can you see me now {Tael/Albany}
May 25, 2015 20:37:43 GMT -5
Post by Python on May 25, 2015 20:37:43 GMT -5
I WANT TO LOVE BUT I
T A E L B A R K L E Y
SMELL OF WAR AND RUNNING AND RUNNING.Every evening at ten o’clock they would kneel at their bedsides and pray, then press their ears against their son’s door to ensure he was obeying the laws of the book. The sound of his whispers proved his loyalty. If they opened the door they expected to see his blonde head of hair bent in submission, face concealed by his devotion to their God. They expected him to finish without question and turn his head to greet them, dark eyes flickering with the light of faith. They would beam at him proudly and wish him goodnight. He would nod and return the favor, waiting for them to gently close his door so he could crawl into bed and await another blessed day. They expected an angel, unquestioning obedience and compliance. A proper son would stay in his bed and rise early like they wanted.
Tael giggled into his pillow. I ain’t stayin’ here for nobody.
He always waited an hour. It took his parents thirty minutes to fall asleep on a typical evening, and the additional thirty was for precaution. He listened for the reassuring silence and folded his sheets over. Owls hooted their soothing songs outside his window as he unburdened himself of his pajamas and slipped into something nicer, yet easy to unbutton should the situation require it. He stood in front of his mirror relying on the moonlight to illuminate his reflection, and smoothed his hair to a presentable style. When he was satisfied with this evening glow, he maneuvered through his window and down the tree, hoping he hadn’t disturbed the owls.
When his feet landed in the grass, he grunted and inspected the palms of his hands. He hated climbing trees, it was dirty business. If he was too quick he would sweat, but if he was too slow he would accumulate more wood splints against his pink-tinged palms. The last thing he needed was a dirty hand, and he refused to ruin his pants by wiping them. He elected to sulk about it and climb over the property’s fence, pausing to listen for the barks of the neighbor’s obnoxious dogs. There was nothing tonight. They were either asleep, or had finally stopped caring about the blonde boy down the street sneaking out of his parents’ mansion.
Fortunately, the dogs weren’t alarms. Nobody cared about a dog’s conversation once the sun disappeared, so it was never enough to wake his parents. Even if it was, they seemed to trust him enough not to check on him. They had every reason to be suspicious because of the way he dressed and obsessed over himself in front of a mirror. Those were universally “feminine” habits, and so was favoring the color pink. He was guilty of all of it, although “guilty” was never the best way to describe how he felt about it. He cared about consequences, not about people’s opinions. They could call him feminine, weak, embarrassing, shameful – just as long as he continued to sell the story about his “girlfriend.” As long as he didn’t disobey too sinfully, he was safe.
Good thing they don’t know I’m sinnin’ plenty.
The church’s withered spires penetrated the stars. It was an ominous silhouette, a symbol of the mighty power taking hold of his life. Invisible and silent, there was no proof that this power even existed, yet it dominated his life like a shackle around his ankles, grounding him to one path, one destiny. He rejected that destiny with all his might. He would pull against the force of those shackles until his skin bled raw. He hated pain as much as he hated rules, but he couldn’t stand to be miserable.
The creek of the doors always irritated him. It announced his arrival loud and clear, so anyone hiding could scramble or show themselves. He didn’t have anyone to meet tonight, but sometimes they simply popped up without invitation, asking him for sinful favors and a night of bliss. Tonight there was a shadow in the pews, a head of hair he couldn’t recognize until he circled him. The name escaped him entirely, but the face was a memory. A memory of rumors and delights that made his insides sing. ”You cravin’ some company?” he cooed, sliding into the pew until their hips touched. ”I sure am.”
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