The Outcast, Justice, and Agastache (Garden of Desire #5)

Chapter 1

Rami's POV

Idab at the cut on my lip with the back of my hand, checking for evidence to make sure I’m no longer bleeding.

The torn T-shirt with bloodstains is already going to be a pain in the ass to explain away; blood on my clothes is proof I didn’t follow her precious rules.

Though I’ve given up trying to explain myself to her; she doesn’t listen to me.

No one listens to me.

I shove my hands so far into the pockets of my jeans that they tug on my hip bones.

The weight of the world rests on my shoulders, and they slump forward with the pressure.

As I trudge down the road, I kick a few rocks with the toe of my high-tops.

They bounce ahead of me until I kick another and watch them race while I try to forget about the assholes I just ran into.

This is schoolyard bullshit, despite us being in our early twenties.

Why did she have to make me move here?

That one night fucked everything else up and brought me to this town filled with small-minded, simple motherfuckers. It’s been nearly two years since I was forced to move here, and it’s only gotten worse.

I’m just the little gay boy in their otherwise perfect town.

Most avoid me like the plague, whispering about my preferences as if my presence offends them.

It’s not like I’ve flaunted my choices in their faces or even hit on a single person in this town.

I wouldn’t even describe me as flouncy or like any of the stereotypical queers they love to portray us as on TV.

And yet, somehow, they all know. If that fun little tidbit isn’t enough for them, my general fuck off vibe is enough to alienate me even further.

I’ve been perfecting that demeanor since coming here, which I’m certain hasn’t won me any friends and only results in further disdain.

Not that I’m here to make friends. My only goal is to get as far away from here as I can. But she won’t let me.

I attempt to sneak in through the back door of our small ranch-style house. Avoiding the questions to begin with is a much easier solution than being scolded like I’m a child.

“Rami, where have you been?” Grandma Julia’s voice shakes only slightly due to her age. “Your dinner is getting cold,” she snaps, not bothering to wait for me to answer her original question.

“Can I shower first?” I keep my tone clipped, tired of having to explain myself. I at least manage to bite back the scoff I wanted to throw in there. But I know if I raise my voice even slightly or make any derisive noise, there’ll be hell to pay.

When you live under my roof, you’ll follow my rules. The words I’ve heard many, many, many times echo in my ears.

“No, sir. It’s already getting cold, and I will not wait any longer.” That biting tone is like nails on a chalkboard. Sometimes I wish she’d just start yelling, but it’s not her way.

“Eat without me. I’ll reheat it when I’m done.”

“You either eat with me, or you don’t eat at all tonight.”

I mull over the ultimatum: do I clean myself up and avoid a tongue-lashing, but no dinner; or do I risk her ire for my disheveled state in order to fill my belly?

I take a deep breath and run my fingers through my shoulder-length blonde hair. The length is another one of my little bits of rebellion, despite the numerous reminders to get my hair cut.

My stomach chooses that inopportune time to grumble, forcing the decision for me.

Turning on my heel, I brace myself for the lecture I’m about to receive.

I watch those cold blue eyes, so similar to my own, rake over the disaster that I’m currently in.

My shirt that’s been torn to shreds and covered in blood and dirt.

Top that with the holes and grass stains on my favorite pair of skinny jeans.

Thankfully, my beloved high-tops only got a little scuff across the toe.

“Have you been fighting again?”

No, ‘are you okay’ or ‘what happened?’ Nope. Immediately assuming that I did something wrong. Because I’m the fuck up who’s disturbing the peace of her quaint little town. It couldn’t possibly be one of those assholes who likes to beat the shit out of me for no reason.

Well, okay, they have a reason, but it’s not a valid one in my book.

“I didn’t do the fighting,” I snap.

I learned that the hard way when I used to fight back.

She never cared, even when I only fought back for self-defense.

My punishment was always much worse back then.

Now it’s just easier to take the beating and try to cover up the injuries.

I’ve at least learned some decent defensive moves to avoid the broken ribs again.

Thank you, internet gods!

“Don’t you dare take a tone with me, young man. If you live under my roof, you’ll follow my rules. And fighting is not allowed.”

My eye roll is so big that I’m fairly certain I can see my brain. “I didn’t do the fighting,” I remind her.

“You will clean yourself up, and then you will kneel and recite Job to repent for your transgressions.”

My mouth drops open so wide my jaw pops. I’m being punished for something I didn’t do. Preparing to defend myself, I take a deep breath, but her fists land on her hips, and I know that there is nothing I can say that will change her mind. So, I turn to do as I’ve been instructed.

The lump in my chest at the reminder that I’m not good enough for her, steals the rest of my bluster. Shouldn’t grandparents be the ones who love you no matter what? I suppose it’s hard to love a disappointment. I blink back the painful reminder, emotions burning my eyes and clogging my throat.

“Folly is bound up in the heart of a child, but the rod of discipline drives it far away,” she recites as I walk down the hallway. Her go-to verse when I’ve done something, in her mind, that goes against the church. Or even something she deems wrong.

The reminder that I’m nothing but a burden to her is another stab, forcing the emotions to erupt over.

Thankfully, I manage to dip into the bathroom before she sees the weakness.

Quickly wiping away the reminder that I’m not good enough, I glance over the pitiful reflection staring back at me in my bathroom mirror.

The blood from my nose and the corner of my mouth is all dried in my pitiful display of facial stubble.

Flaring out my nostrils, I try to peek into my nose to find it straight and unobstructed.

At least it doesn’t look like they broke my nose this time.

I move onto my eyes, red and puffy from the tears, to see the one bloodshot and the black eye already forming. No swelling, though.

Small miracles, I suppose.

Lifting the shirt over my head, I toss it straight into the bin. It’s not even worthy of rags at this point. The mottled bruises across my torso are already darkening and blending in nicely with the old ones that have turned yellow.

I continue undressing and climb into the shower to wash away the day. The hot water feels so good on my battered body. I don’t ever want to leave.

Leaving this sanctuary means scripture. It means kneeling in front of the crucifix as I read from the Bible.

It means admitting that what I am is wrong.

A disgrace. Each poisonous word attempting to cleanse my soul while destroying little bits of me.

All the while Grandma Julia rocks in that rocking chair and knits.

The squeak of the old wood and the clicking of her needles behind me acts as a constant reminder that my warden is watching.

Not loving me like a grandmother is supposed to, but judging my words to verify they are spoken with conviction.

I sigh heavily as my forehead drops to the tiled wall with a thud. All too familiar emotions rise up into my throat, filling my lashes with tears. This town feels more like a death sentence, and that thought terrifies me more than anything else.

The shower doesn’t take nearly long enough. Not that any length of time will make either of us forget my obligation.

It’s why I find myself shuffling my feet down the carpeted hallway once I’m dressed in a pair of sweats and a fresh T-shirt. Each step feels like one more nail in my coffin as I move closer and closer to my doom.

Dramatic? Yes, fine, I admit that. But two years of this shit would make anyone start to come undone. And out here, in the public spaces of her home, I have to grin and bear it. Not let her see the effect and remain strong.

To my left is the crucifix hung on the wall above her framed cross-stitching—Proverbs 22:15.

Fuck, that one verse will forever haunt my dreams.

In front of all of that is her cushioned prayer stool with her Bible.

On my right, further into the room, is where Grandma Julia is already perched in her chair.

However, her needles are sitting quietly in the basket beside her.

Instead, she’s holding a framed picture with an expression I’ve never seen on her face.

She suddenly appears older, like her wrinkles have increased by a simple furrow of her brow and tightness of her lips.

If I didn’t know her any better, I would guess it to be regret.

She blinks rapidly when she realizes I’ve entered the room, placing the image of my mother as a child onto the nearby table.

Glancing back at her, really looking at her, I see the depth of that pain.

Part of me wishes I could feel happy that she’s feeling remorseful, but the part that remembers she’s still my grandmother wants to console her.

Ignoring my stare, she picks up her knitting as if there wasn’t a deeper moment that just passed between us. Instead, the sounds of her rocking chair and knitting needles hard at work fill the small space.

With a heavy sigh, I turn to the prayer bench; my knees pop and crunch as I position myself. Curling my lip into a sneer I know she can’t see, I flip through the leather-bound book until I find the book of Job.

Creak. Creak. Click, click, click. Creak.

I clench my jaws to stave off the onslaught of overwhelming sensations.

Adjusting my kneeling position only causes my knees to scream out a bit more.

My eyes slam shut in an attempt to reel in the well of emotions rising to the surface I have to keep a lid on—frustration, anger, confusion, abandonment.

When I open my eyes again, on a fulfilling exhale, I stare at my forearms propped on either side of the book. The pale scars across both wrists draw me in as a constant reminder of that awful day. The day that landed me in this position.

I open my mouth to begin reciting the hollow words and swear to myself that I will find a way out of here. I will find my way to freedom.