Page 75 of The Teras Trials

21

LESSON TWENTY-ONE

Everyone splits after that. It’s almost time for the dinner meal, but I tell the others I’m not hungry, just so I can have a moment on my own.

Almost certainly, I’ll regret that later. I must make sure I eat something before tomorrow, if I have any hope of surviving.

Maybe if you’re thin and lanky it will go after someone else, some part of my brain spits out.

Don’t you think it’s incredible how, even in a situation like this, I can be so worried about how I look?

Victoria, Bellamy, and the siblings head off—not together, notably, but in pairs. And Leo waits for me, like I’ll be changing my mind.

I struggle not to meet his gaze, because in the moments where I can feel him looking at me, it dawns on me that what I’m feeling isn’t anxiety. Or at least, not anxiety alone.

When I think of tomorrow, when I think of the potential of my death, I feel, irrevocably, ruttish. I don’t know—I told you earlier, it always seems to come out of nowhere. Right before something awful. My body knows, and it responds with no easy coping mechanism; no detachment, no simply shutting down of the nervous system. Instead, it practically orders me to fuck. To have every anxious thought railed out of me. My gaze slips to Leo, and then I remember the laudanum I tucked away, and who knows. It’s probably better to lose myself in the oblivion of substances than beneath that man. I know myself, you see.

When we slept together, Leo asked me if I had done it before, and I’d told him of the men I let touch me, and never had to see again. Leo thought I was worried about my reputation; that in fucking me, I would be so ashamed of myself, I might never look him in the eye again. But that wasn’t what my concern was.

Too much of sex, too much of comfort, and too much trauma. Should I sleep with Leo too often in these circumstances and I know I’ll think I love him. And I can’t afford to do that—whether it be a love conjured by hormones, or in truth.

Not because I’m scared of love. But because I am not here for me. I am here for my family. On God, I am here to make sure my mother lives comfortably. Duty before men. Duty before cock—God, it should not be so difficult.

“I should pray,” I tell him, and he nods at me quietly.

“Do you need company?”

The urge to say yes nearly overwhelms me, until I acknowledge what kind of company I desire from Leo Shaw. I can’t bring that desire into a house of God. “Are you a godly man?”

He leans himself against one of the courtyard pillars. A little breeze moves through his hair. “For you, I could be,” he whispers. At this point, I think I would be forgiven for reaching out and kissing him. He looks so damned lovely; and hungry, too. I know just by looking at him that he shares my desire, and I want to be wanted so badly I feel my resolve slipping.

Be on your guard; stand firm in the faith; be courageous; be strong.

1 Corinthians 16:13

“No, Mr Shaw,” I tell him, my hand flat on his chest, over his heart. I feel the rapid beat of it. He raises his hand, gently envelops mine with it.

“Alright, Mr Jones,” he whispers with a smile. His tone betrays him, though—and I’m not quite sure he’s trying to hide his disappointment. I think he wants me to feel it.

God, he’s good. Or perhaps I’m simply a slut. I almost cave and tell him ‘later’, but I’m a good, brave, and strong Christian boy, and I smile back at him instead, slipping my hand away so I can walk to the chapel.

Because I refuse to take it on hallowed ground, I uncap the laudanum when I’m out of sight of Leo, walking back through the shadowed halls. I don’t have much of it, because I want to stay awake; just a finger dip I rub into my gums, a few drops down the throat. My body convulses with the bitterness, but within seconds the euphoria hits me. Muscles I wasn’t aware were wound so tightly start to release.

The chapel is beautiful at night. The doors are open—I think they must always be open—and candles burn from within, warm glow pulsing its welcome out into the afternoon. I stagger in still high and stumble into a pew. I think part of me forgot there’s a giant scylla carcass fused to the chapel’s walls, because I keel over at the sight of it, but I manage to land well on my knees in a crumpled pile resembling prayer. Though it still looms there, though I’m still knelt before it as if in worship, I mark my words very clearly. I mark them for God. And I say a prayer on my knees, though my words quickly slip into outright begging. My skin burns with shame; the shock of this place hits me like grief does, in layered waves, never truly going away. When tears threaten to spill, some image of Thaddeus comes to me unbidden, and that does it. That’s enough for grief to burst through the bulwark. I sob. I have to press my lips together hard to stop making a sound, but God. God. What kind of place is this? And what have I gotten myself into? If I’m wrong about the trial tomorrow, have I damned us all? Have I damned Leo?

I rock back into my haunches and uncouple my hands, pressing the butt of my palms against my eyes. I feel—filthy. By now, it’s obvious that I’m uncontrollable. I smoke, and I drink, and I lose myself in laudanum. I have sinned. I will sin again. I’ve fucked. I’ve taken pleasure in another man. If Leo wants me tonight, I will let him fuck into me until he’s spent, because I enjoy it. I’ve enjoyed myself, writhing beneath him—and my brother is dead. And people my age are dying. And this place wills it so.

I realise that I’m shaking. I’m not making sense. Everything I want, really—objectively—has nothing to do with the horrors happening in this institution. But it is the only thing I’m meant to be able to control, and I let my groin rule me. So that feeling of filth crawls up my spine; I can hear the devil chattering in my brain.

If only to feel the touch of God, His forgiveness, I stand and shove myself into a confessional.

“Father,” I say, but I don’t think he’s there. So I wait. Within a minute, I hear the door of the priest’s booth groan open and shut. The wooden seat creaks as it takes his weight.

Old indoctrination sparks in me. The urge to be cleansed of this filth fills me up and I don’t wait for the Father to invite me to speak—another of my sins to list!—and in fact, before he can say anything at all, I begin.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been months since my last confession. And I have. . . sinned so wholly I fear there’s no coming back from it. No hope for my immortal soul.” I pause, I inspect my hands. “I lust for my colleagues. I lust for men. I crave them, even now. Even—” I make a noise. “Even in amongst all this death and this fear, I still feel the urge to seek them out. I think you’ll say it’s the stress, but I know what I want. I know, in my heart of hearts, that loving men is a sin because of how good it feels. And nothing on this earth should feel so close to heaven. Is that blasphemy?”

I wait—there’s no response. Briefly, I consider no one’s next to me, until I hear the creaking of the chair. And when another moment comes with no offer of rosaries or penance, I think: Cassius Jones, you have fucked up. You have bared your soul to an agent of the institution who does not care if you live or die. Who will gladly add your sins to its arsenal should it need to put you in your place. You have gone and whored yourself out again, thinking God is watching.

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