Work Text:
Does God truly forgive?
Is that even something I can still believe in? Or is it just one of those inherited truths, passed down from mother to son like a cherished bedtime fable meant more to comfort than to guide? It was her who told me, taught me, reassured me that no sin was too great, no soul beyond redemption.
But standing here now, surrounded by sterile silence and surgical steel..I find myself doubting it all.
How long will I wrestle with these questions?
Long enough, I suspect, to carry me through the duration of what must be done.
C5…C6…
He's far gone now. His body lies limp, his awareness dissolved under the paralytic grip of Rocuronium.
There's no resistance in him anymore..only a quiet, slack-jawed surrender. Whatever spark he once had has been dulled, blurred by days of deprivation and sedation. He exists in name only.
The drill hums quietly, its vibration familiar in my hands as it kisses flesh and sinks into bone. The bit meets vertebrae with a sickening crack, the C6 shattering beneath the pressure. Splinters and marrow mix into the warm viscera, and the man's body spasms briefly, after effects of his borderline post mortem state.
Am I damned now, marked beyond recognition? I can't even recall when the corruption began. Was it the moment I walked away from the church? Or did it start long before, buried in the marrow of who I've always been?
The church would have burned me, surely. They would look at this and see heresy, madness, sin. But I don't feel wicked. I feel... certain. Focused.
Is this not divine work in its own way?
Isn't sacrifice, in the name of love, a form of worship?
Am I not worthy of grace?
He will endure through the next few nights, I am certain. As I lay down to rest beside my Angel, I seek solace amidst the chaos. That is my hope.
But what will become of me if they reject my offering—my promise of protection and assurance of their safety?
Despite everything, I have no regrets. Deep down, I feel this was necessary, and thus it must be done. I exist solely for them; without them and without this act, I am nothing. My love for them compels me to prevent any further harm from befalling us.
Would Angel find this place suitable for a long-term stay? Will they choose to remain by my side?
The thought of losing them fills me with dread, it feels as though I would cease to exist entirely.
These are the contemplations of Lee, a man in his mid to late twenties: introverted, yet overflowing with a gentle demeanor. The past 48 hours have been a violent internal struggle, with chewed nails and bloodied cuticles as evidence of his distress. He attempts to suppress his emotions, focusing instead on what he can provide for his muse.
Angel, oh Angel..my savior, my lifeline. Without them, I would have succumbed to despair weeks ago.
Lee shifts uncomfortably in bed, this marks the third consecutive day he has grappled with insomnia. At this moment in time, he doubts he remembers the last time he truly experienced rest.
Has he ever? Will he ever find peace in slumber again?
He had anticipated some semblance of this turmoil, yet an unlikely flicker of hope should have emerged. Guilt eludes him entirely.. rather, it is a profound fear of the future that grips him: fear that he might be discovered by the one person who truly sees him.
Angel has illuminated his world. They embody gentleness, kindness, and an effortless ability to draw him into conversation. They see past his fidgeting and monotone murmurs, recognizing the man he wishes to be. The man he truly is.
The following day, Lee is enveloped by anxiety, skirting around questions he fears to articulate, his voice hitching under the weight of his emotions. The monotony of his tone offers little concealment; Angel can see right through him.
Is it rational to be afraid? Most certainly.
He convinces himself that taking a quick shower will be safe enough. He is adamant in instructing Angel to remain where they are.
Lee is not typically one for optimism, and it was perhaps a mistake to venture into that territory now. The bedroom, to his dismay, is enveloped in an unsettling silence—far too quiet for his liking.
It’s not surprising to discover it empty, a cold void enveloping his stomach. His eyes fixate on the bed, desperate and yearning for the presence of his savior.
After a moment of hesitation, his gaze shifts to the open passageway.
The body..he’s unprepared for this reality. It lies drained, yet the timing for its disposal eludes him. Angel could’ve returned at any moment, and the thought sent shivers down his spine. But now..now it’s too late. He has no way to avoid this truth.
With determination, he drifts downstairs, fully dressed and doing his utmost to appear calm. All he desires is to retreat inward, praying fervently that the person he holds in such reverence will not turn away from him.
It would be a nightmare of epic proportions if things were to unravel; he fears for his very existence.
The life of Mormonism imparted upon Lee a series of painfully rigid lessons, dictating not just the rhythms of his daily existence but shaping the contours of his very soul. From the intricate protocols of prayer, which demanded not only verbal supplication but also an unyielding adherence to ritual, to the stringent guidelines on dress that dictated modesty and decorum, every nuance of his upbringing was a lesson in conformity.
Expressing individuality was akin to blasphemy, and thoughts of nurturing relationships, especially those rooted in love and affection, were rendered null and void. Even within the confines of his own family, the bonds that should have flourished instead withered under the weight of expectation and unspoken resentment.
True, gentle love was an elusive concept for Lee. Instead, he was met with an unrelenting sternness from his mother, whose approach to spirituality was steeped in dogma rather than warmth. She imparted her beliefs with the fervor of a schoolteacher, emphasizing doctrine over compassion, leaving him yearning for the nurturing embrace that was always just out of reach.
His father was no better, a man of traditional values who projected a veneer of charisma yet was emotionally distant, more a figurehead than a nurturing presence. He espoused the teachings of Mormonism with fervent passion, but his love was conditional, bound by adherence to rules that left no room for missteps.
In moments of solitude, Lee often found himself longing for acceptance, desiring nothing more than to be seen and understood for the person he was, rather than the forced concept of existence imposed upon him by his upbringing. If only they could see him now, he thought to himself. He envisioned himself transformed, liberated, his wings unfurling, adorned with the crimson stains of his choices: emblems of both his defiance and liberation. No longer would he cower in fear, if his Angel could accept him in all his flawed beauty, he would know no fear again.
With a heavy heart yet a spirit fueled by hope, Lee muttered his last prayers, a whispered incantation of faith, as he carefully descended the stairs. Each step was both a physical and metaphysical journey, echoing the tension between his ingrained teachings and the raw, uncontainable yearning for freedom.
The prayer, though steeped in the syntax of a past life, were laced with a newfound resolve, a shimmering thread of hope that perhaps, just perhaps, he could forge a new path..one illuminated by love and understanding rather than guilt and repression.
It will be the last prayer he ever utters, he knows this to be true.
Only time will tell for the future though, he decides, as he steps onto the concrete floor of the hidden room.