The devil inside, p.4
The Devil Inside, page 4
If they kicked in fast enough, Dr. Jennings might get the answers he wanted because I’d be relaxed enough to tell him. Oxy was good.
I finished my smoke and flicked it away before locking my car and heading back upstairs. At the door to his office, I rattled my head, trying to shake my brain awake so I could concentrate and get through the next forty minutes.
Dr. Jennings was at his desk, scribbling notes on a legal pad. I knew without asking they were about me.
“You’re back.” He set his pen down and stood.
“I told you I would be.”
“How do you feel?”
“I’m fine.”
“Good.”
We got comfortable in the quiet area again, and Dr. Jennings studied me while I kept my gaze averted.
“You’ve told me very little about your high school friends. I think I’d like to turn our focus in that direction. Let’s look at the year before you got sick.” He always referred to my illness as though placing air quotes around it, emphasizing he wasn’t convinced I was being honest. It probably didn’t help that I deflected all his attempts to talk about it.
“I didn’t have a lot of friends.”
“None or few?”
“None.”
He didn’t respond, like he knew I was being dishonest.
The boy with the evergreen eyes from my past called me a liar. Why do you ignore me? Why do you refuse my existence?
“Well, maybe one.”
“What was his name?”
The empty bottle of whiskey I’d left on the desk appeared in my mind, his name etched into the label, a constant reminder of my past. I couldn’t drink any other brand of whiskey.
“Doesn’t matter.”
Another pause.
“How did you meet this boy?”
“We met in grade school. He lived down the road.”
“How often did you spend time with this boy?”
The view out the window faded into the background as visions of my past surfaced. Preteen boys, hiding out in the schoolyard with a stolen porn magazine, laughing and making gagging noises at the pictures.
Hanging out at the arcade at fourteen, squished closed together at the pinball machine, the scent of his grape flavored bubble gum tickling my nose.
Throwing fries at each other across the table in the cafeteria at lunchtime.
Wrestling in the basement at his house.
Watching horror flicks and then trying to scare each other afterward.
Talking about girls then, tentatively, talking about boys.
Sharing our deepest darkest secrets.
Camping out in my backyard at fifteen, masturbating together in the darkness of our tent. His sleeping bag next to mine. His breath and lips inches away.
Trepidation.
Excitement.
Fear.
Stealing gay porn from the corner store and hiding behind the dumpster after sundown to look at it with a flashlight. Touching each other for the first time.
Fumbled kisses.
And the discovery of sex.
“Oakland?”
My throat was dry. I couldn’t swallow the lump. My head swam with the effects of the oxy, and I blinked, the action taking effort. My eyelids grew heavier by the second.
“We … we spent every day together. He was my best friend.”
“Can you look at me?”
My head weighed a ton, but I turned it. The motion was too much. It lolled on my neck, bobbed and flopped to the side. The room seemed brighter, and I caught myself smiling lazily at my doctor.
“You took something.”
“So what? I feel better. You want answers, Doc? Now’s when you’ll get them. Ask me anything you fucking want.”
“I don’t like it when you self-medicate, especially with all I prescribe you. Why did you feel the need to do that?”
“I have to.”
“Why?”
“It’s coming back.”
“What’s coming back?”
“The sickness. It’s coming back. They didn’t cure me.”
It was rare I could meet Dr. Jennings’s eyes. With the haze and cushion of the pills and a stupid smile clinging to my lips, I studied him.
“Oakland, what happened to your friend when you had to go away because you were sick? Did he visit you? Was he still your friend after you got home?”
I laughed, and the sound was something I didn’t recognize. “Don’t you get it?” Of course he didn’t. I’d never been able to force the words past my lips. In fifteen years, I barely allowed my mind to have access to those memories, and I’d never spoken about them out loud. “Jameson was sick too. We both were. When they found out, they sent us away to get better. I never saw him again after that.”
The truth stabbed my heart, and a wave of sadness engulfed me.
FOUR
Jameson
The door flew open, and my mother’s beaming smile greeted me. I forced a smile of my own to my face, the tired strain of dishonesty making it harder to hold in place than most days.
“Jameson.” She glanced over my shoulder toward my truck, and confusion replaced her joy. “I thought you were bringing your new girlfriend.” She clutched the golden cross that hung around her neck—a similar, more delicate version of my own—as she searched my face for answers.
“She had to work.” She doesn’t exist.
“Well, that’s disappointing. Come on in. Dinner’s almost ready.”
After a few weeks of lies and excuses, I would break the news to my parents that my imaginary girlfriend and I were no longer dating. Then, I would give myself a month or so before conjuring up a new story about a new woman who fit my mother’s ideal for a future wife.
She would be smart and pretty. She would work a respectable job and want six kids and a big wedding. Of course, she would be religious. An honest, church-going, volunteering, soft-spoken woman from a good family. The greater my mother’s joy, the more intricate and descriptive my lies became.
If my parents saw through my deception, they never said anything. Time and time again, we would sit through Sunday dinner and I would regale them with stories of fantasy women and extravagant dates, plans for the future I never intended to fulfill.
I saw it as acting, not lying, per se.
This mask, the one I wore for my weekly dinner at my parents’ house, was my least favorite and the one that was the most scrutinized. If for one second my parents suspected their baby boy hadn’t been cured all those years ago, that the devil still lived inside him, I didn’t know what they’d do. I was a thirty-two-year-old man, not a child. I had repented and prayed, I had begged for forgiveness, and proclaimed myself healed. It wasn’t like they could send me back, but for whatever reason, ensuring they believed my stories was important.
My parents’ home was pristine. White billowy drapes hung over the windows, and glass-doored cabinets held my mother’s precious Royal Doulton figurines. Soap carving artwork hung on the wall over the stone fireplace. Above the wine-colored couch were five canvas-painted pieces that, when hung together, formed an enormous Jesus, nailed to the cross. It took up the majority of the wall, and its presence made my skin buzz. He was always watching. He knew the truth. He saw the devil behind my eyes.
I’d been told my whole life that God loved all His children. Clearly, I was an exception because no matter how hard I prayed He wouldn’t help me fight this evil. He let me suffer. He left me tainted.
“Jameson,” Dad exclaimed as he met us in the front hall. His dress-shirt pulled taut over his round belly, threatening the buttons, and his eyebrows were bushy and in dire need of a trim. His hair was grayer every time I saw him. “Where’s this woman we’re supposed to meet?”
“Working. She got called in. Not her fault.”
“A nurse, right?” Mom asked, heading toward the kitchen.
“Yeah. What’s for dinner?” I asked, changing the subject.
Dad waved for me to follow him to the dining room. “Roast pork, boiled potatoes, and carrots. Your mom made her famous chutney to go with it.”
“Great.” I hated chutney.
He stopped at the liquor cabinet and pulled two wine glasses from behind the stained-glass doors. “Wine?”
“Sure. Please.” With a double shot of gin if you’ve got it.
In the dining room were more religious artifacts. A five-foot-long replica of The Last Supper, a statue of the Virgin Mary, wooden planks that had been painted and stenciled, scribed with verses from the Bible. Dried flowers, candles in pretty holders, and scores of family photographs in frames. The table was formally set with cloth placemats, china dishes, and crystal glasses.
Sunday dinner was an event in my family. It had been for as long as I could remember, and apart from those eight months I’d spend at the facility as a teenager, I hadn’t missed one. No matter how hungover or polluted from a Saturday night of debauchery, I showed up, mask in place, and performed. It was unthinkable—disrespectful—not too.
If they only knew.
Within the four walls of my parents’ home, I felt watched and judged, like a wolf in sheep’s clothing. The presence of God surrounded me. He knew the truth. I couldn’t hide from the Almighty, but I knew there was no place in Heaven for a man like me.
And that realization hurt.
Dad handed me a glass of red, and we settled at our respective places at the table. The abscess in my core felt more prominent in this house. The physical stain on my soul burned whenever I joined them for dinner.
I drank the wine greedily, begging for it to wash away an ounce of my turmoil. It didn’t. Wine held no power.
Mom brought out the food, and we all sat with our heads bowed as my father led us through prayer. Each prayer was formulated with my past transgressions in mind. My parents would never let me forget how close I had come to damnation.
Dad prayed for the Lord to guide me and keep me on the right path. For Him to continue to support me and, of course, we were forever thankful the devil had released his hold and I had found my way once again.
“Amen,” we said in unison.
That night when I got home, I opened my blank journal, compelled to write for the first time since Dr. Husein had suggested it. I found a dull pencil and opened to a fresh page. I wrote:
I am the damned. I have the devil inside me. I cannot fight him. He wins every time. God has forsaken me.
Then I closed the spiral-bound notebook and found the new bottle of gin I’d stashed in the freezer.
I didn’t need a glass.
When I had a decent buzz, I snagged my keys and wallet and left.
Toronto had ample choices when it came to gay bars, and I lived at the core of it all. Most of them were lively with upbeat music and scantily clad men gyrating on the dancefloor. I avoided those establishments and ventured to one that called to my darker side. It was small and dimly lit. The tables weren’t clean, and the bartenders were harsh and burly—nothing like the skinny little boys in tight shorts at the other clubs. The people who went to this bar were shadier and came for one purpose. We took what we needed and left.
I slid onto a barstool and tugged my ballcap low, keeping my eyes hidden. I wore black, blending into the shadows. The bartender knew me and brought my standard double G&T without asking. I drained it in one go then waved for another. After a third, I wiped my mouth, piled cash on the bar top, and headed down the dark hallway to the men’s room. It was where people lingered when they wanted something more than a drink.
I scanned the faces of the few gathered men, looking for something particular that only my subconscious mind understood. I spotted a decent looking guy with dark brown hair and an unshaven face. He was of medium build and close to my age. Sharp nose, thin lips, and a prominent Adam’s apple. I pulled a smoke from my pack, tucked it between my lips, and sauntered over to the stranger.
“Gotta light?”
Scanning me up and down, I waited to see if I would pass his inspection. Pushing off the wall, he nodded. “Sure.”
He followed me outside, took the cigarette out of my mouth, tucked it behind my ear with a devious grin, and shoved me against the wall before falling to his knees. He made quick work of undoing my zipper and pulling my cock out.
I closed my eyes when his wet mouth surrounded me, biting the inside of my cheek until I tasted blood. The poison seeped through my veins, alighting my senses, throbbing and pulsing low in my belly. I grew hard in an instant, the hatred in my core growing denser.
I refused to make a sound. I refused to touch him or guide his mouth in any way. He was a vessel for my sick enjoyment, nothing more. When I was close, when my legs trembled, I shoved him off and dug a condom and small packet of lube from my pocket. “Against the wall,” I growled.
He complied, shimmying his pants down and spreading his legs. Some days I took the punishment, other days, like today, I dished it out.
Suiting up, I added lube, then kicked his legs farther apart before lining up. If he wanted to be prepped, he was shit out of luck. I didn’t do that.
“Ready?”
“Fuck yeah. Do it.”
I forced his face against the concrete wall, holding him there as I entered him in one hard thrust. He grunted and cursed but was otherwise quiet. Then I fucked him without mercy. I wasn’t gentle or kind, nor did he expect me to be. My grip was bruising, my thrusts severe. Years of pent-up rage, venom, and hatred overtook me as I hammered into him.
I squeezed my eyes closed, jacked my hips faster, the sound of slapping skin overtaking the once silent night. As the pleasure built, as the inevitable end approached, it was his face I saw. Never anyone else. I couldn’t escape his molasses-colored eyes. They compounded my self-hatred and fueled me to fuck this stranger harder and with more aggression. When I came, the release from all those tightly wound emotions poured out of me. It unleashed like a torrent.
I shuddered, and for a fleeting, flickering moment, a calm soaked into my bones. For those nanoseconds, I could almost be okay with what I’d done.
But it never lasted. The crash was sudden and debilitating.
I shoved away from the brown-haired stranger and ditched the condom on the ground. After zipping up, I returned the smoke to my lips. The man, breaths ragged and hand flying over his cock, jerked himself to completion. He covered the wall with a groan as I turned my back and walked away.
I dug a lighter from the inside pocket of my jacket and lit my smoke, inhaling a long drag. I headed home, temporarily sated and buzzing from too much alcohol. The guilt would hit soon, and I wanted to be far away when it happened.
Two months ago, Dr. Husein encouraged me to start attending a type of group therapy. At first, I had rejected the idea on-premise. It took some convincing, but eventually, I had agreed to try a few sessions. My inability to accept my sexuality concerned her. My utter repulsion for what I’d become—because I wasn’t convinced I was born like this—kept me in therapy. Self-hatred, depression, and denial; this chick made a fortune off my problems. She could probably write a book.
Dr. Husein had explained how a group of five local psychologists had attended a seminar the previous year to discuss the repercussions of conversion therapy. The long-term effects on a person’s psyche were troublesome. High suicide rates, clinical depression, substance abuse, the list went on and on. And lucky me, I ticked every fucking box.
The group of doctors each treated a number of patients like myself who’d been brainwashed into believing their sexual orientation was wrong. Although private therapy was proving effective, they wanted to explore the benefits of including a group component where the affected men and women could share their stories and experiences together. The idea was to show us we weren’t alone and that being a homosexual wasn’t wrong.
The group met on Thursday evenings and was run by Dr. Mercedes, a man in his early thirties with a baby face and a fondness for oatmeal cookies—you would have never guessed by his thin, almost lanky frame.
Bad coffee and plates of treats were available each week. Most of us didn’t touch either. We were zombies, sitting in a circle, expected to share our woeful tales, whether they be about our treatment, our current feelings, or our childhood discovery about our sexuality.
It was my seventh time attending the meeting, but I had yet to share. Listening to the other people take turns was enough to convince me that confessing my sins to this bunch would not assuage the guilt.
And I wasn’t like these people. I wasn’t gay. I was tainted.
“Jameson, would you like a turn today?” Dr. Mercedes asked.
I shook my head, refusing him eye contact.
“Your experience is valid. We’d love to hear from you. This is a safe zone. No one will judge you.”
“Pass.”
Dr. Mercedes nodded and moved to the next person. “Ryder? Would you like to contribute today?”
Ryder Bain sat beside me. I hated when it was his turn. Ryder talked and talked and talked, but what bothered me the most were his words. He said what I couldn’t. He shared what I hid from the world. From myself.
“I feel dirty inside. I’ve gone to bars and taken guys back to my apartment. At the time, all I think about is the sex, the burning need inside me that can’t be satisfied by a woman—and I’ve tried. It’s a craving. The urge is always there under my skin, but every time I act on it, I feel gross afterward. Soiled. Physically ill. I even threw up once. It can take days to get rid of that feeling. Yet, I cycle, and I can’t stop the yearning nor can I stop the ugliness. It’s like, I want it, and it feels really great when it’s happening, but after, all I do is hate myself.”
“That’s because your brain has been conditioned to believe that being gay, that desiring another man is wrong. The wires in your head have been rerouted, reprogramed, if you will, so that you can’t feel pleasure without guilt. You associate pleasure with punishment. Our goal is to try and undo the damage. To help you feel comfortable in your own skin. You shouldn’t feel guilty for wanting a sexual relationship with a man.”
