Cha. 1: The First Glimpse
Michael unclenched his fists, exhaled sharply, and opened his eyes. The driver had been taking him down this endless road for over three hours, and now, at last, the silhouette of the family estate loomed ahead. His prison—yes, that would be the more accurate word. He knew he would spend the next three, maybe more, months within these walls. He tried not to dwell on that thought.
It all started with the nightmares. Each night, he would wake drenched in sweat, crying out incoherent words. His parents, deeply concerned, had sent him to a therapist. But therapy hadn’t helped much—mostly because Michael had lied. He told the specialist he heard voices, that in the depths of his sleep, he saw strange, terrifying worlds. It wasn’t entirely untrue. The nightmares were real—relentless, exhausting. But they had a root cause. They hadn’t come from nowhere.
The real reason was something else. Something shameful. A sin. One that would surely condemn him to Hell—unless he could overcome it. Or at the very least, bury it so deep that no one would ever see.
Michael hadn’t realized right away what set him apart from other boys. It wasn’t until he was fourteen, sitting in a cramped Catholic school classroom, that understanding came crashing down on him. That day, they had their first lesson on sexual education. The instructors—pious men, uncomfortable with the subject—spoke in hushed, detached tones, avoiding direct terms. There were no “penises” or “vaginas.” Instead, they called them a man’s virtue and a woman’s sacred vessel, like relics of something pure and untouchable.
Michael sat there, listening, waiting for something to spark in him—some reaction, some recognition. And then it hit him. The only part of the lesson that caught his attention was the man’s virtue...
The car rolled through the wrought-iron gates, a raven perched on top, and stopped before the grand entrance of the estate. The sight of the massive property sent a chill through Michael. An unsettling thought surfaced: Where will I hide?
The stone structure, standing since the 17th century, felt exposed to the wind and the heavens themselves, as if the very air around it would spy on him for as long as he remained. He shook his head—a nervous twitch, something he had developed over time, almost convulsive. He needed to silence these thoughts. With forced resolve, he stepped out of the car.
A sharp gust of wind carried the scent of damp earth and dying leaves. Autumn had settled in, mourning the summer. The last few months had been unbearable for him. Back in September, as the school year began, he had held on to a fragile hope—that maybe, just maybe, he could learn to live with himself, to keep his mind still. But by mid-October, when his parents told him they were sending him here, to this isolated corner of the world, that hope had died completely.
The world, the sky, even the cold air—it all seemed to be against him. And strangely, Michael found that he didn’t care anymore.
“You’re in good hands now.” The driver’s voice was flat, indifferent. A man in his fifties, graying at the temples, speaking without looking at him.
Michael barely nodded before turning toward the entrance. A fountain stood at the center of the courtyard, flanked by tall, overgrown rose bushes. He had only been here once before, when he was six. He barely remembered it—only a moment, the memory of reaching out to pluck a rose, the sting of the thorns, and the scolding that followed.
Now, waiting for him on the stone steps, was a small gathering. An older woman, severe in both dress and posture, chin lifted in quiet authority—likely the head housekeeper. The rest of the staff stood behind her, dressed in muted blacks and grays. A gardener. A handful of servants.
And a tall young man in a priest’s cassock.
Michael stopped cold. His breath caught.
He had never seen someone so beautiful before.
The priest’s gaze was kind, yet firm, as if he saw too much. Michael swallowed hard and forced himself to look away. But as he climbed the steps, something stopped him.
A hand—firm, but gentle—closed around his wrist.
“Welcome, Michael. We’ve been expecting you. I hope your stay here will be... long and fulfilling.”
The voice belonged to the priest.
Long.
Michael’s mind twisted the word, stretching it into something it shouldn’t be. An image flickered, unbidden—him, the priest, and a desire so sharp it stole his breath.
STOP.
He wasn’t here for this. He wasn’t here to entertain filthy, sinful thoughts. He was here to be cleansed. To rid himself of temptation. To purify his mind and soul.
He had to.
