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ratleader02

Oct 4, 2025

Echoes of the forbidden

Babies first time finishing a story exactly 6192 words.

Trigger warnings include

Physical abuse

corporal punishment

Sexual content

sexual tension

Homophobia

discrimination

Religious oppression

forced marriage

Emotional abuse

manipulation

internalized shame

Grief

"I am nothing but a dog, obedient and broken." In a town where control is law and rebellion is sin, one boy must navigate desire, fear, and love—all while risking everything for a fleeting spark of freedom.

I sigh as I finish buttoning up my white shirt. I look in the mirror and see a pale face staring back at me. My coal black eyes and crooked nose, mouth in a grimace.

For a moment, I imagine what Jake would say if he saw me like this. He’d probably laugh, tell me to loosen up, and maybe ruffle my hair until I cracked a smile. The thought flickers and fades, replaced by the truth of the mirror staring back at me.

“Ethan! Come downstairs you’re going to miss church.” I hear my mother’s shrill voice yell. I roll my eyes and look at myself in the mirror one last time before heading outside my room.

As I walk down the stairs, I glance at the spot where our family's photos used to be. Now it’s just a blank wall. A practiced smile graces my face as I step off the last stair and make my way towards the door where mother and father are waiting.

My mother looks me up and down critically before saying, “You need to cut your hair soon. It’s getting too long; the townsfolk might suspect that you’re a female.”

I’m about to ask, but my father grunts before I can speak and says, “Come now, we don’t have much time.” He turns and heads out the door. My mother follows, her steps light and careful.

My father climbs into the car, my mother follows in the passenger seat, and I in the back seat. We sit in silence in the car ride to the temple.

On the way to the temple, as we pass the stables, a smile comes upon my face, and my fingers twitch. I almost ask, just to hear the answer again, but I already know: Horses are Stacy’s, and Stacy is forbidden. The smile fades.

My thoughts try to drift to Jake, instead safer in one way, far more dangerous in another. His laugh, his eyes, the way he never seemed afraid of being kind. I shove the thought down before it can grow.

I can almost hear Mother’s voice, sharp and bitter, calling Stacy “immoral” for spending time with me. Father never said her name without a sneer. To them, she was corrupted. To me, she was just Stacy.

I knew she would never find attraction in me because I am a male, but maybe that was the problem. A young female like Stacy should find males attractive and not other females.

Mother and father pulled me from school the moment they found out a woman was teaching. I remember it clearly as if it were yesterday.

“You’ll not learn under a woman’s influence,” Father had said as he yanked my books from my hands. They said it was her fault Stacy turned out wrong. I never believed it. But arguing is forbidden. Obedience is survival.

As we pass by the town square, I’m filled with memories of my time with Stacy. I remember when she and I used to play tag with all the other kids. I remember when we used to play in the rain; it made my mother so mad.

“A young man should never subject himself to the common filth,” she’d sneer. I never did understand what was wrong with the other little boys and girls. They didn’t have as much money as we did, but they were fun.

Sometimes I wonder if Jake would laugh at my mother’s words the way Stacy used to. But an obedient son must never question his parents.

My thoughts come to a halt as my father pulls into the parking lot of the church. I follow mother and father into the church, sitting in our usual seats near the front. I watch longingly as my friends go sit in a separate area for the younger kids.

Father says I’m too old to sit with them now, though. He says I’m to be a man now and sit in and listen to the service.

All noise seems to stop as the preacher walks in and up the stage. He is an older man, hair more grey than brown, cold blue eyes, and a thin-lipped smile. He looks at us all over and says, “Hello again my faithful followers!”

Everyone replies, “Hello!” Beside him stands his daughter Penelope, her hands folded neatly at her waist. Her blond hair shines in the light as if a halo is being cast above her head. Her gaze crosses me; it lingers just a touch too long enough to make me look away.

He smiles and begins his sermon. I find it difficult to focus on the words he is saying. My mind keeps drifting off, thinking of Stacy and even a few thoughts of Jake.

Jake often fills my thoughts, and I know it’s wrong, but there’s something so tempting about him. Maybe it’s the way his muscles move when he laughs. Or maybe it’s his kindness, soft and dangerous all at once. Or those green eyes, like they could see straight through me.

I try not to think about how kissable his lips look, but the thought clings like sin. I shake my head to clear these impure thoughts. This must be the temptation that the preacher was talking about. This must be what Stacy felt like when the devil was tempting her to think of other females this way.

I can feel the questioning gaze of my mother, but I refuse to meet her eyes. I know that if I told my parents how I felt, they’d tell the preacher. This sin would earn me 5 lashes to the back. The very same thing they did to Stacy. But maybe I deserve it.

“That concludes our service for today. Everyone is dismissed.” I stand up along with my parents until the preacher says:

“Not you, Ethan Thasle.”

I turn to look at my parents, but see that they have already left. I turn back to the preacher.

“You wanted to speak to me, father?”

“Yes. I have heard some rumors about you that I believe just aren’t true.”

“Rumors?”

“Yes. Rumors that you have been lustful over another male.”

I gulp and try to keep my voice steady. “That’s just not true, Father, I would never think of another man in that way.”

He smiles as though my answer has pleased him.

“I thought so, my boy. Now run along, I’m sure your parents are worried about you.”

I nod and turn around, walking through the building to get to my parents. My father’s scowl slices across my face like the last time he swung his belt. My stomach tightens, and I taste blood that isn’t there.

I flinch as he grabs my arm, remembering the knife he pressed into my hand when I spilled the milk.

“Where have you been, boy?” He glares at me.

“I’m sorry, father, the preacher wanted to speak with me.”

“About what?”

“Someone spread a rumor that I had been lusting over a man—”

I can barely get my sentence out before I feel my father's hand strike me in the face. Heat floods my face. I taste the iron of blood that isn’t there. My body can’t tell the difference between memory and now. I blink fast, but the tears still burn at the corners of my eyes.

“No son of mine will be lusting over another male.” I nod, mouth dry. I am nothing more than a dog. A creature made to obey, yet somewhere beneath the shame and fear, an unknown feeling flickers.

“Father, the rumors are simply untrue. I would never have these feelings.” My father glares at me. I can see in his eyes that he doesn't believe me. I can’t blame him; I really am just a filthy liar.

My father climbs back into the car silently, and my mother and I join him. I keep waiting for my mother to say something, anything to my defense, but deep down I know that she won’t. After all, it is improper for a woman to speak back to her husband. We sit in complete silence until we arrive home.

Father gets out of the car and slams the door shut. I open my door, step out, and walk to the house. I walk up to my room and let go of the tears I was holding in. A sob rips its way out of my throat, and I rush to the bathroom.

I close the door as quietly as possible and slide down it. My throat burns, and I can taste the salty tears rolling down my face. I feel hot all over, and I can feel the snot running down my nose. I can’t stop myself from crying. I can hardly breathe.

What would Jake think? I know what he would think; he would call me pathetic. What kind of man cries like this? But… what if he didn't? What if he comforted me? Held me in his arms and told me with that melodic voice that everything would be okay.

I feel myself stop crying as I continue to fantasize about what life could be like with Jake. Slowly, my head clears, and I can feel myself breathe again. I stand up and turn on the cold water. I splash the cold water on my face, ignoring the mirror. I don’t want to imagine what Jake would say if he saw me now—or maybe I do.

I scrub my face so much it starts to sting, and I realize that my face is clean enough. I walk out of the bathroom and to my closet. I open the doors and look through my clothes to wear. It is improper to wear church clothes if you are not attending church.

I sigh as I look at all the colorless clothes I have. Stacy loved colorful clothes. But colorful clothes are not masculine. Besides, the preacher says colors promote diversity between us all. We are already separated from the outside world, but that is because they do not understand us.

I sigh and grab a black T-shirt and some jeans. I unbutton my shirt and remove my pants, replacing them with the T-shirt and jeans. I look at the clock and see that it is already 5 pm. It’s almost dinner time.

I open my door and head downstairs to see my mother setting the table. I sit down at the table and wait for my mother to put the food out. Father comes in and sits at the head of the table, ignoring me entirely.

Mother puts out mashed potatoes, corn, and green beans on the table. I wait for my mother to serve my father his food first. The man at the head of the table always eats first. I bow my head, waiting for my father to pray over our meal. I then wait for my father to take a bite of his food. He grunts, and mother takes that as a sign to serve me my food and finally herself.

Her portion is smaller than father's and mine; she must watch how much weight she gains after all. My hands shake as I lift the spoon. I can feel the tremors crawl up my arms, just like last time he lashed out when I spoke without permission.

My spoon rattles against the plate no matter how hard I try to steady it. I keep my eyes fixed on the tablecloth. One wrong glance could be a sin. My back stays ramrod straight in my chair. My father hates slouching. My wrists ache from holding myself this way, but I don’t dare relax.

“Father, I was wondering if I could see Jake tomorrow.” Father grunts, but I receive no response. I sigh quietly and continue to spoon food into my mouth. The food is bland as usual, but the preacher says that the food is better without much flavor.

Mother breaks the silence only once, quietly. “The preacher's daughter was asking after you today. She said you seemed distracted during the service.”

I gulp, my heart skipping a beat. “Oh? Is that so?”

“Mind yourself,” Mother says, her voice clipped. “A girl like that notices everything.” I nod and continue eating.

“You may go see Jake tomorrow. However, if I hear a single soul say you and him were acting as though you two are more than two men, I will personally deliver the five lashes. Do you understand me, boy?”

I can’t bring myself to meet his eyes. One glance, and he’ll see the shame and sin lurking in my thoughts. My stomach knots, my heart hammers.

“Yes, sir.”

The rest of dinner is silent. Father leaves the table once he is done eating. I feel the question claw its way up my throat and have to force it down. I know better than to try to help my mother clean up after dinner. I still have the scars from when my father took a knife to my hand as punishment. Even now, the palm throbs if I grip a fork too tight. Cleaning dishes is a female's job.

I stand up, being careful not to scrape my chair on the floor as I rise. I make my steps as light as possible as I head up the stairs back to my room. I slowly open and close my door, making as little noise as possible. I walk over to my bed and sit down on the edge. I feel the soft sheets between my fingers. I grip them as I think about what I’ll say to Jake tomorrow. I have to confess to him all the ways I have thought of him.

I release a shaky breath. After I sit for a while, I decide to stand up and walk to my closet to grab some pajamas. I walk to my bathroom clutching the pajamas in hand. I open the door and set the pajamas on the toilet and turn the shower on.

The water turned out to be as hot as possible. Some nights I wish I could burn the sin off my skin. I sigh as I step into the shower. The water hits my skin in a persistent, hot torrent. Steam curls all around me, filling the bathroom, but it does nothing to soothe the heat and desire that burns inside.

I lather soap over my arms, my chest, my back, scrubbing harder than necessary, acting as if I could wash away the thoughts clawing at my mind. My fingers sting, but I can’t stop. Jake’s face drifts in front of me, impossibly clear the curve of his lips, the sound of his laugh, the gentle strength of his hands.

My body reacts before I even realize it, betraying me, and I can feel the coil of shame knotting in my stomach. The very thought makes my chest tighten and my heart hammer. How could I feel this way? How could I let my mind wander so far into sin?

Tears mix into the water as I clutch the bar of soap, scrubbing faster. My shoulders shake with the sobs escaping my body. Each stroke of the washcloth feels like penance, like punishment for desires I can’t control. I imagine the preacher’s voice, my father’s glare, my mother’s disappointment, and the fear of lashes burning hotter than the shower itself.

I press my palms against my face, letting the water and tears pour over me. I try to scrub away the memory of my own body’s betrayal, the longing, the sin. My skin burns raw from the friction, but still I can’t stop. The shame is too deep, embedded in every thought and every heartbeat.

Finally, I sink to my knees on the wet floor, head bowed, letting the water run over me as sobs shake me until my chest feels empty and hollow. I am clean, at least my body is. But this sin and this shame cling to me like a second skin I can’t scrub off.

I imagine Jake. I see him reaching for me, his hands gentle and strong, holding me as if I could never break. For a fleeting moment, the weight inside me eases. He whispers words I can almost hear, a soft reassurance that it’s okay to feel that I am not filthy, not broken. I let myself imagine his arms around me, the comfort, the safety, the way he always made me feel seen, even when the world told me I was wrong.

For a moment, I almost believe it, almost forget the shame pressing down on my chest. But then reality crashes back down with the hiss of the water, the ache of raw skin, the memory of my father’s glare and my mother’s silence. The fantasy shatters, and the shame returns heavier than before.

I clutch the washcloth tighter, scrubbing until my hands burn. My body trembles, sobs ripping through me. The sin I feel, the desire, the longing—it is all wrong. I must punish it, erase it. The water runs red with my own pain and tears, and I finally sink fully against the tiles, letting the sobs shake me until I am hollow, empty, and unbearably alone.

I continue to sit in the shower for what feels like hours, though I know it’s only been a few minutes. The water continues to hiss as it streams down over my head. My skin is raw, my fingers pale and still trembling no matter how hard I try to suppress it. The memories of the sin I have committed still burn in my mind.

Finally, I force myself to stand. My legs wobble beneath me, as weak as a newborn’s. My chest aches with each and every breath. I turn off the water and reach for a towel. It clings to my damp skin, heavy as the guilt I carry.

I pull on my pajamas with slow, unsteady movements. The feeling of the clothing is foreign and rough. I don’t dare cast a glance at the mirror, knowing I would see Jake’s disappointment. For I know he will be disappointed in me. I have defiled his memory and lied to my parents. I refuse to allow these foolish thoughts about how he might accept me to invade my mind.

My father’s words echo in my mind: Weak. Pathetic. Worthless mutt. Each word a lash. The worst part is I know he is right. I am nothing but a dog who cannot control his urges.

But maybe one day I could be more than a dog. I shake my head to rid myself of these foolish thoughts. I open the door and, with unsteady movements, make my way over to my laundry basket and drop my clothes from today into it. I walk over to my bed and pull back the grey covers. I lay in bed and pull the blanket over myself, closing my eyes, letting sleep finally claim me.

I wake up at the sight of the sun rising in the sky. I sit up and shake myself awake. I climb out of bed, and the memories of last night are still fresh in my mind—the emotions I felt. But something else is there. Something stronger. Something dangerous.

I sigh as I walk into the bathroom, avoiding the mirror as I brush my teeth. I spit the toothpaste out and walk to my closet. I look through the clothes I own and decide on a pair of jeans and a black T-shirt. I’m going to see Jake today, so I decide it’s best to wear clothes that I don’t mind getting dirty.

I open my door as silently as possible and creep down the steps, avoiding all the ones I know creek. Once I reach the bottom, I see my mother already making breakfast. I sit down at the table, watching.

Father makes his way downstairs minutes after I sit. He sits at the head of the table, ignoring me entirely. Mother sets two pans on the table one with eggs, the other with bacon. Mother places a scoop of eggs and some bacon on Father’s plate, then on mine, giving me less than Father. She places the least amount on her plate, and we both sit in silence, waiting for Father.

He takes a bite of eggs and grunts. Mother and I take that as our sign to start eating. I stab my fork into some eggs and lift them to my mouth bland, as always. We continue to eat in silence. Father finishes first and walks out the door without saying where he’s going.

I finish eating and stand up. I walk to the door and pull my boots on. I hesitate, my hand hovering above the doorknob before I give in and twist it, opening the door. I walk outside and see that Father took the car. I start the walk to Jake’s house.

As I walk to Jake’s house, I pass by all the colorless houses in the village. The path feels longer than usual. My palms are sweating despite the cool morning air. I catch the eyes of a few villagers as I pass by. An older woman whispers something to her companion, her gaze leaving me as she speaks. Maybe she’s heard the rumors. Maybe they all have. Maybe Jake knows.

My thoughts are cut off as I finally make it to Jake’s house and walk up his front porch. I knock on the door and wait.

A woman opens the door.

“Oh! Hello again, Ethan.”

“Hello again, Mrs. Campbell.” I smile politely. She steps aside.

“Come in, come in! We’ve missed you so much.”

I walk in, and she closes the door behind me.

“I’m here to visit Jake. Is he around?”

She nods. “He’s out back, like usual.”

I smile and start to walk through the house to the backdoor. I step out and hear the thunk of an axe hitting wood echo in the yard. And there he is.

Jake. I see him lifting the axe and swinging it down hard, splitting the log clean in two.

“Hey!” I call out. He looks up in surprise, and then his face splits into a smile. He sets the axe aside and waves me over, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his arm.

“About time you showed up,” he teases, his voice easy and warm. “I was beginning to think your dad locked you up. I missed seeing you around.”

I feel my face flush, knowing he missed me just as much as I missed him. I force a weak smile.

“Something like that.”

He studies me for a second, then shrugs and gestures to the pile of logs.

“Take a seat. Unless you want to help me split these?”

I sit on the stump across from him, fidgeting with my fingers in my lap.

“You don’t need me for that. You’d just laugh at how bad I am with an axe.”

He chuckles, lifting the axe again.

“Probably, but I’d only laugh in the nice way.”

The words tug at something deep inside me, but instead of comfort, it twists into guilt. My throat tightens. Jake notices. He lowers the axe slowly, eyes narrowing as his gaze glides over me.

“Hey, are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

I force a smile, but it cracks. My chest feels heavy, and I feel the words clawing at my throat as if they want to be free and before I can stop it, they tumble out, quiet and broken.

“Jake… I did something awful.”

His brows furrow, and the smile drops from his face.

“What do you mean?”

The shame inside me burns hotter than the sun. My voice shakes as the words spill out.

“Last night, in the shower… I thought about you. I-” I swallow hard. “I let myself feel things. Impure things. I defiled you, even if just in my mind. I am a sinner, Jake. A filthy dog, just like Stacy. I-”

The words choke off as tears sting my eyes. I can’t bring myself to look at him. I know I’ll see disgust, anger maybe he’ll even strike me. But then Jake is there, close, his hand on my jaw. It’s warm.

“Ethan,” he says softly. I finally meet his eyes, and before I can breathe, Jake leans in and presses his lips to mine.

The world falls silent. Once again, I feel that flicker. Something deep inside of me wants to come out. For a moment, it feels as though time itself has stopped. The air feels sacred somehow, as though we’ve broken something never meant to bend.

His hand hovers near my face, as if waiting for me to flinch. I don’t. When he pulls back, his breath trembles with mine.

“I shouldn’t have-” he starts to say before I cut him off, shaking my head too fast and too desperate.

“Don’t,” I whisper, as though by speaking too loud, this moment we’ve created will be shattered.

We don’t dare speak another word.

Minutes later, Jake stands.

“You should go,” he says, in a gentler voice than I’ve ever heard.

I nod, but my legs refuse to move. When I do finally walk home, the air feels heavier than before. It feels as though a weight has been lifted from my shoulders only to have a heavier weight placed upon them.

Sleep doesn’t come. Every time I close my eyes, I see him—his eyes, and the way they sparkled in the light. The way his lips lingered, uncertain but enough.

By dawn, I convince myself it meant nothing, though I know I’m only lying to myself to make it hurt less.

The next night, I find myself at my window again. The sky looks almost infinite. I wonder, if I look hard enough, would I find another reality? One where Jake and I are happy together, one where we can simply exist? But deep down, I know no such reality exists, at least not for me.

I make my way downstairs, avoiding the creaky steps. I tell myself I’m just taking a walk to clear my head. I know I’m lying as my feet lead me toward the edge of the field.

My heart skips a beat as I see him. Jake is there. Waiting, as if he knew I would be here tonight.

The first time it happens, we don’t say much to each other. We sit beneath the old oak tree, the one behind the barn where no one ever goes. I listen to him talk and laugh at his jokes. When he laughs, it feels as though it’s just the two of us.

I tell myself I will not come back, but every night, I do. We start meeting whenever we can. The nights blur together, soft and slow. Some nights, he brings an apple he swiped from the market. I bring nothing but myself, but that seems to be enough for him.

We talk about everything about what freedom might be like, or what the ocean he swears goes on forever is like. One night he says,

“You ever wonder if sin’s just what they hate?”

I don’t answer. I don’t need to. He knows.

Days stretch between us like strings ready to snap. I look down when my father speaks. But even while I whisper the words they taught me, I’m thinking of Jake’s hands, about how it feels easier to breathe when he’s around. The guilt burns me, but the warmth I feel around him burns hotter.

Some nights, we lie by the creek watching the stars. He points out shapes, makes up names for constellations no one’s ever seen.

Lately, the air in town feels heavier. Penelope’s eyes follow my every movement during service. The preacher’s voice has turned sharp, speaking about temptation and the devil hiding in plain sight. Father watches me when he thinks I’m not looking.

Jake says we’ll be careful, but we both know that’s a lie.

Then one night, the air feels too still. It’s as if the world has stilled as I cross the field. He’s already waiting, leaning against the oak. The moonlight catches his hair, and for a single second, I forget the fear.

We don’t speak much this time, for no words could begin to describe what we’re feeling. He reaches for my hand, and I don’t pull away. When he kisses me, it’s softer than the first time less desperate and more real. The world feels as if it is still, just for us, to enjoy this moment.

And then I hear it. A breath. Too close, too human.

I pull away and turn my head toward the tree line. There she is. Penelope stands just beyond the shadows, watching. The moonlight cuts across her face, revealing her clasped hands and shocked expression. Mouth open in a silent scream.

For a long moment, no one moves. Then suddenly, she turns, slow and deliberate, and walks away without a word. The sound of her footsteps fades into the night, but the silence left behind does not. I can already feel the noose tightening around us. Sleep never comes.

I lie awake, staring at the ceiling, my stomach churning with a sickness I can’t name. By dawn, the air feels wrong. It feels as if a storm is pressing down on the roof. Mother moves quietly, her eyes darting to Father, but never to me.

The preacher’s bell rings earlier than usual, the sound carrying farther than it should. By midday, the town square is filled. People gather as if called to worship, faces solemn but hungry, a ritual they all know by heart. The smell of dust and smoke fills my lungs as I’m pushed forwards until I stand near the front.

Father’s hand is on my shoulder, holding me in place. Jake is already there, strapped to the pole at the center of the square. His shirt torn, his skin marked by rough hands. He stares straight ahead, jaw set, eyes unblinking. He doesn’t search for me. He doesn’t need to.

My heart slams into my ribs so loudly everyone around me must hear it. The preacher steps forward, Bible in one hand, whip in the other.

“Repent, sinner! Confess your crimes in the eyes of our lord!”

The whip cracks through the air. Crack. My ears ring, my whole body jerks. The crowd watches in silence, faces unmoving, pretending this is justice instead of some kind of sick punishment. Crack. Crack.

The preacher drones on scripture spilling from his mouth, but all I hear is the snap of leather and the pounding of my own heartbeat. My whole body trembles, resisting the urge to run, to scream, to fight back to do anything to protect Jake. But my father’s grip digs into my shoulder enough to hurt. The message is loud and clear. I am nothing but a cowardly mutt.

Jake stays upright. His muscles tremble, but his back does not bow. Another crack, another verse about sin and cleansing. The sound may be loud, but Jake doesn’t give in. He doesn’t give them what they want to see. Then he lifts his head. His eyes meet mine. His green eyes are as beautiful as ever, stubborn as ever, sending a message. Stay strong. Survive. Endure.

They drag him away after the fifth strike, his steps slow but unbroken, into the stone mouth of the dungeon under the church. The crowd begins to disperse, speaking prayers. I stand rooted in place, the sound of the whip ringing in my ears. Every step Jake took in the dungeon echoes in my mind. The fear clings to me, for I know it will be my turn soon.

The preacher’s voice, cold and deliberate, calls my name:

“Ethan Thassle, step forward.”

My body freezes. My father’s grip doesn’t loosen from my shoulder. He uses that leverage to pull me forwards. The townspeople turn their heads to watch, the same rigid masks they wore for Jake. Mothers clutch children at their skirts. Fathers nod with grim satisfaction.

I reach the post, the sun bright in my eyes. The preacher lifts the whip, and the ritual begins.

The first strike lands across my back. Pain blooms like fire, and I flinch despite myself. The second follows, and I grit my teeth, trying not to scream. The third. The fourth. My skin splits with each strike, a burning map of shame.

The scripture droning from the preacher’s mouth becomes a distant hum. All I feel is heat, pain, and the raw, desperate urge to collapse. My father’s grip digs into my shoulder, a constant reminder: I am nothing but a dog, obedient and broken.

Finally, the fifth strike lands. I bite down on my lip so hard I taste blood, refusing to scream, refusing to show weakness. The crowd goes silent, waiting for the preacher’s verdict.

He steps closer, whip still in hand, blue eyes sweeping over me.

“You, Ethan Thasle, have shown signs of repentance,” he says. His words cut me like a knife. “Yet your place in this town is not as a free man. You will marry my daughter Penelope. In this holy union, your sins will be… controlled.”

I stare at him, disbelief and fury rising in my chest. The world contracts to the edges of his words, the sting in my back, the weight of hundreds of judgmental stares pressing down like stones. I feel the pull of invisible chains: obedience, fear, survival.

Jake’s name flashes through my mind like a flame refusing to go out. My fists clench so tightly my nails pierce my skin, small crescents of pain to anchor me. My heart beats wild against my ribs, a storm trapped in a cage. My voice is locked away.

Yet in the quiet of my chest, a vow begins to bloom: I will find him. I will find Jake, even if the path is lined with fire.

The preacher’s hand lifts to summon Penelope. She steps forward, pale and unreadable, a statue carved from the same stone as this town. My chest tightens, but my legs obey, carrying me toward her. Our fingers touch for a heartbeat, then she is swept back beneath her father’s shadow.

The crowd murmurs approval. Another ritual, another binding. I lift my eyes once, and in the dark of my mind, I see Jake’s face. His defiance burns brighter than the sun itself. In that gaze, I find a sliver of strength, a secret thread to hold.

The ceremony churns forward like a river I cannot stop. The vows will be spoken. My lips will betray what my heart cannot. Yet somewhere, beyond these walls and chains, Jake waits. And even as I stand here, I am already walking toward him.

Nights before the wedding, I wake to find a note slipped under my door. My heart skips a beat as I bend down to pick it up.

"They can cage me, but not forever. Wait for me by the river when the leaves turn."

I press the note to my chest, feeling warmth bloom despite the fear that never leaves me. Jake’s words become a promise. I clutch the note and slip it into my pocket, folding my fingers around it as if I could hold him there too.

The morning of the wedding, the world is unnervingly bright. The church feels sterile, suffocating, every polished pew a reminder of the life I am forced to perform. Father stands rigid, Penelope gliding forward like a creature of alabaster, the preacher’s eyes sharp and calculating.

I smile when I meet Penelope’s gaze, but it is nothing more than a mask. Every word I speak, every vow I repeat, is recited like a chant, my tongue moving while my heart is elsewhere. The note burns in my pocket. I can almost hear Jake’s voice in it, steady, patient, daring me to endure. Glimpses of him soar through my mind: his laugh, the way he swings an axe, the soft curve of his lips when he kissed me. My chest tightens, and I force a smile that feels like paper pressed over an open wound.

Finally, the moment comes.

“You may kiss the bride.”

Mechanically, I lean forward. My lips meet Penelope’s soft and distant but my mind is somewhere else entirely, by the river, beneath the autumn leaves, where Jake waits, free.

They think they have won. And maybe they have. But they’ve only won the fight. I will win the war.

I close my eyes for a heartbeat, feeling the whisper of hope against the cold weight of obedience. I’m coming, Jake. And even in the midst of their celebration, I feel it: a spark, a thread of rebellion, a life that cannot be caged. I smile then not at the church, not at Penelope, but at the promise of the world waiting for us beyond the river, beyond the leaves, beyond their reach.

#LGBTQRomance #Angst #ForbiddenDesires #Rat writes #oc

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