Page 100 of Made for Cyn
Cyn drops over me and shudders before pulling back with a sigh. After we lay in the dark with his arms wrapped around me and I consider Bastion’s words. I can’t help the tears that fill my eyes because I’ve wanted this feeling right here since I laid eyes on Cyn not too long ago, and I have a horrible suspicion that it’s going to be fleeting.
“Where are your parents?” Cyn runs his fingers through my hair, and I lean into him like a cat, practically purring under the caress.
“Exploring the country with my little brother Joey.”
“I thought you lived in a commune or some shit?”
“I did, but when I asked to go to school, real school, they decided to leave, too.”
“What was it like? You never went to a real school?”
“No, we were taught within the compound. It was quiet, lonely, sometimes fun, other times . . . weird. We worked hard, grew our own food, and lived separately from others.”
“So, you didn’t leave?”
“No, Prophet Jim didn’t allow it,” I say with a shiver, “but every once in a while, we were allowed to go to the library.”
“Prophet Jim?”
“Yes, he’s the leader. It’s, well, he, um, thinks he’s close to god,” I mutter uncomfortably because being on the outside and looking back, I realize how silly the notion is.
And yet many of his followers remain, hanging off his every word, as though only he can bring them closer to redemption.
“That’s fucked up,” he says, and I smile, meeting his brilliant gaze with a warm pulse in my chest.
“Yes.”
“Your parents believe that shit?”
“No, I don’t think they took the religious aspects as seriously as the others to Prophet Jim’s everlasting frustration.”
“Then why? Why stay?”
Shrugging, I say, “I guess they liked living off the land, being closer to nature. All that.”
“Rain?”
“Yeah?”
“Why do you get all stiff when you talk about him? Prophet Jim,” he says with a grimace.
Closing my eyes, I smile wanly. “I guess because, toward the end, he made me feel uncomfortable.”
The irony is that I traded one hell for another, and this may be worse because, as far as I know, Prophet Jim has never forced anyone, although he has many lovers.
Pushing me to my back, he tilts my chin up and stares at me before saying fiercely, “Did he give you the marks? Did he beat you?”
Panic makes my stomach churn, and I shudder beneath him. I don’t want to look into his eyes and admit what John did to me, nor do I want to explain what happened after. I just can’t. How could he not be disgusted when I am every day, staring at my reflection in the mirror?
So I lie.
“Yes, it was Prophet Jim. He, um, you know, believes in corporal punishment.”
“When? I thought your parents were gone?”
“Um, they came home for a weekend, to you know, visit, and we went back to the compound.”
Inexplicably, tears fill my eyes because there’s no going back now. I’m stuck between a boy who makes my soul sing and a hideous series of secrets I’m bound by.