Page 60 of Heathens
I want to burn his kingdom down, make him pay for the terrible things he’s done and continues to do, and then rise and rebuild from the ashes.
Humbled.
Righteous.
Resurrected.
“Hi,” Lily mumbles, her face lined with creases. She’s still wearing her t-shirt and jeans, and her hair is a knotted, golden mess flowing all around her head. Last night, after I told her everything, we ate a couple of macarons and then went to sleep. Though it had been difficult to watch her breath next to me, to watch how her skin pebbled when I ran my finger along her arm, eventually, I fell asleep too.
“Hi,” I reply, smiling.
She told me last night—in hushed, weary murmurs—that she wanted wreckage, a scorched altar, a broken man. For a second, I saw those whorls of inky blackness in her soul, but only because they matched mine. I want to revere her. If she wants vengeance, I am going to help her. Hell, I’ll do anything for her. I lost some of my faith yesterday. Not my faith in God, but in His people who confess to be devout followers of Him. In helping Lily, in being her partner, my hope was found.Resurrected.
Hallelujah.
“Coffee?” I ask, running my hands through my hair.
“Please.” She pulls my comforter tighter, sinking deeper into the bed. Just that action alone—just the fact that she’s here in my space, that she wants me to help, that she deigns me with her presence...
Maybe I’d been worshiping the wrong thing my entire life.
“I don’t have cream or sugar,” I say, walking to my desk and throwing on a shirt. While she’d fallen asleep fully clothed, I slept in only running shorts. I catch the way her eyes follow my movements as I pull the shirt on over my head—the way her pupils dilate ever so slightly, the way she shifts under the covers...
Last night was an emotional eddy of revelations and truths—and I didn't dare to test her faith in me by being a pig and making a move on her while she was vulnerable. It made sleeping next to her easy, simple. But...
There's no denying the longing we both feel as the room heats. I need to leave soon. Otherwise, she will witness just how badly I want her.
“I can drink it black,” she peeps, barely peeking out of the covers.
I want to fall to my knees for those words alone, that willingness to be uncomfortable. For me.
“I need to grab breakfast anyway,” I murmur, bending down and kissing her forehead. “I don’t have any food.” She smells like plums and lavender. “Be right back.” She nods and closes her eyes.
After I slip on some running shoes, I jog to the closest bakery, already sweating in the morning heat. Sweating out the sinful thoughts of Lily in my bed, of Lily on top of me, or of Lily bent over my desk as I take her roughly in my church-provided apartment, knocking the cross off of the wall from our rocking...
I have to stop running and take a few steadying breaths before entering the small bakery. I stand with my hands in front of my erection in the small line forming behind the counter.God save me.I scan the menu and try to ascertain what Lily likes to eat for breakfast.
The woman behind the counter says ‘next’ in French, and I walk up. “Hi, can I get two coffees, one with lots of cream and sugar. And...” I scan the list. “One of every pastry,” I finish, gesturing to the array of baked goods in the glass case.
After she boxes them up and hands me the coffees, I pay and gather everything in my arms, attempting to carry them the one and a half blocks without spilling.
Just a couple of months ago, I would've been in church already, on my knees with my rosary, reciting prayers. Today, I slept until nine and I don't plan on going to church until mass later. Surely, Father Monsignor will understand with the bombshell he unleashed upon me yesterday. A tiny, very insignificant part of me says goodbye to the man I was before, and hello to the man I'm about to become.
Walking away from that life might be hard, but staying to suffer is harder.
Clenching my jaw, I grip the box a little too tightly as I stroll past a group of children and their parents. Smiling, I nod as I pass them, but the anger soon returns. I can’t envision that night—Father Monsignor doing everything Lily described him doing. Taking what wasn’t his.Trappingwhat wasn’t his. Forcing them—all of them—to do anything against their will.
A real man never hurts a woman. When men use the Bible as an excuse to control women... nothing makes me angrier. My fatherworshippedthe ground my mother walked on. His friends made fun of him, called himwhipped.Frenchmen are notoriously traditional, but my father wanted no part of that.Iwant no part of that. The woman came out of the man’s rib—not from his feet to be walked on. His rib—his side.
His equal.
In Genesis, the word ishelpmeet—meaning the woman was made to complement the man and balance his strengths and weaknesses. Not to be dominated by him.
Walking up to the apartment and pushing the door open, I set everything down as Lily stirs from the bed.
“Did you buy the whole bakery?” she jokes, throwing the covers off of her and standing. My eyes dart to the wrinkle lines on her face, the smudged mascara. Her boots by the wardrobe, her purse slung over the handle of the door. Ilikeher in my space. I like waking up with her here.
Tilting my head, I give her a small smile. “Yes.”
