Behind Closed Doors

Chapter 52: Mark Smith 4

The door creaked open as Mark tiptoed into the house. On the ride home, it felt as though everyone knew what he had done. He was so ashamed of himself that he couldn't even look at his reflection in the mirror. He especially hoped not to encounter his father, which was why he tried to return home later than usual.

"And where are you coming from?" a voice demanded as Mark stepped into the living room. He froze, shut his eyes, and sighed deeply before turning toward the source of the voice. His father was seated by the coffee table, brewing coffee, his piercing gaze fixed on Mark.

"Y-you're home, Dad. That's... weird. Aren't the courts open? And... the front door—it was locked," Mark stammered, trying to mask his fear and humiliation.

Joe's eyes bore into him as though he could see right through him, as if he already knew what Mark had been doing.

"You've been gone for three days," Joe said, holding up three fingers. "Three whole days. No calls, no messages, nothing."

Mark opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out. The guilt of what he'd done over the past three days with Pierre weighed heavily on him.

"Volunteering... at church," Mark stammered, forcing a smile. "With my group, remember?"

Joe raised an eyebrow, his skepticism evident. "Really? What kind of volunteering kept you away from the Sunday sermon? Something no other young man in your group was part of? Something I, as a senior pastor, knew nothing about?"

Mark's heart pounded in his chest. He realized how weak his excuse sounded.

"Mark, is there something wrong?" Joe asked, his voice softer now, tinged with worry.

Mark shook his head, swallowing hard. "No, Dad. I'm fine. You don't need to worry about me."

"Where did you go?" Joe pressed.

"I... I went to see a friend," Mark muttered.

"A friend?" Joe repeated. "So you're doing sleepovers now without telling me?"

"It was sudden," Mark replied hastily. "I didn't plan to stay, but his mom needed help on their farm. We were... working."

Joe's expression remained unconvinced. "Which friend? Who are his parents? I'd like to meet them."

Mark hesitated, avoiding his father's eyes. "I'll talk to him about it."

Joe sighed, leaning forward. "Son, I'm your father. You can talk to me."

"I'm fine," Mark said sharply. "You don't need to worry about me."

"Then why are you turning to other things for relief instead of Jesus Christ?" Joe asked, his tone more direct now.

Mark froze, his pulse quickening.

"Your room reeks of sin, Mark," Joe continued, standing from his seat. "The movies I found in there, the smell of substances I don't recognize, bottles of alcohol—it stinks of worldly pleasures. Your mother and I have spoken to you, prayed for you, but you refuse to listen. Instead, you indulge in pornography and drugs. You've let the world consume you."

"Don't preach to me about Jesus!" Mark screamed, covering his ears. Joe stepped back, startled by the outburst.

"Mark..." Joe's voice faltered. "We need to talk. Should we see Pastor Steve—"

"I hate you! I hate him! I hate everyone!" Mark's voice was cold, cutting through the tension in the room. Without another word, he stormed to his room and slammed the door shut.