Page 95 of How to Hide in Plain Sight
People are aged 16 years old or older and are 5 or more years older than the child who is the object of the fantasies or behaviors. (An exception is an older adolescent who has an ongoing relationship with a 12- or 13-year-old.)
I scroll frantically through the article. Read every bullet point twice.Does this one apply to me? Does this one?
In almost every case, the answer is no. But then I remember that one pulse I felt when looking at Clara, and I lose all certainty that the answer reallyisno, and I circle back around, combing mymemories for further evidence in one direction or another.Sure, I argue to no one,I’ve never acted on pedophilic urges before, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t there. Right? Right?I clickbackand move on to the next article. I do this a half dozen times. Maybe more. As I read, light pulses at the edge of my vision. I barely blink. I feel the distinct sensation of falling.
Okay, I reason with myself.Calm down. Calm down. Let’s think this through. Say youarea pedophile. What happens then?
Well, I realize straightaway, I would have no option other than to kill myself. I mean, what’s the alternative? Continue living with the knowledge that I secretly want to have sex with a child? Or the opposite—turn myself in to the authorities before I can hurt anyone? Admit to the foulness within me? Become the most hated of all forms of humanity, the cellmate despised even by murderers and thieves?
No. That’s not an option. Of course that’s not an option. My only choice is to live in limbo. To fear the worst in myself. To hate myself and never tell a soul, not even Dr.Droopy. What could he do, anyway? How could he possibly save me?
I need to get out of here. I’m disgusting. How can I be with Manuel now? How can I even live withmyself?
And then, I hear the voice again—
Remember when Henry’s face popped into your mind while you were kissing Manuel?
Of course I do. One does not simply forget the reawakening of something you thought was gone forever.
You thought we were gone forever.
You thought you were rid of us.
You’ll never be rid of us, Eliot.
We’re part of you.
We live inside your mind. Everywhere you go, you bring us with you.
Everywhere you go, so do we.
I close out the articles. I sprint out of the office, back down the stairs, out the front door, and into my car. I do not text Manuel goodbye. I do not deserve to text him goodbye. I do not deserve anything.
I drive home. I drive fast, like I’m being chased. I lock myself in my bedroom.
I inhale and exhale. I try to forget what just happened.
I saw a naked child, felt a pulsedown there, a string of frantic Google searches, a spiral, a spiral, a vicious spiral into a place I never wanted to go.
“Oh fuck,” I whisper. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.”
Pedophile.
Disgusting.
Evil.
My phone dings, presumably with a text from Manuel.
Pedophile.
Disgusting.
Evil.
My parents are already asleep. Tomorrow, they’ll get up late and go to church. They’ll stay all morning. Mom likes to attend the post-service social and soak up the attention of the other pseudo-religious attendees. I imagine for a moment what it would be like to go with them. Mom would be thrilled. I can already imagine the way her face would light up. How her cheeks would balloon, her eyes widen, the same eyes she gave to me, to all of us. To Henry, once. Could I go with them? Absolutely. But I won’t. I can’t.
