Malin adjusts himself under me, bending his knees and pressing his thighs to either side of my hips. I can feel that he’s naked. My body isn’t immune to that, so I’m sure he feels that I’m interested.
“What compromise?” he asks.
“We can see how you feel about the things you hated, but slowly. One thing at a time.”
“Is this going to count as one thing?” he asks. I don’t miss the way his eyes flicker away.
“Yes and no. I’m going to lie on you while you’re mostly naked, and we’re going to make out. You can touch me.” His breath hitches, so I pause. “Also, I need to know what you’re thinking. I’m not going to tell you that what you felt isn’t real. I completely understand your frustration, and having not been in your position, I don’t feel I have the authority to have an actualopinion on the matter. I will say that even children’s emotions are valid, so even if adults don’t understand what their six-year-old feels, that doesn’t mean that the child isn’t feeling that. But your experience means you’re hanging onto some trauma, especially around physical contact. Correct?”
“I’m not sure if ‘especially’ is necessary, but yes.”
“Then I need to know what you’re feeling. What you’re thinking. I don’t ever want what we do to have any kind of negative connotations connected to it.”
“Okay. Then I was thinking Ryan didn’t like it when I touched him. He wanted to touch me. I think for him, it was self-consciousness about his body. I’m not even sure why I think that, but it feels like a memory. So… I guess maybe I’m a little nervous about touching you since I’ve never touched anyone. Not even Ryan.”
“Ah. Then take your fill. I’m glad I can be this first for you.”
The smile he gives me is perhaps the biggest one I’ve ever seen, which is impressive and sad because it’s still very, very small.
“Do you accept this compromise?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I’m looking forward to making out like teenagers.”
His little huff of laughter makes me grin, and I press my mouth to his.
11
MALIN
It’s been morethan ten years since I’ve seen some of the people who are brought in from the New World Order Temple. Jonathan Clark is one of the guys I hated the most. I think he’s one of the very few I told Ryan I didn’t like. He made me uncomfortable. There was something slimy about him.
He was transfixed by a child named Emily. Emily was younger than I. Not by a lot, I don’t think. Maybe a year or more. She joined our church when I was six or so.
There’s a common belief among all people that children are innocent. They’re not old enough to be corrupted by the world, to have sinned. Which I find hypocritical since it’s generally accepted that infants are baptized, and that’s a form of sin-washing. But I digress.
In NWOT, everyone can be sinful. In their actions. In their thoughts. In their expressions. In their intentions. This includes children.
From early on, Jonathan preyed on Emily. He convinced her parents that she needed extra cleansing because she was always so angry. Disobedient. She threw fits when they came into worship.
There’s a rule that the louder a person is during cleansing, the more it hurts, the more sinful they are, and the more cleansing they need. The pain felt is reflective of how deeply the sin is attached to them.
Emily was always very, very loud. Screaming and fighting and crying. Every time she went in for cleansings. Which was often.
Sometimes, Jonathan would take Emily home because she needed longer cleansings than could be performed at the temple. She’d stay the night. Once, I heard she stayed for an entire week, and she was still screaming.
I know now that all that bullshit is a lie. I know now that pain does not equal sin.
I’d forgotten about Jonathan Clark once we left the US for Ryan’s island. He didn’t join us. I didn’t ask why because I was glad to be away from him. Forgetting him meant I forgot about Emily.
Now that Jonathan is tied to the chair in the room where the cultists are delivered to me, I remember her. I remember all the cleansings.
I remember hearing her being raped through the walls along with so many other members of the church, and I wonder—those adultsknewwhat was taking place andnot a single fucking personcalled the cops. Her parents let it happen.
Jonathan stares at me. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t appear to recognize me. Maybe I’m waiting for him to. Not many of them do. Ten years change a person.
Something else occurs to me as I look at him, too. If someone is going to know who I am, it’s going to be Jonathan. He’s in my very earliest memories. He should know how Ryan came across me. He should know who I am.
