Page 2 of Meant to Burn

My chest is heaving as I begin to tear my clothes off.

It feels like hell in this room—hot, stifling, suffocating.

I’m burning from the inside out. I turn off the lights and grab a match, lighting some candles, then fall to my knees.

My erection is painful between my thighs, and I palm it, pushing it down, hoping it goes away.

But my touch just brings pleasure, and I hiss.

My eyes close, tears stinging the back of them, and one trails down my cheek.

I scour my brain for psalms, but suddenly I can’t remember any verses.

So I do the only thing I can think of, as a last resort.

I begin to chant in Latin through gritted teeth.

It brings me a sense of comfort I haven’t felt in a long time.

There’s just one small problem—my erection won’t go down.

It’s more stubborn than I am, and it’s bordering on painful.

I can’t take it anymore.

I can’t do it.

I sob, tears trailing down my face. “The devil touches you through desire,” I whisper, whimpering. “Don’t give in. Don’t do it.”

But before I can stop, I wrap a hand around myself and squeeze hard.

I groan, feeling lightheaded. I don’t think anymore, just feel.

For a minute, I’m suspended in time, and all I focus on is the way my hand moves up and down as I jack myself off.

I tighten my grip, doubling over from how good it feels, and go faster, rocking into my fist. It’s unbearable.

I almost can’t take it, and just when I think about how I should stop before I die, my body begins to tremble, and I explode with a loud moan.

Cum coats my fingers, and I struggle for breath, my entire body shaking.

I don’t know if it’s from the force of the orgasm or from my shame, but I close my eyes and bring my fingers to my lips, sucking the salty taste of myself off them.

It’s the closest I’ll get to what I want, and even still, I feel filthy.

Corrupted. Depraved. I cry out, covering my mouth with my other hand, stifling sobs once more.

“God, please forgive me. I have defiled the temple you gave me.” My voice quakes as I say softly, “Make me holy again.”

I don’t wait for an answer, I know there won’t be one.

God has probably deserted me for my sins, and unless I confess to what I’ve been doing behind closed doors, until I truly repent, I won’t be forgiven.

But I’m too ashamed to tell anyone, so I won’t.

Instead, I’ll live with the guilt. It’s going to eat me alive, I know it. Yet I know I have no other choice.

Running to the bathroom within my dorm, I wash my hands and look at myself in the mirror.

My cheeks are flushed, hair sticking to my forehead with sweat.

My eyes are shining for the first time since I last did this, and I can’t deny that I look like myself again.

Not the shell of a man I’ve become lately.

It soothes me slightly, but not for long.

It’s only been a few minutes since I locked myself in my room, but I’ve already decided I’m going to skip dinner.

As punishment for my sins, of course. It’s the only way I know how to beg for forgiveness at this point.

My room is now freezing, at least it feels like it against my heated flesh, and it raises goosebumps all over my arms and torso.

I put my clothes back on and unlock the door, then go to my desk and open my journal.

My personal diary. It’s part of my punishment, putting my most shameful desires on paper.

Even the pen is disgusted by me. But still, I write.

Until my hands ache, until I feel like I can’t anymore.

Yet I continue, pushing through because if there’s one thing I go by, it’s mind over matter. And yet my mind keeps failing me.

After a while, I take a break, my wrist aching something fierce as I stare out into nothingness.

My journal is open, my pen is sitting on the inked page, mocking me.

Everything feels heightened. The overwhelming feelings in my chest feel like they’re going to flood me until I burst like a dam, and even the tapping of the rain against the stained-glass windows is too loud. Too much. I can’t bear it.

There’s a knock at the door, but before I can say come in, Micah opens the door and invites himself into my space like he owns it.

I know it’s him—he’s the only one in this seminary who would dare.

Probably the only person who cares about me in a less superficial way too.

I don’t look at him, but I do hear him get on my bed and shuffle around.

I stiffen when I finally look over at him, and he’s lying down, his face buried in my pillow as he smells it.

There’s a soft smile on his face when he turns my way, and I gulp.

We make eye contact for one heady moment, and I can tell he senses I’m overwhelmed.

He flings an arm over his eyes to make me feel more at ease, which works, and I spend the next hour ignoring him. I write again until my hand aches.

He sighs.

“You’ve been sitting there for an hour, Elijah.” His voice makes me shiver even though it’s muffled by his arm. “Are you writing a second bible?”

“You don’t have to be here,” I snap. “You could be sleeping in your own room— should be.”

“And miss the drama? Not a chance.” I hear the smirk in his voice, but I refuse to give in to it. Refuse to react. There’s a beat of silence, and Micah continues, “Come on, what’s keeping you up now?”

I sigh and close the journal halfway; my hand wedged between the pages. “Nothing.”

“Lie better,” he tuts, and I narrow my eyes at his face. He does it right back. “You twitch when you lie.”

“Do I?” I raise an eyebrow, but it quickly turns into a frown.

“Mhm,” Micah hums. “It’s adorable. Tragic, but adorable.”

I smirk, but turn away, warmth quickly heating my cheeks at the memory of what I did earlier. How I desecrated my body. “It’s just prayers.”

“It doesn’t look like a prayer book to me.” He rolls his eyes.

“It’s…” I hesitate. “Personal.”

“Everything about you is personal. That’s what makes you so dangerous. That’s why I’m so intrigued by you,” Micah whispers, and I stiffen. “You’ve been different lately, too.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” I say softly, looking away.

“Look at me.” He sighs, and I do, making eye contact with him for the millionth time today. It makes me feel twitchy, but I try to push past the uncomfortable sensation. “You know exactly what I mean. Tell me what’s bothering you.”

“I’m fine.”

“You keep saying that like you’re trying to convince yourself. But it’s not true.” He raises an eyebrow, but I don’t reply. He sits up in bed, eyes wide. “Elijah.”

I shake my head rapidly, whispering, “I don’t think I’m made for silence.”

“Then speak.”

“I don’t know how.” My voice trembles as I say it, and so does my entire body.

“Yes, you do,” Micah says softly, and I relax slightly. “You can talk to me. Don’t keep it in forever.”

My bottom lip trembles, and I trap it between my teeth. I don’t miss the way Micah focuses on it, don’t miss the longing in his eyes. “If I speak it, it becomes real.”

“It’s already real. You wouldn’t be breaking if you weren’t,” he says, and I process that information. Apparently, I take too long because he keeps talking before I can reply. “You’re not alone. Never have been.”

I study him, letting the long, loaded silence linger between us. Then I speak, almost whispering, “Have you ever wanted something you were told would damn you?”

“Every. Single. Day,” he replies, smiling sadly.

I almost tell him. Almost. But instead, I close my journal gently, all the way this time, hiding the page I wrote on for the past hour. “Good night, Micah.”

Micah is quiet for a moment, gaze lingering on me until I feel uncomfortable. “Good night, Elijah.”

The rain keeps falling against the stained glass, this time harder and louder, and Micah gets up and leaves.

He shuts the door behind himself, and I exhale roughly.

My bed is calling my name, and I give in, turning off the lamp on my desk, then plopping down on the mattress.

I bounce slightly, then turn my face toward the wall, closing my eyes and letting sleep take me under.

I’m in the forest within the grounds of the seminary.

I’m vaguely aware that this is a dream, but it feels real.

I follow the dirt path up to the abandoned chapel ruins, the one I discovered a year ago on one of my runs.

No one dares to enter, mostly because they don’t wander that far anyway.

But also because there’s no roof, the pews are rotted, and there are plants everywhere.

You can see how the elements have taken over the space, and while it’s a mess, there’s also something breathtakingly beautiful about it.

Like you’re standing on sacred ground. A little slice of heaven, hidden away from prying eyes. Maybe that’s why I feel safe there.

I open the heavy double doors, closing them behind me, then turn around.

A gasp escapes my lips at the sight in front of me, and I can’t move.

Can’t breathe. Can’t speak. I am but a vessel of heat and desire, and it feels like an earthquake is taking place within me.

And that supernatural disaster? Well, it’s destroying everything in its path.

All my carefully curated thoughts banish from my mind the moment my eyes land on the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.

He looks up at me, his ashen wings expanding behind him, making him look ethereal. I must be hallucinating.

Yes, that’s definitely what this is.

So, why then is he walking toward me? Why is his head cocked to the side when his bare feet touch my running shoes, as if he’s curious about me too?

Why is his hand reaching for my face, lightly brushing his knuckles against my cheekbone?

And why, if God is merciful, is he looking at me like that?

As if he wants me just as much as I crave him.

“You’re worthy, Elijah,” he whispers with a smile, then leans in, pressing his lips to the corner of my mouth. “Beautiful. Wanted. Cherished.”

I know it’s a dream.

So why does it feel so real?

I wake with a start, sitting up in bed and gasping for breath. The sheets are wet, my skin sticking to them, and I run a hand down my face in frustration. I shouldn’t be thinking about him. I shouldn’t be feeling desire for anyone, much less a man.

But what if this isn’t the devil’s doing?

What if it’s love?

No, that’s not possible.

I shake my head, get out of bed, and run to the toilet, kneeling over it as my stomach contracts. But no vomit comes up. I haven’t eaten anything, so there’s nothing to throw up anyway.

I shake my head, gulping for air, and sit back against the wall.

I need to get this under control. I can’t keep living this way anymore.

Someone will notice. God will notice. But then why is there a tiny part of me that hopes everyone is wrong?

Because if God created me in his image, then he wouldn’t make me defective.

Would he?