Chapter Twenty-Five #2
Old, wrinkled fingers squeeze mine, and I hear him sigh through the darkness. "Would you tell me, if I asked? Would you tell me the truth if I asked what's wrong?"
You already know, I want to say, but I bite the words back, because it is one thing to think something, and another thing to know it.
I don't know why I've never told my father the truth.
There has always been a part of me that suspected he knew already, a part that knew he knew, at least somewhat.
Maybe I hoped if neither of us said anything, then it wouldn't be true.
Maybe I hoped if we both just ignored it, if I fought it and never succumbed, then I could live a life without guilt or regret.
A half-life, to be sure, but a life, nonetheless.
"I bit him," I say quietly, the words like ash in my mouth. "When he was beating me, I bit him and..."
My father shifts when I take too long to continue. "Theo—"
"And it tasted good." Even now, starved as I am, I swear I can feel the chunk I tore from Fitzwilliam’s hand as if it is lodged in my throat still. I can feel my monster reaching out with claws and teeth for more, more, more. "It tasted good, and I-I don't—Papa, I don't know what to do."
I don't know when I begin to sob, but the bed dips slightly, and within moments, I am gathered into my father's arms. He holds me with all his strength as I break apart in his embrace, rocks me back and forth like he used to when I was a child, humming some terribly out-of-tune lullaby I have not heard in just as long.
When finally my cries die down, left as nothing but muffled sniffling, he pulls away and places something cold in my hands. "Drink," he demands, the word soft but stern.
It takes a moment for the sharp metallic scent to hit me, a moment for my wet gaze to fall on the dark liquid inside the cup.
"P-papa—"
"Drink."
I do as he says, a few more tears slipping from my eyes as I down the glass in a few desperate swallows. It's the most I've had since Azizi dropped off the bottle, and while it does nothing in the long run for my hunger, it soothes the ravaging emotions that boil in my stomach at the very least.
"Good." My father sets the cup aside, taking my hands in his and meeting my eyes in the darkness. "Now, I am going to speak, and you're going to listen. You will not interrupt until I'm finished, yes?"
The tone makes me feel like a scolded child again, and I fight the urge to sink into myself as I nod.
He repeats the gesture and takes a deep breath, as if gathering his own courage for the words he's going to say.
"You are my son, Theodore," he begins, squeezing my fingers so tight I can feel them creak. "You are my son, and I will love you until I am dead and gone, and then I will love you further still."
"Papa—"
He tuts, shaking his head. "Ah, don’t interrupt, boy.
I'm not done." He takes another deep breath, and I try to ignore the dread pooling in my gut the longer he speaks.
"No matter what you do, or who you are, I will always love you.
God be damned, if He must. And—" He pauses.
Breathes. Squeezes my hands. "And I think maybe it's best now for you to leave. "
Pain laces through my chest, goring it open and spilling my innards into my lap in an instant. That age old fear of rejection, of abandon, lodges so hard in my throat that I choke on it.
"Papa—Papa, please, don't—"
"Listen to me boy, listen," my father rushes to say, once again drawing me into his arms. This time the sobs do not come.
This time it is a silent sort of grief, my body limp against his chest, my mind empty of anything other than I think it's best for you to leave.
Leave. Leave. "Do you know I've never once seen you so happy as you've been since you got that job up there?
Never been so healthy. Smiled so much. Laughed? "
His words confuse me, and I pull away to sit back up. "S-so you don't—you aren't just... kicking me out?"
My father frames my face with his shaking hands, a sad smile on his lips as he shakes his head. "No, my boy. No. I love you, and I'd let you stay as long as you wanted. But... but this place, it’s not good for you. It's—It's killing you, Theodore."
I want to argue with him. I want to tell him that he's wrong, that this place is my home and I couldn't think of leaving him here on his own. I want to tell him that I'm fine, that I am surviving and that he doesn't have to worry about me.
But he's right. And I could lie to God, but I cannot lie to my father.
"But what if I... You know things are different up there," I whisper, my gaze trailing back to the small drops of blood still sitting at the bottom of the glass he brought. "What if I give in to the hunger?"
He doesn't say anything for a long moment, and when I glance back at him, he says, "What if you did?"
Shock echoes through my bones like a church bell. I jerk in his grasp, but he does not let me go. "W—Papa, it's a sin."
"Is it?" He raises an eyebrow. "Genesis 9:3, 'Every moving thing that lives shall be food for you. And as I gave you the green plants, I give you everything.' That's what He says to Noah after the flood."
I swallow and shake my head. "And immediately after, he says 'whoever sheds the blood of man, by man shall his blood be shed, for God made man in his own image.'"
My father hums as if in consideration, though I can see only amusement in his eyes as he tucks my curls behind my ear.
"My boy, if the Church can choose which parts of the good Word to follow, then I suppose we can too.
Besides, you're a good boy. You've never been nothing but kind in your life, and you know right from wrong.
I cannot imagine the Lord put you here just to suffer. And even if He did..."
I squeeze his hand this time, a silent plea for him not to say anything that will damn him. If there is anything I can't come back from, it would be damning my father to Hell because of his love for me.
"Theodore, my son," he says, "if the Lord put you on this Earth just to suffer as you have, then... well, then I suppose he's not much of a kind God, then, is he?"
"Papa, you can't say that!"
"I can, and I did." He rakes a hand through my tangled hair and pulls me forward, pressing a quivering kiss to my forehead. "I want you happy, Theodore, and healthy. If they can give you that up there, then... then I think you should do it. Not for me or our village, but for you."
For me.
Had I ever done anything for me before? Anything like this?
Certainly not. My whole life has been a constant absolution, a constant servitude to a church that would damn me without a second's hesitation.
That has damned me, many times over. I live in endless prayer, endless begging and pleading for forgiveness, and yet I do not truly know what I am beseeching Him for.
My hunger? My monster? The one He gave me?
And if it truly was the Devil who gave me this demon inside that hungers for the living, then should I be begging forgiveness from a God who has allowed it to happen? Who has looked upon my suffering, has heard my cries, seen my servitude in spite of it all, and still denied me peace?
Perhaps my father is right. Perhaps my happiness is more important than my so-called faith. What is the point of living, if it is done through invariant suffering?
What is the point of life, if this is how I must live it?