Unbound

Chapter 1

JESSE

God hates sin. God hates wickedness. God hates abomination.

These were the truths I'd been taught since before I could read.

The same truths I now repeated silently as I stood with my sign held high against the darkening sky.

Six hours we'd maintained our righteous vigil, six hours of bearing witness before these lost souls.

My shoulders ached, and the cardboard edges of my sign dug into my palms, but I couldn't allow myself to focus on the discomfort.

Physical pain was trivial compared to the eternal suffering that awaited the unrepentant.

"GOD HATES F—" The words blazed in neon orange against black, the final word spelled out in full on my sign, though my mind still flinched from completing it even in thought. Father had painted it himself. The letters were perfect, precise. Like everything Father did.

"Jesse." My mother's voice cut through our chanting. She appeared at my side, face pinched with concern. "You look pale. Are you drinking enough water?"

"I'm fine, Mother." I straightened my shoulders, lifting the sign higher. A proper soldier for Christ doesn't complain of weariness. Father had taught me that lesson when I was nine.

"Make sure Rebecca has enough too." She patted my arm and returned to her position.

I glanced to my right where Rebecca stood, her blonde hair catching the streetlight. She held her sign with both hands, her delicate wrists surely aching by now, though she'd never admit it. Her sign read "REPENT OR PERISH," the E in "REPENT" slightly crooked. Rebecca wasn't precise like Father.

"Do you need some water?" I asked, leaning toward her.

She looked up, startled, as if pulled from deep thought. "Oh—no, I'm okay." Her smile didn't reach her eyes. "Thank you for asking."

We'd been officially courting for three years, two months, and seventeen days.

Our families approved. She was modest, obedient, and possessed a gentle spirit that would make her an exemplary mother to our future children.

These were the qualities a godly man should seek.

This was the path laid before me by my father.

So why did it sometimes feel like we were both acting in a play, reciting lines neither of us had written?

I pushed away the disloyal thought and returned my attention to the establishment across the street.

The Harbour. Such a misleading name, as if it offered safe refuge rather than spiritual destruction.

Bass pounded through its walls, a rhythmic mockery of a heartbeat.

Men entered—young men, old men—some dressed modestly, others in garments that displayed their bodies in ways that made me quickly avert my eyes.

Yet sometimes, before I looked away, I noticed something. They were smiling. Really smiling—not the practiced Sunday morning greetings we exchanged at church. What did they have to smile about? Didn't they know what awaited them?

"They choose eternal damnation," Father had explained when I was twelve, the first time he brought me to witness. "We stand as the final warning before they cross the threshold to sin."

The memory of his voice strengthened my resolve. I raised my sign higher and joined the renewed chant.

"GOD HATES THE WICKED! REPENT BEFORE JUDGMENT!"

My voice merged with the others—twenty-three members of Topeka Covenant Church, standing as a wall of truth against depravity. This was our Wednesday night ritual when school permitted. A reminder to the community that God's standards hadn't changed, even as the world embraced darkness.

Yet as the night deepened, another truth became increasingly difficult to ignore.

My bladder throbbed with urgent discomfort.

We'd been here since four o'clock. It was now past ten.

The hot chocolate I'd consumed during my study session before the protest now demanded release with an insistence that was becoming painful.

I shifted my weight, pressing my thighs together in a manner I prayed appeared casual. Perhaps I could endure until we departed. Pastor Caldwell had said we'd maintain our position until eleven. Surely I could withstand another forty-seven minutes.

But as another wave of pressure assaulted me, I knew the situation was becoming desperate. I scanned the area. The surrounding businesses—the bookshop, the café, the hardware store—all stood dark. Nothing remained open at this hour in this part of town.

Nothing except The Harbour.

No. Absolutely not. I'd rather suffer physical discomfort than cross that threshold.

Another surge of pressure caused me to inhale sharply. The possibility of public embarrassment suddenly seemed very real.

"Jesse?" Rebecca's voice was soft with concern. "Are you okay?"

I couldn't bring myself to explain my predicament to her. Certain bodily functions weren't appropriate topics of discussion with a young woman, even one I intended to marry eventually.

"I need to step away for a moment," I managed.

Her eyes widened slightly. "Oh. Would you like me to come with you? We could take a short walk."

"That's not necessary. Please stay here. I'll be back soon."

I lowered my sign and approached Father, who stood at the front of our group, his powerful voice leading the chants.

"Father, I need to be excused briefly." I spoke near his ear to be heard above the noise.

He paused, his expression questioning.

"A physical necessity," I explained, feeling heat rise in my face.

Understanding dawned in his eyes. He nodded once, then handed me a different sign from the stack behind him. "Be swift, and take this sign with you. Spread the message wherever you go."

I glanced down at the sign he'd given me. "LOVE THE SINNER, HATE THE SIN" - the gentler message I preferred. Whether this was Father's attempt at kindness or a test of my resolve, I couldn't tell.

I accepted the sign and walked away from our group, acutely aware of Rebecca's eyes following me. The pressure in my bladder intensified with each step. I needed to find a solution immediately.

The gas station was six blocks east. Too far. The university buildings were closed at this hour.

I halted, staring at The Harbour's entrance. Rainbow lights framed its door, a garishly coloured beacon. Two bouncers stood outside, sharing a cigarette, their laughter carrying across the street. They cast occasional glances toward our protest, their expressions dismissive.

This was a test. It had to be. God testing my resolve, my dedication to avoiding even the appearance of evil.

My bladder spasmed again, more painfully this time. Sweat broke out across my forehead despite the autumn chill.

God was merciful, wasn't He? God understood physical necessity. Surely entering this establishment purely for its facilities, without participating in its activities, wouldn't constitute endorsement. I'd be in and out in moments. No one would even notice me.

I told myself it was desperation that drove me across the street. I told myself a lot of things as my feet carried me toward the rainbow-lit doorway.

The men at the entrance fell silent as I approached, their conversation halting mid-sentence. I kept my eyes fixed on a point just past their shoulders. I didn't want to see judgment or mockery in their eyes.

"Bathroom emergency?" one of them asked, his tone surprisingly sympathetic rather than derisive.

I gave a curt nod, still not meeting his gaze.

"Through the main room, left hallway, end of the corridor," he said.

"Thank you," I replied stiffly, then immediately regretted acknowledging him at all.

I pushed open the heavy door and stepped into another world.

The sensory assault was immediate and overwhelming. Music crashed against me, so loud I felt it in my chest. The air was thick with artificial fog, pierced by strobing lights that transformed moving bodies into fragmented shapes. The scent was a bewildering mixture of cologne, sweat, and alcohol.

I froze just inside the entrance, my eyes struggling to adjust to the chaos. Men danced with men. Women held women. Bodies pressed against bodies in ways that made me want to avert my eyes but somehow couldn't.

This was Sodom. This was what we warned against. So why couldn't I look away?

No one seemed to notice me standing there, rigid with shock and discomfort. The crowd was absorbed in their revelry, moving as one pulsing organism to the music's command. I spotted the sign for restrooms down the left corridor, just as the bouncer had indicated.

I moved forward, keeping my back straight and my gaze focused on that distant sign. My steps were mechanical, my body navigating without conscious direction. Each beat of the music seemed to match the throbbing of my bladder.

A hand brushed against mine in the crowded space. I jerked away as if burned, my heart suddenly racing.

"Sorry, man," someone shouted over the music.

I didn't respond, didn't look. Just kept moving, ignoring the strange flutter in my stomach that had nothing to do with my need for a bathroom.

The hallway offered marginal respite from the sensory onslaught.

The music was slightly muted here, though still loud enough to feel in my bones.

Posters lined the walls—advertisements for events with names like "Pride Night" and "Drag Extravaganza.

" I tried not to look at the images of men in various states of undress, but my eyes betrayed me with quick, furtive glances.

I finally reached the restroom and pushed through the door, relief washing over me as I stumbled inside.

Thankfully, it was empty. I hurried to a urinal, keeping my gaze fixed straight ahead at the wall as I relieved myself.

My entire body relaxed as the painful pressure finally abated.

I couldn't help the small sigh that escaped me.

"Thank you, Lord, for this small mercy," I whispered, then immediately felt foolish for thanking God for a urinal in a gay bar.