One Silver Coin For a Pound of Demon

Chapter 24

Draft
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No doubt, you made a mistake. You have to repent, you need to repent, and that you'll do.

Not every clergyman's house has a confession room, but every priest's house has at least a small chanting hall with a bit of modification. The confessional was set up the first year you moved, but wasn't used until you met Lemuel. Every subsequent night, after the lights go out, you'll spend an hour inside the confessional. The light stretches the shadow of the cross to be very long, and the sound of the rattan whip gets absorbed by the four well-insulated walls. Your back turns hot at first, and then becomes cold. You deeply regret it, as always.

You recite the penance over and over again, you don't know if it'll cleanse your soul, but at least it'll empty your mind. When you don't, you'd always think about Lemuel.

His red hair is stuck with sweat and the sexual redness darkens the pale scars, his lips are full cherries, his eyes like fire, and his body the embodiment of hell in the stories. The heat, the sin, the quagmire and the attraction. "Enoch," he says, the last time someone called you that was five years ago, and the last time you've been addressed by it probably more than ten years ago. They don't call you by name, they call you "Father" or something. The name has no meaning, it's just a symbol, but when Lemuel calls you things seem to be different.

He call you while his body rests on yours, his hands hold your cheeks, his lips kiss your lips, when he looks at you. Lemuel's sweat fall on you, your semen is still in his body, and he lets the heat smack on you, inside your chest. He calls your name inside your mouth, and the word suddenly seem to make sense. You begin to subtly understand why Lemuel reacts so much when you call his name in the chaos.

You are guilty, the evidence is clear. No need to tell your teacher or siblings, any bystander would shake their head at the situation you're in— a half-blood demon lingers in your mind, and you're having sex with a man with no other thought than lust¹. If your father knew, he would've told you that this was a test from God, "The Son of God is tempted by the devil!" You can imagine what he would say, "This is a test for you, Enoch, you must..."

You must repent, you are repenting. You have to repent. You... you're not sure.

Sometimes after leaving the confessional, you'd go to the living room to see Lemuel and wonder if the endless stream of demon-obsessed thoughts had been washed away by your confessions. Lemuel would be asleep on the sofa, the light of the TV shining on him. At this time, he isn't as sharp as when he's awake, he won't look into your eyes, he won't have a reaction that'll catch you off guard, and he shouldn't have much impact on you. But when you watch him breathe lightly, just breathing, you'd want to reach out and push the dangling strands of hair aside. You can touch him, his forehead, his cheek, or the hand hanging from the blanket, anywhere you want.

The sound from the TV is barely audible, and you stand beside Lemuel, feeling the sound of his respiration fill the room, like the waves from the ocean in the middle of the night. You want to soak your hands in this unassuming tide, in the warm summer night this tide might even carry the temperature of the sun.

This longing becomes heavier and heavier, regardless of time or occasion. You're standing behind Lemuel watching him cook, his hair is tied up and showing the back of his neck; a patch of skin that's inexplicably alluring. You want to touch it there, with your fingers, with the back of your hand, with your forehead, with your lips, anything. You have to force yourself to stand by the kitchen door and resist this sinful urge. It's as hard to hide as a cough and as permanent as a toothache. Lemuel hands you the plate, you take it, spin it, and run your fingers over the places he touched, the heat that remained on it quickly dissipates. You rub the edge of your plate like a goat licking a cliff for salt.