Page 33 of His Elder

I picked up my pen.

Eli knows. I told him—or close enough. And he told me. We're the same.

My hand shook as I wrote.

He says I'm not broken. I don't know if I can believe that yet. But maybe I don't have to be alone with this anymore.

I closed the journal, turned off the light.

In the dark, I could almost pretend it was true. That I wasn't fundamentally flawed. That maybe God's plan was bigger than I'd been taught.

That maybe, just maybe, I could stop killing myself trying to be someone I'd never been.

9

SAMUEL

The days that followed were a tightrope walk over a chasm I had never known existed. Before, the ground beneath my feet had been solid, paved with scripture and the unwavering certainty of my testimony. Now, the world was a void, and the only other person on the rope was Eli.

We moved around each other with a strange, new gravity, a careful choreography of avoidance. The small apartment, once a sanctuary of order, became a minefield. I would find myself frozen in the doorway of the kitchen, watching him make his forbidden illicit coffee, cataloguing the way his shoulders curved as he spooned grounds into the filter, the efficient economy of his movements. His rolled-up tube of art paper on the floor—once an irritant, a sign of his carelessness—now felt like a secret he kept in plain sight, a talisman of the life he wanted but couldn't have. My rows of scripture commentaries on the shelf felt less like a library of truth and more like a wall I had built around myself, brick by leather-bound brick.

We spoke of logistics. We planned our days with meticulous, empty precision. We discussed the weather, the menu for the week, the fastest metro route to our next appointment. We spoke of everything except the one thing that filled every silence, that pressed against the walls, that made the air between us shimmer with unspoken truth.

Eli knew. I knew. We shared the same affliction, the same flaw in our design, but we approached it from opposite ends of a universe. He, with a quiet acceptance that felt like both a betrayal and a relief—a door I didn't know I was allowed to walk through. I, with a terror that clawed at the edges of every prayer, that turned my nightly pleading into a kind of spiritual white noise. I would kneel by my bed, the familiar words of supplication catching in my throat like stones, my pleas to Heavenly Father sounding hollow even to my own ears. Who was I praying to? A God who made me this way only to condemn me for it? Or a God Eli believed in, one who did not make mistakes? The dissonance was a constant, low-frequency hum in my brain, a tinnitus of the soul.

On Wednesday, the hum became a siren.

Elder Kempton appeared at our door at precisely eight-thirty, his tie perfectly knotted, his posture a ramrod of self-righteousness. He stood in our doorway like an Old Testament prophet come to root out the sin in Sodom.

"Elders," he announced, his gaze sweeping over our apartment with hawkish disapproval, cataloguing every minor infraction: the breakfast dishes still in the sink, the slightly rumpled throw blanket on the couch, Eli's sketchbook on the coffee table. "Ready for a productive day in the Lord's service?"

My stomach sank. A split. He was doing a companions' split, and I knew, with sickening certainty, who his focus would be.

"President Dalton thought it would be beneficial forme to spend the day with Elder Price." Kempton's smile did not touch his eyes. He addressed me but looked at Eli, his gaze sharp and assessing, a predator marking prey. "To get a sense of how the district's finest companionship functions. And to offer support where needed."

The implication hung in the air, thick and foul. He would work with me to observe Eli. To find the weakness, the rot he was so convinced was festering beneath the surface.

Eli just nodded, his expression a blank canvas. I wanted to scream. I wanted to tell Kempton to get out, that he had no right to judge us, to dissect us like specimens under glass. But I said nothing. I was a good missionary. Good missionaries did not question their leaders.

"Sounds great, Elder Kempton," Eli said, his voice devoid of any inflection. He picked up his shoulder bag, the bag he used for his scriptures, and slung it over his shoulder with the same weary resignation a prisoner might show when collecting his chains.

"We'll work the area around the university today," Kempton declared, taking charge as if it were his own companionship, as if I were just another interchangeable part in the great machine of the mission. "Full of impressionable minds, many away from home for the first time. Fertile ground."

He clapped me on the shoulder, a gesture meant to signal camaraderie, but it felt like he was marking his territory, branding me. He was claiming me for his side, the side of obedience and righteousness, separating me from the tainted influence of my companion. For a flicker of a moment, I saw myself through Kempton's eyes: the faithful soldier, the golden boy, temporarily saddled with a project, a problem to be fixed or discarded. The image used to be my source of strength, my identity. Now, it felt like a costume that no longer fit, itchy andill-made.

The day was an exercise in methodical cruelty.

Kempton was a machine of missionary work, relentless and utterly without compassion. Every interaction was a numbers game, every soul a potential statistic for his weekly report to President Dalton. With me at his side, he approached students on the bustling Gran Via de les Corts Catalanes, his Spanish sharp and formal, his smile unwavering and utterly insincere. He directed me, critiqued me, perfected me like a sculptor chipping away at marble, determined to reveal the ideal missionary beneath my flawed exterior.

"Elder Price, your posture. Stand taller. You represent the Lord's restored church, not a tourist asking for directions."

"A little more urgency in your voice, Elder. We have the most important message in the world. We shouldsoundlike it."

I obeyed. I stood taller. I injected urgency. I performed. And with every correction, every adjustment, I felt myself becoming more hollow, a ventriloquist's dummy mouthing words I was beginning to doubt.

But Kempton saved his most potent venom for Eli. Every hour, on the hour, we met at a pre-designated corner—a café, a metro entrance, a park bench—for Kempton to receive a report from Eli, who worked the opposite side of the street, alone. Each meeting was a miniature inquisition, a public shaming disguised as pastoral concern.

"How many conversations, Elder Vance?" Kempton asked at the ten o'clock check-in, his pen poised over his pocket notebook like a sword over a neck.