my palm. A thin line of blood bloomed against my skin.

---