Page 101 of Fallen Rook

Tom nodded, his throat bobbing.

“It’s called O’Scartellato. With a curved back. People believe that touching a hunchback’s hump brings good luck. They used to literally do it, sometimes, when they came across one. Which is…well, you know, fucked-up. It’s…a…Presepe.” I cleared my too-tight throat again. “Very big during Christmas and stuff.”

I could’ve bought him a nice jacket. A designer scarf. A fucking car. But I’d wanted him to have something I would actually miss. A part of me I could never have back, and that he could own.

“So this symbolizes good luck?” Tom was trying really hard to catch my gaze, which was currently stuck on an invisible spot on the blanket.

Nice try, pal. I’m never gonna look at you again.

“It brings luck, good fortune, and is supposed to protect you.” I snatched it from his hand, slipping it onto his wrist.

“You gave me a family heirloom, Enzo?” His voice was drenched with disbelief.

“As I said, it’s not that old, and not worth a lot…” I muttered, leaning back on my elbows, squinting at the sun.

“You don’t care about money,” he said matter-of-factly. “Not much, anyway. But you do care about family. I could write a thesis about you, Ferrante.”

I licked my lips, choosing to answer him with silence. I didn’t trust my voice. Not to mention other parts of me.

The quiet between us grew, pulsating, pressing against my rib cage in a way that made it hard to breathe.

“What’s the meaning of you giving this to me, Enzo?” Tom asked gently. “Tell me.”

But I couldn’t. Not with words, anyway. I could kiss him, but for the first time, I didn’t want to do that, either. I was horrified by how fast I’d let this forbidden fling turn into something more. An entity that threatened to tear my life apart. Like a hungry beast lurking behind shadowed woods.

Tom sat straighter, still staring at me as I glared at the slinking sun.

“Fine. Don’t tell me. You don’t have to.” But what he really meant was that he already knew. How could he not? Every time I looked at him, the longing took my breath away. He grabbed my hand, running gentle fingers over my wrist. “If I could ask for one thing for my birthday, it would be for you to tell me the story of these scars, Butterfly.”

Maybe it was because I’d rather do anything than examine why I gave Tom the bracelet, or maybe I’d just gotten tired of hiding the ugly parts of myself from him, hoping he’d like me, but I could no longer find enough fight in me to gatekeep my condition.

I let his thumb roll over my disfigured skin—I didn’t currently have a flare-up, but the battle scars remained—and wet my lips.

“Three years ago, my father called me into his office and told me he knew that I was gay.”

Tom froze, before resuming his gentle, circular strokes over my scars, coaxing me with his touch, not words.

“I was too shocked to deny it. He didn’t have concrete proof, just a gut feeling. He confronted me, and told me if I ever consummated my attraction, he’d kill both me and my lover.”

Tom’s expression hardened, but he kept stroking my flesh.

“He knew what he was doing, because while I’m willing to risk my life for certain things, I’d never put an innocent life in danger. So it was an unspoken pact that, as long as he had breath in him, I could never be who I truly am.”

I grabbed the plastic cup of wine and tossed it down my throat with a wince. “As if his warning wasn’t enough, I noticed that he sent some of our…associates to check on me. Not people I was friends with. Men of interest, let’s call them. Meanwhile, I was falling apart and had no one to talk to. I didn’t know what hurt me more—the confirmation my father would never accept me for who I was, or the realization I could never have a real relationship, or be in love, while he was still alive.

“One day I woke up with a mystery rash on my hands and arms. It itched like a motherfucker. I thought it was eczema or something. I scratched until I bled. Until pink, raw skin replaced the layer with the rash, and moved on with my life. I literally ripped myself to shreds, then acted as though nothing happened. But then the next month, it happened again. And the next one, again. Each time, I tore a little harder at my skin, hoping to get rid of whatever was afflicting me.”

I closed my eyes and drew in a breath. I remembered thinking my body was a metaphor for my desires; I wanted to get rid of it to find peace.

“Finally, when I realized it wasn’t going away, that whatever affected me was here to stay, I went to the doctor. The diagnosis was immediate—psoriasis. It flares up at times of stress. Did you know it’s an autoimmune disease? It’s never gonna go away.”

“Enzo,” Tom croaked, closing his eyes, thumb still trailing, stroking, comforting.

“Then came the steroids, and the ointments, and the creams. The change of diet, the workouts, the clean living. I tried everything. Nothing helps. About every couple weeks, something triggers me that makes me flare into oblivion. It’s not everywhere on my body, and I learned how to conceal it, but the more I hide it, the worse it gets. On my hands. Arms. Wrists. I stopped scratching—for the most part, anyway—but the scars are still there. Since I didn’t want to explain them, I replaced them with other scars. Cutting scars. They look…better.” A wobbly smile found my lips. “Cleaner, somehow. They make me feel like I’m in control.”

“Are you still cutting?”

“Rarely.” I chewed my inner cheek. “Only when the internal pain gets too much, and I have to replace it with exterior discomfort.”