Page 63 of Was I Ever Free
Deserted roads, pine trees, and wildflowers. Not much to look at anyway, until my eyes catch on the steeple of what looks like a church behind the gas station. I don’t know if it’s because it looks so out of place or if I just feel inexplicably pulled to it, but something makes me reach for the car handle and open the door.
I round the building, the sun low and bright orange in the sky, when finally the whole facade of the church comes into view. It’s then I realize that it’s boarded up. My steps stutter to a stop, the dry-packed dirt leaving dust on my shoes. I look behind me to see if I am alone. I should just turn around. But I don’t. I continue the twenty-odd steps, approaching the small wooden church like it could physically harm me if I startled it out of its slumber. The two small steps creak in warning as I walk up onto the landing, the windows nailed shut with some aging plywood.
It might be luck, or maybe I am being led here by the same God I have so recently questioned, but the front door is ajar, crooked, and slightly off its hinges. I slide my body into the building, expecting disarray, but instead, it looks somewhat well-preserved, the pews all lined up neatly as if still waiting for the next sermon to begin. I avoid the rotting planks of wood as I step into the main aisle leading up to the altar, a huge cross still fixed on the wall above.
The silence is so dense it’s almost deafening. Finally reaching the front, I sit at the front pew staring up at the cross. Shivers wreak havoc down my spine, and I am left questioning if my body’s reaction is good or bad. Tears prick behind my eyes, my nose tingling as if I’m holding in a sob. I’m left confused as to what emotions are trying to speak to me—what feelings or memories are trying to be heard.
I hear the floorboards groan behind me, and I know I will find Bastian stepping into the aisle if I turn my head. It’s almost painfully predictable to find me here. I keep my eyes fixed on the cross while Bastian sits beside me, his movements careful as if trying to make as little noise as possible.
My brother used to preach that you could find God in silence, if only you would sit long enough, or pray hard enough, you could find answers in silence.
The silence now is different. It does not seem to want to reach into my soul and teach me how to be good. This silence is just silence—reflected back at me. I find it much more comforting than the one I used to endure.
There are no expectations here, with Bastian witnessing it alongside me.
“It’s funny…” I say fissuring the silence with my voice. “It seems like the more I experience life, the more the question becomes murkier.”
“What question?” Bastian asks, still looking straight ahead.
“Of what I believe in,” I say gingerly. “What happens if I never find the answer?”
He doesn’t speak for a small stretch of time, his eyes roving around but his body unmoving, seemingly thinking. Then finally he says, “It’d be boring to know all the answers, wouldn’t it?”
I breathe out a little laugh. “Of course, you’d say that.” He looks at me from the corner of his eye, a small dimple appearing on his cheek. “Doesn’t the unknown scare you?” I add seriously.
He falls silent again, eventually turning his piercing gaze directly on me and there’s emotion written so close to the surface I can almost see it. But then it’s gone. “There’s a lot that scares me. The unknown isn’t one of them, Luce.”
I suddenly want to dig that much deeper, to crack his chest open and find out what he’s hiding underneath. But I don’t. I never do. I look away, swallowing hard, my gaze back on the cross, allowing the silence to slither back around us for a while.
“Sometimes I miss the act of prayer though,” I say feeling like I plucked a thought out of thousands clambering in my head to speak out loud.
Bastian looks genuinely confused when he glances at me before asking, “Why did you stop?”
The chuckle that falls out of my mouth is dry. “Isn't it obvious?”
“Prayer isn’t inherently religious, Luce. Everybody does it one way or another. Wiccans call it making a spell, New Age folks call it manifesting. Prayer is just prayer.Youdecide what it means.”
I look at him then, surprised by his answer, but also a little thrilled by it. No one had ever described it like that to me before. And a little seed of hope burrows itself in my mind at the concept. “So, I—” I lick my lips, looking up trying to find the words. “So I… I can just—do whatever I want?”
Bastian’s smile is mischievous, his arms stretching out behind him on the pew.
“Of course, you can, Luce.”
Again, his beauty strikes me like a bolt of lightning straight from the heavens. His hard facade sharpens the edges of a face that could almost look innocent if he wasn’t so stern.
When I stand and kneel in front of him, it feels more like being compelled by a greater force than a rational choice I am making.
Bastian doesn’t react until my hands are on his belt. “What are you doing?” he rasps.
I’m reaching into his unzipped jeans, his cock hardening under my touch when I look up and match his hooded gaze.
“Worshiping.”
Bastian chokes on a groan, but doesn’t say a word, licking his lips instead, dark eyes intensifying with every slow breath he takes. Helping me push his jeans down his thighs, I slide myself even closer to him, remembering how good he felt on my tongue the last time I had him in my mouth. I keep my movements slow and deliberate, like a ritualistic act, imbued with respect. My hands slide up his thighs in wandering adoration, trailing my fingers over his piercing just above his hard shaft and Bastian flinches as if already too sensitive.
I smile, peering up at him, pleased to know the effect I have on him. He doesn’t smile back, but his expression is soft as I watch his chest heave up and down.
“How does it feel to be worshiping a sinner, Luce?” he says quietly.