Camp Damascus(37)

Gradually, the warmth returns to my body, but the pain throbbing across my hand does not subside. I gaze down to find my little finger jutting perpendicular to the rest of my digits; a warning sign.

Echoing footsteps ring out from afar, a night nurse roused by my screams. The sound grows louder as I lay back and stare at the ceiling above.

It hurts, that’s for sure, but there’s a calm in my soul that no physical pain could ever dampen. I’ve followed the evidence and finally reached my conclusion, a deduction impossible to believe just a few days ago that now makes perfect sense.

It all fits.

The more I sit with this truth, the more several lifelong points of interest begin to connect like a beautiful web. This is the final piece of a jigsaw puzzle that’s been sitting right in front of me.

I may be physically battered and broken, but my soul feels complete in a way that brings tears of joy to my eyes.

Pachid is clearly following a system of rules I don’t understand, and her attachment to me is nothing short of a mystery. I still have no idea who the girl with the short dark hair is or why I can’t remember her, but there’s one thing I do know.

I’m gay, and there’s a demon out there who really doesn’t want me acknowledging it.



* * *



For someone who’s happily spent their life under the thumb of strict rules and regulations, I have an uncanny knack for crime.

“Trespassing,” I mumble under my breath as I climb over the locked entry gate, quietly dropping to the other side and hustling onward over well-manicured grass.

Of course, fresh from my extended hospital stay with my pinkie and ring finger taped together and a slight limp that might never go away, hustling isn’t exactly what it used to be, but I make it work.

And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.

It’s around one in the morning and without a soul in sight, this large Kingdom of the Pine outreach center takes on a strange, solemn air in juxtaposition to its typically welcoming atmosphere.

I sneak along the building and find a dark corridor between the church wall and a row of hedges. It’s here I’ll remain hidden from anyone passing by, but this lane is not without its own challenges. Security cameras hang from either corner of the structure, and having been inside I know full well they’re recording my every move.

Fortunately, I’ve planned ahead, sporting thin black gloves and a plastic angel mask.

It’s from a church play several years prior, Paul the Apostle: The Musical. Hundreds of these plastic cherubic faces were passed out during a fourth-wall-breaking conversion scene, and have since made their way out into every Kingdom Kid’s closet. I’m also clad in nondescript sweatpants and a hoodie, the latter pulled over my hair to completely obscure my true identity.

Ordering a different but equally nondescript ski mask was considered when I planned this from my hospital bed, but I decided not to risk a package showing up for my parents to find.

They’re already suspicious enough these days.

I continue along the building, crouching low as I arrive at a very specific basement window. This is the frame I left unlocked after this morning’s session with Dr. Smith, and I can only hope some good Samaritan didn’t come along and rectify my very intentional mistake. I reach down and test the frame, praying I won’t be forced to add breaking and entering to my new criminal record.

Only 5 percent of breakins require no use of force to get inside.

Fortunately, my planning has paid off in the form of an unlocked window that can be gently wiggled up. Once the frame is high enough, I slip my good fingers below and lift with confidence, allowing myself passage within. I climb through the tiny opening and over the ledge, hanging a moment before dropping softly to the floor.

Illuminated by faint light streaming through the modest rectangle, I carefully make my way across the small chamber, eventually finding my exit and pushing into the hallway. This part of my journey is familiar, although it feels quite different in the dead of night.

Not only has the still of the evening given this structure a distinctly eerie feel, but my perception of the organization itself has tainted the typically cozy location. Even in the brightest light, this place will never feel as wholesome and welcoming as it once did.

I reach the door of Dr. Smith’s office, quietly turning the knob and slipping inside. I don’t waste any time, scurrying to the corner cabinet and inputting his code: 11, 14, 15.

There’s a metallic clang as the vessel unlocks.

For a brief moment I freeze, grappling with the wealth of information that lies just below my fingertips.

I’ve been pushing forward on autopilot this whole time, allowing the fuming, determined part of my brain to take over while the rest of me sits back and enjoys the show. I feel strangely comfortable in this mode, no longer performing the balancing act of two Roses within a single body.

It also keeps me from digging too deep through the untended emotions that float through my soul like restless ghosts.

Slowly disconnecting from your community—from your family—is difficult, and while it seems like unearthing their sinister motives and dark secrets might make the process easier, it will never entirely quell the pain.

I’ve been avoiding this dark ache by keeping my mind busy while my body couldn’t be, but it hasn’t gone away. The sadness is still there, lurking in the corner like a pale demon in a red polo, just waiting to finally be acknowledged.