Under Branches: V

V; the cat and the bird

    I lie in my bed, Connor next to me. I can hear him breathing, but he's not sleeping. Neither of us can bear to close our eyes longer than a few seconds. All I see when I do is Robin's face and how it had looked when I last saw it; his green eyes both tired and wild; his cheeks white as snow; his mouth downturned, unusual for his smiling and happy disposition. I stare at my phone; one missed call, one voicemail. Both from Robin.

    I caused this.

    "Are you awake?" I hear a quiet voice.

    "Yeah."

    "I'm sorry," Connor says before I hear him sob. "This is all my fault."

    I turn on my side and pull the cover over us. "No, it's not."

    I can't stand him thinking this is because of him, but I can't bear for him to know the truth. I don't dare tell him that this wouldn't have happened if I hadn't made Robin go back, hadn't forced him to look at the ghost. And I know what he was holding at that moment... that unbearable despair that leaves you cold and empty and alone, feeling as if he'd just lost the most important person in his life.

    But why him? Why Robin and not me? Why am I still here and he's...

    We lie together under the sheets until Connor eventually falls asleep. I slip out of bed and down into the kitchen, where I find my mother smoking a cigarette at the dining table.

    She looks alarmed when she sees me.

    "Oh, honey... I didn't realise you'd be up," she says, stubbing the cigarette out on a saucer.

    I sit down next to her. Her eyes are puffy and sore-looking. "This is my fault," I blurt suddenly.

    She looks at me, confused. "No, sweetie, don't think that..."

    "I made him go back," I splutter, and the tears take over again. I hold my face in my hands as I weep.

    I feel a hand on my shoulder. "Kit, nothing you could've done has caused this."

    "Mum, you don't get it. I made him go back to the forest. That's why he wanted to die."

    "Honey, that's just an old folktale. It's not real."

    I weep into my hands, unable to stop, knowing just how real it all is. She's not seen what we saw.

    I don't sleep. I walk Connor home in the morning, but he doesn't say anything. He only shakes and cries, and I hold his hand the whole way home as passers-by look at us in pity, the news of Robin's suicide already the newest village gossip.

    The funeral is in one week. I can't bring myself to listen to my voicemail. I can't bear to hear Robin's last words, recorded merely on a device and not straight from his mouth. I can't hear the pain in his voice as he lay alone and scared in that forest, haunted and freezing.

    Connor appears at my door a few days later with a box of things from Robin's bedroom.

    "His mum wanted us to go through this stuff..." he says. "I couldn't look at it on my own."

    We empty the box out on my bed, looking at every item; every photo frame, keyring, notebook, soft toy. Photos of the three of us, growing up in my back garden. Old diaries, filled with memories from summers passed. The old bear that still smells like him.

    "I know I treated you guys like shit..." Connor says quietly. "But I loved him."

    "I know. I loved Robin too."

    Connor blushes. "No... I mean... I loved him. As more than a friend."

    I stare at him, unable to register what he's just said. "What?"

    "We never... did anything really. We just kissed a few times. But... I loved him so much."

    I blink. "Connor, I had no idea."

    He smiles. "I don't think he really felt the same. That's just the kind of person he was... just going along with whatever I wanted. He just didn't want to hurt my feelings." His smile fades quickly. "But nothing he could've done would have hurt as much as him doing this."

    I pull him close to me, holding him tightly as his tears soak into my t-shirt, warm at first and then cold on my shoulder. I let my own fall freely, wishing I could understand what Connor is feeling but at the same time knowing.

    The funeral seems to catch up to us quicker than we want. It feels like we have no time to process or organise our feelings, and yet I can't wait for it to be over. All through the service, all I can hear is I'm never listening to you again on repeat. Over and over and over. It gets louder and louder as I stare at the priest and then Connor and then the headstone. Over and over, until we're throwing lilies into an open grave as Robin's family watch and then everyone starts dissipating across the graveyard towards their cars, hands gripped to others', tear-soaked faces still in disbelief at yet another suicide. "And one so young," I hear from a woman whom I'm not even sure knew Robin. Just another funeral show.

    I'm never listening to you again.

    The day is grey, tempting the clouds to open with rain. But the downpour doesn't start until I'm in the forest, and I don't know how I got here. I'm staring at my phone, my hands shaking, droplets of water forming on the screen, be they tears or raindrops.

    I call my voicemail.

//    As the sun rose the following morning, I couldn't help but watch the light as it touched your soft skin while you lay in the bed, your back to me, my arm under your neck, your long, soft curls tucked under with it. All I could think was how wrong this was, in so many ways, but I had never felt so full in all my life.

    I ran my fingers over your shoulder, both hoping to wake you and not. But as you stirred, sighing gently and rolling on to your back, I felt that stab of emotion in my stomach for you.

    You gazed at me as you turned toward me. "You're awake."

    I didn't stop myself reaching for your face. I feared you would flinch away, realising what a disgusting thing we had done. But you didn't.

    "Lian..." you uttered with a demure smile on your lips, the kind that sent my heart fluttering into tiny particles.

    I squinted at you. "I'm sorry?"

    "That's what I want to call you from now on. I want to call you something that only I will know."

    "And what shall I call you?" 

    The light was catching your eyes like fire, illuminating your face like a deity. You shook your head slightly. "Whatever you'd like."

    "Kit." I smiled widely at you. "I like that."

    "Okay, my beautiful Lian." You brought your lips to me then, sending me back into the flames of your love, setting the room ablaze. I'd never felt so hot in my life as I did then, with your body against mine, and your hands touching me so tenderly.

    We lay together for some time that day, barely leaving the bed. But by the time darkness fell, you were tearing yourself away from me.

    "I really should get back home..." you told me as if going back home was the worst thing imaginable to you. "I'm worried my assistant will come looking for me."

    I nodded, not really wanting to understand, but not wanting you to leave either. I was scared that if you left me alone with my thoughts, I'd realise what I'd done. And it hurt me to watch you go.

    It didn't take long for you to return to me. Every Sunday after, you would take me home in your carriage and you would stay with me for hours. We would make love until we were sore, and then we'd swim in the lake to cool down. This lasted for many weeks, and I battled with the consequences daily. Every Sunday, I'd see you with your wife, your beautiful and talented wife, but still, you chose to take me home, take me to hell and back with you.

    It was September before our love began to fall apart. You came to visit me for an extended time, after telling Claudia you needed to travel to another village to help a friend of your father's. Of course, that was only an elaborate lie, and you spent two nights revelling in my body.

    "I need to get back," you said to me on the second morning. "Claudia is waiting..."

    "I wish you wouldn't say her name."

    "What do you want from me, Lian? She's my wife." Your voice was so cold as if you hadn't just spent the last two days telling me you loved me.

    I bit down on my lip, trying to pull back on the sharp tears stinging the back of my throat. "I know that."

    "And you!" You threw your hand out at me accusingly. "You're supposed to be a man of God."

    You clenched your fists as I wrapped the bed sheet around me, trying to protect myself from your painful glare.

"Kit, please."

    But my plea didn't soften you. You began to grab your clothes.

    "I should... stay away for a while. We need to fix this."

    I nodded, my eyes now completely drowning, my rosary digging into the palm of my hand.

    Yes. We were broken souls. But it's your fault, Kit. You made me like this. You brought me to Hell with you, tore me into tiny little pieces. 

    Please, Kit. Take the dagger you stuck in my aching throat. Take the arrow you launched at my shattered chest. Take them and bring me back from this death you sent me to. 

When you left that evening, you took my heart with you. I was never so broken as I was that night, watching you hurriedly dress in your shirt and trousers, both creased from laying in a pile for two whole days. I envisioned Claudia chastising you when you arrived back at the cottage, playfully patting you with a rolled-up parchment from her writing lessons. And then you'd smile at her because you absolutely love her, and tell her to let her flowing red hair down because her lesson was over. She'd bring you clean garments to change into, thinking you'd been travelling for hours in the clothes you are wearing.

    But as I drifted into a painful slumber that night, I heard a knock on my door. At first, I thought I was dreaming, until another hurried knock came. I wrapped my coat around me quickly, concerned at the urgency of the battering. But when I opened the door, there you stood; soaked to the bone from the rain, your long hair in dark, wet tendrils around your sunken shoulders.

    "What are you doing here, Christopher?" I asked, not daring to utter my name for you.

    Your face was damp not only from the storm. "Lian... I am so sorry..." you uttered, falling into my arms. I closed the door quickly and held you close. "Know that I love you. I love only you, my Lian. I am yours."

    I could feel the tears and rain soaking through my gown, probably ruining it for service. But I couldn't care. All I wanted was to feel your body against mine again.

    "I love you, my Kit."

    I carefully undressed you, afraid of what death you'd catch in your wet clothes, and hung them by the fire. You shivered as I wrapped a cotton and down blanket around your shoulders, drawing me into you to keep you warm. But your teeth chattered still, and I could see a paleness in your face that was not only despair. I let you sleep, and in the morning, your eyes were still as dark.

    "Lian." Your voice was a mumble as I readied some porridge on the stove.

    "What is it, my love?"

    "Claudia... she's pregnant."

    A cold chill came over me. I dropped the spoon in the pot. "How long?"

    "It must be a few months. We haven't made love since..." Your voice trailed off. I knew what you were going to say.

    "Is that why you came here?" I slowly began stirring again, trying not to hit the spoon off the sides of the pot in my irritation. "Is that why you spent so many days?"

    "I needed to escape."

    "I thought you came because you loved me." I couldn't hide the bitterness in my voice. My heart was breaking inside me, and you could probably hear the shattering every time I opened my mouth.

    You sat up quickly. "I did! I do. Lian... please. You know once this baby comes, I won't be able to come here as much." You paused. "If at all."

    I stopped stirring and moved the pan off the burner. "At least you won't need to fix us then."

    We locked eyes. I could see the no longer masked pain in your gaze, and it broke the final piece left of my heart.

    "Well..." You looked away from me. "Maybe we should be apart for a while regardless."

    "Do you wish to kill me? Is that it?" I suddenly cried out, unable to hide the fragments of my soul. "Do you? If so then just pierce me with this knife!" I grabbed a hunting blade from the table and held it to my chest. "Just do it now, Kit, because I can't bear this any longer!"

    You darted from the bed and grabbed the handle, throwing it back on the table. "Don't say such things!" Your anger was short-lived. You pulled my face towards you and kissed my lips so sweetly it was almost out of place. "I love you more than I can take. Please believe me." You traced your fingers through my unbound hair. "I wish I were no longer a man, and you no longer of God."

    I gently pushed your hand away.

    "But I feel different. I don't wish to change us at all."    //

Under Branches: IV

 Moderate trigger warning: self harm, suicide mention. 

IV; what did he see?

       "Kit? Kit, stop messing around..."

       My eyes flutter open to see Robin leaning over me, red locks curling on to his face. I try to form words, but nothing comes out, the visions still muddling my functions.

       "What happened?" He shakes my shoulder a little and attempts to lift me.

       Suddenly I feel very awake.

       "We need to get out of here, right now." I stand quickly, but I'm stopped in my tracks.

       I look around, the little room no longer what it was only a few minutes ago. There is nothing; no       stove or bed or paintings on the wall. Any sign of life is gone, the brick fireplace the only thing remaining the same.

       "Kit, you need to tell me what the hell is going on."

       A moan escapes from my heavy lungs. "I just saw... me."

       Robin blinks at me, unamused. "What?"

       "I was... I was here... and there was someone in the bed," I stutter, pointing towards the corner where the bed had been. "It was right there. And a stove... and a desk..." I thrust my finger at each side of the room.

       "Okay, yeah, we need to get out of here," Robin says, moving towards the door. "Are you sure you weren't just... dreaming?" He sounds unsure as to try to convince himself that something terrifying isn't happening.

       I follow him, still shaking, still unsure of what's real and what isn't. The door is off the rusted hinges, and as we step back outside, the mist has cleared. Robin takes my arm and leads me up the path towards the gate again, and he's speaking about how he's never listening to me ever again. But I'm not really hearing.

       I feel a chill on my back, and I turn to give the house one last look.

       It's as if my lungs are being squeezed tight as my eyes fall on a white figure standing in the doorway. "Robin..." I moan, slowing to a halt, winded. He stops, but I don't dare take my eyes off the ghost. "Robin... look."

       I feel his hand let go of my arm. The ghost stares at me, his eyes full of pain.

       I hear my name in the air. It's like a melody falling through leaves, sending my heart into a furore. No one has ever said my name like that, and yet it's my favourite voice. Like a ship being lured into rocks, I follow the sound, the mermaid's song that is my name falling from Lian's lips.

       "You came back for me," the ghost says in a whisper as I reach for him.

       "Please, tell me who you are... tell me why you're here." I can barely get the words out.  

       Red tears fall down the ghost's cheeks, and shaking his head slowly, he says "I'm here because of you. Because you left me here."

       I feel a hand on my arm, pulling me away and along the path. I'm so paralysed I let Robin drag me through the forest, trying to keep Lian in my sight until it's no longer possible to do so.

       Robin doesn't speak to me until we reach his front door.

       He glares at me. "Is that what you saw? Is that the man you spoke about?"

       I nod, still cold and shaking. "I told you. I told you."

       Robin shakes his head, his eyes wild and his face paler than usual. "Is this some kind of joke? Because it's scary and stupidly elaborate and I'm so damn cold."

       I swallow audibly. "I told you."

       "I'm never listening to you again."

       He disappears behind the door before slamming it in my face. I'm still shivering, feeling sick and battered. 

       As I walk into my living room minutes later, I see my mother on the couch, the television blaring, a ball of wool on her knees as she works the knitting needles with quick precision.

       "Mum," I utter quietly.

       She looks at me. "Oh, you're back."

       I want to ask her why she named me after my great-great-great-great-grandfather. I want to know what business he had at the house in the forest. I want to know who Lian was. But I can't bear for the questions to leave my lips.

       I leave her after a quick hello, making my way down to the library.

       It's a tiny, dusty little place I've not been to in years. I flip through the village papers and archives, the pages left untouched for God knows how long. It takes me over two hours to find anything of note about the forest that isn't a body count. I've almost given up when my eye catches two photographs below an obituary from 1865.

       My heart is overflowing from my chest as I read the small text.

On the morning of September 15th, we regret to report the deaths of Father Lucian Wright (21) and our village doctor Christopher Clark (18), survived by his wife, Claudia. Their bodies were found by the Priest Forest lake, and they are to be buried in Ravenstown church graveyard on September 17th at 1pm.

       I glance over the page, hand over my mouth, begging my wrenching stomach to keep its contents. I study the two blurry photographs; one a near-perfect mirror of my own face, body dressed in a linen shirt, black trousers and suspenders, and the other, a horribly familiar blonde figure in a white priest's garments with a gentle smile on his face.

       I want to be sick. I stare at the pages, not entirely taking in what I see, not quite believing. Lian and that distant version of myself were the first people to die in that forest. And they died together.

       I fall into bed, gazing at my phone, at the date in the corner. August 28th, 2015. All I can feel is my vibrating heart and the icy coldness of my skin sinking into my bones, into my lungs.  

       I study the quick and shaky snap of the article I took with my phone and try to call Robin for the third time tonight but with no answer. Of course, he's not picking up... I wouldn't either. I keep thinking about his face as he slammed the door in my face, wondering if he'll ever speak to me again.

       I let the phone fall to the pillow, and I gaze into the darkening room, not really focusing on anything. All I'm aware of is the sun setting and my eyes growing heavy.

       My body is shaking. I stand at the door of the house, rain soaking through my clothes, dripping from my hair. I can feel it tickling my scalp, reminding me of Lian's fingers. It's warm, but I can't stop shuddering. I batter my fist against the door, feeling hopeless despair sinking into every part of my body. I want to see his face. I want to see my Lian and his beautiful skin and eyes and touch his hair, and let myself be haunted by him like I know he has done. I feel like it's been forever.

       The door opens in front of me. Lian stands, wrapped in his jacket, looking flushed and radiant, his golden hair falling around him like glitter. 

       He says something to me, looking upset, but I don't understand it. I only know that I need to love him. I need him to hold me tight and let me be with him.

       In a blurry flash, we fumble in the dark for each other's bodies, warmth spreading all over me like a fever. I can't let go of him, because I know if I do I'll lose him. He'll disappear, and I won't be able to catch him.

       I'm shaken awake suddenly, my mum's face appearing through the darkness.

       "Kit, you need to get up."

       I glance at my alarm clock, the illuminated numbers reading only 4am. I look around, confused, a repetitive blue light shining through my curtains.

       "Blue lights..."

       Blue lights. In this town, that only means one thing.

       I jump out of bed, quickly pulling my shoes on as my mum darts down the stairs, and I follow.

       We pile into the car, and we follow the lights around to the forest. There's already a crowd behind the police cars and ambulance, but the sun is still rising, and I can't make out any faces.

       It's not until I see Connor that my heart sinks.

       He stares at me, tears streaming down his face. I run to him, and he grabs my shoulders.

       "It's... it's..."

       I can feel a lump come up to my throat and tears welling in my eyes. "No. No. No, no, no..."

       I turn to see Robin's mum being held back by several others, screaming hysterically as the paramedics appear with a stretcher.

       And a body bag.

       No. No.

       Not Robin.

       Connor pulls me down as his knees hit the grass, burying his crying face into my hair as I struggle to breathe through my broken lungs. He's holding to me tight, and my mum wraps her arms around us both, holding us together, so we don't shatter apart like the fragile things we've become. 

       He took Robin.

//       I’d never felt so weak as I did, attempting to chase after you. You hadn’t picked up much speed, but the fever was still plaguing me. 

       “Christopher, please stop!” I called out to you.

       You turned your head only slightly. “Father Lucian, there is no need for this. You made yourself clear enough.”

       Watching your face turn away made me dizzy, and then the ground was beneath my knees. The warm summer breeze was like heat from the mouth of a volcano on my skin, and I closed my eyes tight.

       I felt a hand on my back. 

       “Father Lucian,” you uttered, kneeling next to me. “You must get back inside...”

       The dirt sank under my nails as I gripped at the dry grass.

       “I’m sorry...”

       I was sobbing.

       I knew then I wasn’t apologising for what I’d said to you, or for upsetting you. I wasn’t apologising to you at all. 

       Forgive me, my Lord.

       You helped me gain my footing carefully, gently, and lead me back inside. 

       “You’ve got mud all over you, Father,” you said delicately as I sat on the bed, shuddering and weak. I brought my hands up, inspecting my dirty hands and nails.

       And then you smiled at me. “I forgive you.” Your voice was as soft as it had been the first night you came to me. “I understand... and frankly, you’re not the first person to reject my care.”

       I frowned. “Am I not?”

       You shook your head as you stood. “My father died too soon. The village loved him very much...”

       “But I never knew him.”

       I saw a wicked smirk dance on your lips. “Everything I know is from my father.”

       You paused for a second. 

       “I’ll go to bring more water from the well, and fill the bath for you.”

       It wasn’t long before you returned with two large buckets full. You brought the tin bath inside and emptied the already boiled water into it, before filling the pot again. As we waited, you sat by me in silence.

       “Why... have you forgiven me?” I said, my voice rough.

       You turned toward me. “Because... you’re sick. People say untoward things when they’re sick.”

       I stared ahead of me, my chest burning. “Is that so?”

       “I’ve heard much worse.”

       “Then why did you get so angry?” I finally look at you, and you break your gaze immediately.

       “Perhaps you hit a nerve,” you said with a chuckle, blushing slightly. “I sometimes feel that I am too young to be caring for a whole village, near single-handed. I’m just grateful for my father’s assistant who stayed with me.”

       “Sometimes I feel I’m too young to be...” I stopped myself before my lips could finish. Too young to commit to this life.

       You nodded at me, knowingly. “I guess you have to do a lot on your own too.”

       I bit down on my lip to stop myself saying anything else I might regret. “I can’t say such things... I shouldn’t...” I held my face in my hands.

       The pot over the fire was bubbling, and you hurried to fill the bath, using the remaining bucket to cool the water down. You gestured towards it.

       “Your bath is ready.”

       I must’ve blushed again because you looked worried.

       “Oh... your burns.” You came and kneeled in front of me again. “I’ll need to remove the bandages.”

       I nodded slowly and watched your hands snake up my robe, careful not to expose my body. Your fingertips glided over my skin, and I felt myself grow hot again, this time from an entirely different fever. I tried desperately not to shift forward or move at all. Your hands were so close to that place. Even the sting of the bandages peeling away from the burns wasn’t enough to distract me. I felt your touch lingering after you’d finished with the dressing. It was as if you’d forgotten what you were doing, staring at my clothed legs, hands still on my thigh. And then you moved away from me with urgency.

       “I’ll let you be,” you stuttered, standing to your feet. I watched as you stepped outside, and I quickly pulled off my robe. 

       I looked down at myself, at my shameful body and its sinful reactions. And then I saw the ugly cracked burns, now blistered, red gashes. I wanted to open them again, to feel the pain that was the only thing to kill my disgusting urges, and I may have, had you not been less than ten metres away.

       I stepped into the warm and comforting water, letting it soothe my aching body.

       It wasn’t long before you knocked on the door and peeked your head around the corner.

       “Is everything alright?” You asked in your smallest voice.

       I didn’t look at you. “Yes. Thank you.” I pulled my knees up as you came closer — a vain attempt at hiding my shame.

       You pulled a cloth from your bag and kneeled by the bath, behind me. You didn’t hesitate to sink it into the water and running it over my shoulders.

       “I can bathe myself, you know,” I muttered, my fear more apparent than I’d intended.

       You continued without looking at me. “I would rather you didn’t exert yourself and faint.”

       It was pointless to argue. I knew that nothing was going to stop me feeling as I did, especially you. I could’ve asked you a hundred times to let me be, but I knew you wouldn’t. I wish I knew what I know now, as you caressed my skin carefully, slowly, almost fervidly, making that feeling rise again. I would’ve done more to resist.

       I felt your hands in my hair, and my eyes slowly closed as you pulled the coarse ribbon from the locks, letting it all fall to one side, dipping in the water. I could feel my skin shiver at your soft touch.

       Your name tumbled from my lips in a whisper. I felt my face burn red in shame at the sound of my voice so lustful.

       “Lucian...” You gently placed a hand on my neck. I gripped the edges of the bath as you ran your fingertips along my shoulder, sending electric signals all over my body. “Why do you say my name in such a tone?”

       I became increasingly aware of my nakedness, torn between wanting to hide and wanting to give in. You brought your face to my neck, so close I could feel the heat from your lips. I heard myself let out a heated sigh and felt the imminent shame that came with it.

       “You make me want to do things I shouldn’t...” you whispered, your lips at my ear. And then it was as if you’d caught yourself. “Lucian... I’m sorry...”

       I was frozen. I listened to you hurry from the room, but this time I didn’t chase you. I couldn’t even move. I sat in the quickly cooling water, waiting; for what, I wasn’t sure. But eventually the shock faded, and I pulled myself from the metal tub, drying myself quickly with the bath sheet and wrapped a white robe around my body. I tied the cord, wishing I had the strength to pull it tighter, to keep my skin covered forever.

       I knew you’d have to come back soon. Your bag still lay opened on the floor, and you’d need it for the morning. I kneeled in front of the crucifix on the wall and closed my eyes, hoping that somehow it would stop me feeling how I did.

       I don’t know how long I knelt there. The fire was dying, and the sky was growing dark when I heard footsteps over broken branches, coming towards the door. You knocked politely, quietly, waiting for me to answer.

       I didn’t feel like myself at that moment. My thighs should have ached from kneeling so long and yet I felt no pain as I stood. You were like a dark force, pulling my legs to move, step by step. My hand stopped on the handle, and somehow I opened the door. You didn’t look up at me, just stared at your fidgeting hands.

       “If I could get my bag, I’ll be on my way.”

       You looked upset, not guilty; afraid of what you’d done, what had slipped out at that moment. Weakness.

       But I was weak for you too, unbearably so. Watching you stand, so ridden with fear, your eyes locked down as if looking at me would break whatever strength you’d built up in the hours you’d been wandering, I felt so unbelievably weak.

       I couldn’t fathom what it was that made someone like you feel like this. Your wife, a vision of red curls and flushed cheeks, fitted so perfectly with you; she never wore the girdles that her aunties wore, but opted for flattering, flowing dresses that only accentuated her youth and fragile beauty. And you, wise beyond your years, with your handsome and boyish face, tanned slightly from the outdoors; the shirt under your waistcoat, just a little too big, only adding to your charm. I looked at you, wishing I could see myself through your eyes just once. 

       I knew what lust was and what people did behind closed doors. I’d heard what other men my age would search for in the dingy alleys of Whitechapel. Sinful women with dirty hands and their bosoms pushed up to their chins, their pockets full of coppers, and liquor on their breath. But they were never the urges of which I was ridding myself when I’d escaped London. They were never the temptations that made me join the church. As you stood before me, I knew no other man would ever be such a siren to me as you were.

       I stepped aside to let you pass, and you hesitated in the doorway, uneasy and unsure. I awkwardly stood until you moved, closing the door quietly behind you. 

       “You should put another log on the fire before it goes out,” you mumbled.

       I couldn’t understand the calm I felt, or how I was breathing so steady. Inside, I felt like I was shaking.

       “It’s too hot for a fire tonight.”

       I wanted you to kiss me. I could hear my thoughts so loudly in my ears; it was as if I was saying them out loud. Kiss me... but don’t. 

       You stood, staring at the dying flames, barely a few feet away from me. I expected you to grab your bag any second and hurry out the door, but you continued gazing, unmoving. “Still. If the temperature drops...” Your voice was so quiet. 

       And then you lifted your eyes, slowly glancing over me until you were looking at my face. I felt brazen to peer at you so effortlessly, to watch your hair fall over your shoulder as you turned, to admire the shape of your body. I felt possessed. 

       I don’t recall how the gap between us disappeared or how my hands came to be moving gently up your arms. I wanted to feel the heat under your clothes, feel the fabric move over your skin. You looked at me with a sleepy gaze.

       “You do something to me,” you whispered. “I can’t explain it, or stop myself from feeling it.”

       My hands were at your shoulders as your words slipped out, my fingers beginning to feel their way through your hair to your neck. I couldn’t control my urge to touch you, nor could I resist you any longer.

       “Since you came here, I lie awake at night from thoughts of you... thoughts I shouldn’t have.”

       It was as if you were speaking through my lips, uttering my thoughts. You brought your hand up to my robe, gripping at it gently.

       “I fear if you draw me closer, I won’t be able to...” Your gaze stayed glued to my face, darting between my eyes and mouth as if it was not sure where to settle.

       But then it didn’t matter. The pull was too strong for us, and our lips touched. I knew I should stop this. But I couldn’t pull away. I wanted you to keep kissing me, to feel me further, to release the heat building up inside of me.

       I’d never felt lips so roughly, nor someone’s tongue against mine. I’d never let hands untie my robe like yours did, or allowed someone’s eyes to look on my body. And I’d never undressed someone in turn, or touched in a way that was sinful of me. But as I did all of these things with you, I felt no shame overcome me, no hate for myself, no regret. It was the worst thing I’d ever done, but I felt only one thing.

       Love.       //