Page 1 of The Truths We Burn

rook - the past

Masochism.

Pleasure in being abused or dominated. A taste for suffering.

I always liked that definition—a taste for suffering. It’s almost poetic, and I didn’t know the Merriam-Webster dictionary could be anything but conventional.

While being dominated isn’t something I necessarily enjoy in the bedroom or in life, I can always get down with a little scratch-and-bite action. For me, at least, it’s less about domination and more about the hurting.

Some call it sadomasochism. That’s what I like.

You see, I really love pain.

God, it’s like the cure-all. The magic bullet. The ultimate escape.

The way bruises hover on my body and ache for days after.Sometimes I like to press them when they are still purple, just so I can remember where they came from, ya know?

I love the way pain explodes inside my skin, reminding me of all the things I deserve punishment for. The constant reminder that even on Earth, we must all pay for our sins.

Hell would be a walk in the park.

I practically ruled it.

“It’s all your fault, Rook.” His voice stings like coals against the soles of my feet. “TheLordexamines the righteous, but the wicked, those who love violence, he hates with a passion!”

“Then shouldn’t he hate you as much as he hates me?” I spit back.

A son is supposed to be his father’s proudest achievement. I am his reckoning.

The straightlaced, self-righteous lawyer had disappeared the fucking second he passed the threshold of this house. The tie had loosened, his hair disheveled from pacing, and I can smell his whiskey-coated breath as I walk away from the kitchen, headed to the front door.

“Don’t you dare walk away from me, you bastard!”

Sometimes it’s not even the physical pain I need. I enjoy verbal abuse; it bites into me just as deep, just as brutal, making my toes curl, my body light up with chill bumps. It’s the only time I feel normal.

And nothing has been normal since I was seven.

Before I was excommunicated from my own father.

My scalp burns as he curls his fingers into the back of my scalp, gripping my thick hair and jerking me back into his space. Damn, man, I should cut this mop.

The earlier Bible verse rubs my skin raw, blistering my bones. Violence done without the name of God is something hideous, but as long as you’re quoting scripture before beating your son, it’s alright.

It’s holy, the work of prophets.

If we were going by Dante’s rules, I’d fall just above my father, spending eternity in the river of boiling blood in the seventh circle of Hell, while he walks for eons in the pits of hell, dancing in the sixth ditch of Malebolge.

Was any of it true?

Did sins rank worse in the underworld? Different punishments given based on your crimes against humanity?

“Pulling fucking hair? What are we doing now—we in a bitch fight?” My words are simply fuel to the already raging fire inside of him.

I could fight him back when he tosses me to the ground, do more than catch myself as my palms dig into the wooden floor, keeping me from banging my head on the hard surface, but I don’t.

His wingtip shoe punches into my ribs, making me grunt at the abruptness of the discomfort. I roll to my back, breathing out with a grin and staring up at the ceiling, wondering if God is laughing the way I am right now, happy that the devil is being punished on earth.

My laugh comes out cold and breathless.

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