Page 5 of Beneath the Dirt

What was that?

Her.

Me.

All of it.

What the fuck was that?

And why am I still hard?

Painfullyso.

Clearly, this isn’t going to take care of itself, so I have to do it.

A slew of rehearsed bible verses and phrases I’ve been conditioned to say to appease God and alleviate my guilt consume me as I unzip my pants.

They grow louder in my head as my erect cock bobs free. I grip it with a tight, needy fist. The vomit in the toilet that hasn’t been flushed yet burns into my periphery, yet somehow, also adds to the sick rush I have in this moment.

My lips purse and spit falls onto my shaft, lubricating it as I beat it. Not with my usual steady pace that I jerk myself off with. No, this is different. It’s fast. Incessant. Violent. It’s everything I shouldn’t be feeling and everything I shouldn’t be enjoying. But as I increase the speed and pressure, I’m transported back to the graveyard, back to the view I had of Araceli on her knees, worshiping whatever god or gods she deems worthy of her submission. Fisting myself harder, I envision the way she tore at the ground with angry, clenched fists, wishing they were on my cock instead of my own.

Her violence.

Her witchy fucking violence and that eerie chant now engrained in my mind as I stroke myself. Summoning my release from me as my whole body locks up and I cum in my hand.

Without hesitation, I bring my cum soaked hand to my mouth, sucking my fingers pretending it’s her release instead of my own.

The fantasy drives a painful ache in my chest, or maybe that’s the guilt trickling back in. I’m not sure which, but with the front door to the house slamming in the distance, I don’t have time to decipher my feelings. Panicked that I will get caught, I reach for the box of tissues on top of the toilet and clean myself, tossing the tissue in the bowl and flush it down with my puke.

I scramble, pulling up my pants, already reciting the rehearsed prayer in my head, just like I do every time I watch porn or do something I know God will be mad at me for—which lately has been a lot.

Footsteps sound on the other side of the door. It has to be Araceli, back already from the graveyard. The footsteps are light like hers, not the distinct stomp of my dad’s.I wait until they dissipate before I head to my room. My phone vibrates just as I close the door.

It’s Dad. Looking down at my phone, I open my messages to see it’s from our group chat between me, him, and Araceli.

Dad: Reminder that tomorrow is Devil’s Night service. Both of you are expected to attend.

I type back first.

Me: Got it.

Dad: Good.

Dad: Araceli?

Three dots appear then disappear just as fast. This continues two more times before she responds. My heart jumps at my chest at the sight of her name in the thread and the nausea returns reading her response.

Araceli: You aren’t going to get away with this, you sick bastard.

Who is she saying this to? To my dad? To me? Guilt for what I just did floods me in painful proportions. I blink, confused. Already afraid of how my dad will react. Sure enough, my mind isplaying tricks on me. Her message is there, but not the one I could’ve sworn I saw.

Araceli: Can’t wait Daddy *overeager smile emoji*

I should be relieved by her sarcasm and that the response on the screen wasn’t actually there, but I’m not. It’s happening again; the voices, the seeing things that aren’t fucking there. Everything my dad tried to beat out of me all those years is flooding back. It never used to be like this. Things were quiet—peaceful—until she came into our lives and ruined me all over again.

Two

The next day…

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