Page 48 of White Room Virgin

Later that day, I met up with Simon at the library to do research for an upcoming test.

“If you don’t feel well, you should go home,” Simon whispered to me across the table.

He sat in front of an open book and stared at me. A chill ran down my spine and I scanned the library to make sure no one was watching or overhearing us. For the sake of peace, I smiled at his well-intentioned suggestion, because I didn’t want to rest at home for anything in the world.

“It’s not the end of the world if you call in sick.”

“I’m not sick.”

“Oh, really? But you look like it.”

“I’m fine,” I assured, closing my book and standing up.

But Simon was right. My physical condition had deteriorated so much that I had to do something. Go home. Take a bath. Sleep for a long time. Anything. But in a twisted, almost masochistic way, I enjoyed being unhappy. God was playing a trick on me, and I had no chance of winning against Him. Punishment was about humbly accepting it, not wallowing in the suffering it caused. I was standing helplessly in front of the bookshelf, wondering what else I could do to punish myself, when Simon appeared next to me, pushed his book back onto the shelf, andpurposefully plucked out a new one. “Or did you just want to take this one?” he asked.

“Uh … Hmm. You’re right,” I said tiredly. “I’d better go home.” To the place I least wanted to be at the moment—that would do the trick for now.

“You’ve probably taken on too much in the last few days,” Simon said and put his hand on my shoulder.

I reflexively slapped it away and backed away in horror. He had no reason to touch me, and I certainly didn’t deserve his understanding. I could see on his face that he was trying to analyze my behavior. “Go and rest,” he simply said and returned to the table.

My head was pounding as I waited at the streetcar stop. Dark gray clouds hung over the city and small white flakes fell from the sky. Everything seemed so peaceful, but there was a storm raging inside me.

22

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Lucien

I was so fed up. Of people. Of promises. Of expectations. Of hopes. Of Jonah. And, above all, of myself.

As strong as the emotions were boiling inside me, I lacked the energy to bring them to the surface. I felt like a stone—heavy, dull, and weak. All the muscles that I didn’t urgently need were paralyzed and my breathing was shallow. I felt empty and so did my circulation. I felt dizzy all the time and food disgusted me. Just thinking about the gooey substance in my mouth made me feel sick.

But it was my own fault. I hadn’t wanted to give up hope with Jonah and had shown him a world that could only be lived in my dreams. His religion stood between us, and Jonah had made it very clear to me that I was the last piece of trash for him. I had defiled him.

I had been so stupid—he would never confess to me. And why should he? I knew for myself that I was nothing more than dirt. I had brought guilt upon myself, and now it threatened to crush me like a rock. The thing from two years ago clung to me like an evil spirit, and everything had gone downhill even more since the thing with Jonah. Maybe I was cursed because everything I touched turned into shit. Even if I had wanted to, I would never have escaped it all. They had become my personal hell. Phil and Jonah. Jonah and Phil. My thoughts hadn’t been about anything else for two weeks.

I ignored all the messages, spent most of my time in the studio, where at least no one had to deal with me, and tried to concentrate on my art—without success. The last thing left for me was to slip away from me too.

And then there was the damn anniversary!

Seated in drawing class, I fixated on a stunning bouquet of flowers, the sound of pencils scratching against paper amplifying my discomfort. It felt as though I might burst from within, an unbearable pulsation coursing through my body like a ticking time bomb. My throat constricted, each breath a painful endeavor.

Why am I still here at all? Why today?

I sat in front of the blank page until the bell rang. But even that wasn’t a relief. I just sat there paralyzed. My body didn’t want anything anymore.

“Are you coming?” Steven asked from somewhere in the distance.

I took a breath and packed up.

“Gilliéron, a word!”

Again?

“I’ll wait outside,” Steven said.

I hesitantly approached Seeger, who slid a handful of sketches into his folder.

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