12. Marcello

Marcello

M y room envelops me like a warm embrace, but my mind is still racing from what just happened. I shut my eyes and focus on the erratic rhythm of my breathing.

How did I let myself get so out of control? When I agreed to this marriage, I never thought I would struggle to keep my emotions in check. My body had been dormant for so long, I assumed Catalina's presence wouldn't affect me at all.

And yet, here I am. Heart pounding in my chest. Pulse racing through my veins.

I can feel the heat rising in my cheeks as I groan out loud. Fuck! She probably has no idea what she does to me... how just seeing her and being near her can send my body into such a frenzy.

I've been in complete control for so long. But just the sight of her across from me was enough to set my mind racing, conjuring up forbidden scenarios that I know I can't act on. Since the ceremony, I've made a conscious effort to avoid her at all costs. She looked so breathtakingly beautiful... so innocent.

Shit!

The mere thought of her presence ignites a wild desire within me, tempting me to break all of my rules. Shaking my head, I take another deep breath and try to calm my racing thoughts. Avoiding her is the best course of action.

I undress, shedding the clothes that seem to bind me in this internal struggle. The cool tiles under my feet lead me to the shower, where I can finally wash away the physical and mental tension that consumes me.

I'd always thought there was a special place in hell with my name on it. A place in the 7th circle where my punishment would be carried out for an eternity to come. I had come to terms with that, oddly enough. It was what I deserved, after all, and I made no excuses for myself.

But this...

Having Catalina near me is a form of anguish that not even hell could contrive. But of course, a soul so pure like hers would never step foot near that inferno.

I laugh at that, a cynical laugh that almost makes me choke.

That's it, isn't it?

What other punishment could I receive to rival this one? None...

It seems it's hell on earth then...

The realization that Catalina's presence here is the price I must pay for all my sins doesn't stop me from thinking about her... yearning to be with her.

My breath catches at that thought. Droplets from the shower dampen my hair until it sticks to my face.

Ten years and my body feels alive again. I feel alive again.

The image of Catalina peering up at me from beneath her lashes, saying she likes me, even though I know she didn't mean it...

My cock is already straining against the plane of my stomach, and I grow even harder the more I picture her lips... I take myself in hand, stroking my shaft from base to tip, almost groaning at the sensation.

It's been too long.

The skin at the top of my cock is so sensitive that I shudder when my thumb touches the head and skims the underside.

I close my eyes and continue to visualize, all the while pumping my cock faster and faster. What would she look like on her knees? Her tongue stretched out, waiting for my seed?

My breathing picks up.

Would she spit or swallow?

The moment I imagine her swallowing my cum, licking her lips as if it's dessert, I lose it. I feel my balls contracting, and I shoot my load all over the shower stall.

"Fuck!" I mutter, barely able to hold myself still as the intensity of the orgasm hits me. I need to put a hand on the wall to steady myself, all the while dizzy and breathing hard.

It's not long before the euphoria disappears, though, and a deep sense of shame envelops me.

Fuck... how could I do that? How...

How could I defile her like that, even if it's in my mind?

I curse at myself.

On shaky legs, I get out of the bathroom, my mind still foggy and disoriented. The amount of self-loathing I'm feeling right now overwhelms me, and I can do nothing but stumble towards my altar. I trip on my legs and fall, but my single-minded focus doesn't let me stop.

I crawl until I reach the table housing my paraphernalia, and I take my rosary in one hand, and the whip in the other.

I need to stay away from her...

The more I'm near her, the more I risk defiling her with my darkness... more than I already have. I angle the whip and I strike, my eyes squeezed shut, my mouth parted as I experience the pain.

I must pay for my sins.

I do it again.

Whip!

And again.

Whip!

Why?

Whip!

Why must I want her so badly?

Whip!

I'm dirty... vile.

Whip!

Tears are running down my face, but I don't stop. My old wounds have probably reopened, but I relish the extra bite of pain.

Whip!

I need to suffer.

Whip!

I am a sinner...

The pain brings me down, and I crouch on the ground, bringing my knees to my chest and tightening my fist around the rosary. I slowly rock as I say my prayer.

I pray that she will be fine.

I pray for strength to keep myself from her.

And... I pray for it all to end.

AGE THIRTEEN,

I scrub and scrub. It won't go away.

I can still feel the cheap perfume, that cloying smell that almost made me gag. I bring my hand to my mouth to stop myself from getting sick. I should probably feel proud that I didn't get sick on that girl. It's not as if she wanted to be there. It's her job.

I'd never imagined Father would go this far, but he's gotten it in his head that I needed to become a man, and that no son of his would be a faggot.

I'd already learned my lesson, years before, that when dealing with Father, it's best to never show emotion. Never show if I hate something and never show if I like something.

When he'd told me there was somewhere we had to go, I'd kept my poker face in place. I hadn't argued. I'd just followed.

Worst-case scenario, he'd make me kill someone. Been there, done that. After my very first kill, I'd taught myself to become desensitized to death. It happened to everyone, no?

What did it matter how, when death was nevertheless inevitable? That's what I told myself. I was just hurrying along a process that was already in motion. From one kill to another, and another, every new victim became just another face in the sea of myriad faces. I learned to dissociate from the act.

It was me who killed them, and yet... it wasn't me.

Sometimes I felt like I was having an out-of-body experience, watching myself pull the trigger, or stab the knife deeper into someone's flesh.

It was me... and it wasn't.

It's also why I never questioned what Father had in plan.

But then we'd pulled up at a brothel. I'd learned it was a brothel because the soldiers started talking. That, and the naked women parading themselves inside the place. And as we walked around, I realized what Father had in plan.

I did not like it.

My introduction to sex had been the sight of Mother being raped by Father on the altar in her room. And it had been enough to turn me off the act completely. After that, I'd been exposed to lewd talk, mostly done by Father's soldiers. It hadn't impressed me or made me change my stance towards sex. Which was also why the thought of doing anything in that dirty place threatened to make me ill – my poker face be damned.

Father hadn't cared to ask for my opinion. He'd demanded that the Madame bring in a woman, and then he'd taken me to a room, forcing me to undress. When the girl had arrived, Father had pulled up a chair and watched as she'd tried and failed to arouse me. Eventually, given the futility of the matter, Father had thrown her out.

I'd really thought the ordeal was about to be over.

But I was wrong.

"You're a faggot, aren't you? That's why you can't fucking respond when a woman touches you." He'd sneered at me. "No son of mine will be a faggot, you got me, boy?"

I could only nod.

He'd left the room for a minute, before returning with a pill, and forcing me to take it.

"You'll become a man today," he'd declared, and two more women had come in. Both seemed to be older... twenties, or maybe thirties? What had followed had been the worst experience of my life. Eyes blank, I'd just sat there, letting them do whatever to my body. Father had joined in as well. Bonding. That's what he'd called it.

Water still pouring on me, I collapse on the tiled floor, shivering from the cold air.

Please make it go away!

I wish I could erase the feel of their hands on my body... the way they'd coaxed a reaction where there wasn't any.

I'd lost more than control over my body that night.

I'd also lost control over my mind.

It continued.

Father forced me to accompany him to the brothel every time. I've already lost count of how many times we've been there.

He also introduced me to his favorite pastime — orgies.

Every time we went to the brothel, there was an event that entailed a room full of people fucking like rabbits.

I was there... and I wasn't.

It slowly became as normal to me as killing.

It was me, and yet... it wasn't.

My body complied, but my mind retreated somewhere safe.

I can never remember the people. It's like I black out after every single event.

And somehow... I'm glad for it.

Maybe it's my mind's way of dealing with things. I've been doing a lot of reading into the brain and how it functions... especially how it reacts to traumatic events.

Why?

Because I'm afraid. My entire life has been a traumatic event. How much more can one human possibly take? How much more until I snap?

And I'm afraid... Because what if I just... lose myself? Retreat so deeply in my mind that I never reemerge. Yes... That scares me.

I could hear the screams all day, which is odd, given that Father is not home. Although I'm fairly certain Mother must have lost it again.

So many years, and she's gotten worse and worse. At this point, I'm not even sure if anything can help her.

It's a little after six in the evening when the screaming resumes. This time, it doesn't die down. Since I've gotten used to Mother, I know that her hysterical fits usually last a couple of hours, until her throat gets sore. Then there is a break in between when she loses her voice.

The way she's going about it now, I'm pretty sure she won't be able to speak for the coming days.

I try to mind my business and ignore the permeating noise, but when another voice joins in, I frown. That's not Mother. What's happening?

I reluctantly go downstairs to check what's going on. I'm on the top of the stairs when I see Mother on top of one of the cleaning ladies, screaming and kicking.

Going closer, I notice Mother is holding a hammer and nails, and she's trying to hold the hand of the cleaning lady and drive a nail through it.

"Mother!" I call out, reaching out to grab her.

"No! Impure... you... devil!" She stammers when she sees it's me. Her eyes are wild and unfocused.

"Mother, stop," I repeat and drag her off the already bleeding woman. I try to loosen her fingers off the hammer, so she can't hurt anyone anymore, but she takes me by surprise by shoving a nail as hard as she can into my thigh.

"Fuck!" I mutter under my breath, and Mother takes advantage of this to shove me back, running up the stairs to her room.

I take a few stabilizing breaths and, without even thinking, remove the nail embedded in my flesh. I revel in the pain as it gives me the mental acuity necessary to deal with Mother.

I stride determinedly towards her room, intent on removing all weapons from her person. She can hurt herself as much as she wants, but she shouldn't abuse the staff. I reach her room, and I kick it open, hoping the display would intimidate her.

How wrong I am...

Mother is looking at me with terror in her eyes. She's holding a knife in her hand and as I step inside the room, she keeps on retreating towards the altar.

"Mother, give me the knife," I tell her, my voice steady.

"No...no," she shakes her head. "Devil...." She takes a cross from the altar and shoves it in front of me, probably hoping I'd suffer some side effects from the holiness of the cross.

"Mother, stop this. I'm not a devil and you know it. I'm your son."

Her eyes widen for a moment before she frowns.

"My son?" she asks as if this is the first time she's hearing it.

"Yes, now please drop the knife before you hurt yourself." I take another step forward and she does the same, hitting the altar.

"No... my son is the devil..." She keeps on shaking her head, her eyes bleak as she looks at me. It's like she's a shell of a person.

I try to reach out, but she brandishes the knife in front of me, making me retreat a little.

"Let's drop the knife, okay?" I do my best to keep my voice calm. "God wouldn't want you to hurt yourself, right?" I change tactics, hoping it will somehow make her more receptive.

"No... You're the devil... You're trying to tempt me, aren't you?" She snickers, an ugly scowl transforming her features. "Yes... I knew you'd come to test my faith. But you won't win."

She gives me a smug grin before lifting the knife once more. I think she's going to attack me, so I instinctively take a step back.

She's not.

She takes the knife and positions it close to one ear. My eyes widen in understanding, but it's maybe a second too late. I start towards her at the same time that she cuts through her own flesh and drags the knife from one ear to another, grinning like an idiot as the blood flows down her clothes.

I stop.

She's gasping for air as her life's essence leaves her body, and I just watch. The rivulets of blood flow down until there's nothing left. I watch until the last drops of blood have left her body. She's a mess on the floor, her eyes still open and glaring at me defiantly. Her lips still carved in a dark smile.

And I feel nothing but relief.

She's gone...

I turn my back and leave the room, letting the staff know to clean the room.

Death is everywhere. Why should I care about one person more than the other?

We all die eventually.

Mother just precipitated her demise. Like I do to so many others...

Death is everywhere. And I'm finally at peace with that.