13
MALIN
I lie awake.Ryan is there in my peripheral vision, but I have the sheets covering my nose and continue to breathe in Gracen’s scent. My body lies pressed against Gracen’s side. I can turn my face toward him at any time. I can reach out and touch him at any time.
I don’t know why Jonathan hit something so raw inside me. It’s not like the other disciples of the temple didn’t have victims. Not all were children. Maybe that’s why Jonathan affected me more than others.
Emily was a little girl. Even to me, a child myself, she was just a little girl. There were times I’d fall asleep, hearing her screams echoing in my head.
There was one night I told Ryan about this, and he assured me she was a very troubled girl. There was a demon on her shoulder that Jonathan was working tirelessly to get rid of.
Those words now make my stomach churn. I know what that means now. I don’t understand how someone can be so cruel.How do you look at a child and think, ‘I’m going to rape her over and over again’?
I glance a little more fully at Ryan. He becomes clearer when I focus on him. As if the figment of my imagination gains substance when I acknowledge him more.
It’s strange that I don’t feel the same kind of sickness in my stomach toward Ryan that I do toward those who hurt other children. I was a child myself. I should feel just as sick about it.
“It was different between you and me,”Ryan’s voice says in my ear. He comes closer to the bed and crouches down. I swear, I can feel his fingers brush against my forehead. It’s soft. Tender. Chilly.“Everything was different between you and me. It wasn’t about your sins, William. I loved you so damn much. More than anything at all. I’d have used my body as a shield to protect you from the bullets had I known they were coming.”
I swallow, trying to justify the words in my head. It’s not true. He was selfish. Everything he did was selfish. It was about control.
“You don’t believe that,”he insists.“I was never selfish with you. I gave you everything you wanted.”
That’s true. When I asked for something, he made sure I had it. No matter what it was. I didn’t ask for a lot. Nor did I ask for things often.
“Tell me where you got me,” I whisper.
His answer is predictable.“You were always mine.”
“You didn’t give birth to me. Where did I come from?”
“You were created for me.”
I sigh. This is an endless cycle. I used to ask him this when I started therapy ten years ago. Then, I used to ask because I thought his answers would prove my therapist was wrong. He didn’t steal me. I wasn’t kidnapped. I was his, and his words confirmed that.
It was in that year or two when I still took his presence in my head as a comfort. He might not be here physically, but he was still with me. As he always said he’d be.
Right now, as he talks to me, even though he’s refusing to answer my questions, the déjà vu of comfort lingers between us. It makes my chest hurt. It makes my skin feel tight. I don’t like his touch anymore. Not even in death.
I know what kind of monster he is now. There’s no taking that back.
When the veil first began to be lifted from my eyes, I would yell at him. I would accuse him of all the things my therapists made me realize. Ryan had an excuse for everything. They were liars. They didn’t know what they were talking about. I knew the truth. I was there.
This was his biggest mantra when I started telling him he was a child rapist. He brainwashed me. He groomed me. He took advantage of me. Everything he did to me was inappropriate and wrong. Gross.
“You don’t really believe that, William. Do you? They weren’t there. If they were, they’d have seen how much I loved you. You know how much I loved you. You can still feel it.”
I know the moment Gracen wakes up. The peace and softness that began to settle between Ryan’s image in my head and meabruptly turns loud and angry. Sighing, I roll into Gracen to drown him out, which only pisses him off more.
“Good morning,” Gracen murmurs in his gruff, deep voice, made huskier with sleep. His fingers brush through my hair gently. “How did you sleep?”
“All right,” I answer.
I feel his dick against my thigh. I’ve touched this man everywhere. Feeling his body in a way I’ve never touched another. I like to touch him. Feel the texture of his skin. His back is soft. His upper arms are soft, though I can feel a hardness under his skin where muscle is.
His hair is both soft and coarse. Soft to the touch, but it makes his skin almost rough when I move my hands over it. I like his hair. I love to run my fingers through it. I like his thick thighs. His ass is round and firm. I love to feel the way his muscles flex under my touch.
I’m fascinated by his dick. Every time I touch him, it grows in length. Thickens. Hardens. Leaks. It twitches and jumps. His balls do too.
