Page 18 of Unwrap Him

Pacing.

Pacing and pacing and pacing, in circles and circles and circles.

I think I’ve walked the entire circumference of my bedroom fifty times. Maybe more.

All the while, my brain teetering between an active slideshow of what happened downstairs and a mental block forcing myself to erase it completely.

I’m still fighting for some kind of hope that it didn’t really happen. It cannot have been real.

But even if it weren’t, it’s equally bad. If I dreamt about something like that… then what the fuck is really wrong with me?

After what shall henceforth be referred to as The Incident, Jesse curled up and fell asleep. Maybe he truly was asleep the whole time, which in no way makes it better.

I was stunned for many minutes. Unable to move or speak or even think. The orgasm fog wore off fast, and I was hit with a wave of guilt and shame unlike any other. A tsunami of bad and wrong swept me under, and I stumbled off the couch, running as fast as I could while trying to remain quiet, stealth.

I sprinted up the stairs two at a time and locked myself in my bedroom. Which is where I am now… Pacing.

Hours have passed by the time I finally crash onto my bed, exhausted from all the bullshit bubbling up in my head. It’s five in the morning and still dark outside as I crawl beneath my covers, rubbing my eyes hard with my fingers. What the fuck even happened down there?

Everything was normal. We watched the movie, Jesse passed out on the couch, as he’s done a million times before. Then I fell asleep too, which hasn’t happened in a while, but still, it’s not completely out of the ordinary that we’d both conk out on the couch.

How in the holy fuck does that translate into… The Incident??

Jesse’s sleepwalking has clearly taken a turn for the devious. But it’s not his fault. I can’t blame him for something he did in his sleep, just like I can’t blame him for his sleepwalking, even if it brings him into my bed on occasion. It’s never crossed any sort of line before tonight.

So what changed? What happened to turn his seemingly innocent subconscious travels into actions of the… blowing persuasion?

Jesus, I can’t think about this anymore.

My heavy eyelids droop with that word floating behind my eyes.

Can’t. Can’t can’t can’t can’t can’t.

Cracking my eyes open, there isn’t as much light as there was yesterday coming from outside. When I peer at the window, I see gray skies, snow still falling in more of a sleet form.

Great. The roads will be shit for days.

Sliding out of bed, I walk to the door and find it locked.

And recollection comes at me like a pillowcase full of dead batteries to the face.

I haven’t locked my bedroom door in a while… Because of Jesse.

Yet last night, I locked myself in here to hide from him.

My hands cover my face. What in the fuck is going on?

Slating those thoughts for later, I go to the bathroom to take a shower and do my thing.

Exiting slowly many minutes later, I can’t help but glance across the hall at Jesse’s bedroom. The door is open, and he clearly isn’t in there. Did he sleep on the couch all night?

Now I feel kind of bad.

It’s Christmas. We shouldn’t be dealing with whatever nonsense happened last night—or didn’t, if we’re choosing denial, which seems like a comfortable fit. We should be spending time together as a family, like we do every year.

So I go back into my room and get dressed in my Grinch Christmas sweatshirt—Jesse bought it for me when he was twelve, and I wear it every year—and I go downstairs, biting the bullet. Chewing on the damn thing and swallowing it with a solid gulp.

We’re going to have a good Christmas. That’s it. Even if I have to force it, normal is the name of the game we must play.

---