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| III; don't come back (part two) |
// I watched you from afar.
I avoided you at mass, choosing instead to talk meaninglessly with your wife. Every Sunday she would insist I go to your cottage for rabbit stew, and each time I declined. I was afraid of you.
You weren't just a doctor. I had never been more convinced of it. There was something about you that wasn't right; the way you composed yourself as if you knew something no one else did; the way you hid your jewellery under your shirt while all the other men wore their rosaries around their neck.
I knew it was because it wasn't a rosary you were wearing.
But I thought of you endlessly.
I must be getting sick, I'd think to myself as I lay awake at night, the early summer heat making it impossible to concentrate on anything else. I'd pull the sheets off my naked body, hoping to cool down. But it only reminded me that I was a man, as the moonlight shone through the high window, illuminating my skin. You haunted me in these moments of doubt, and I found myself wanting to touch the place I wasn't supposed to think about. This convinced me that you were the devil.
With your image in my mind, I would take a hot poker to my thigh. I burned myself until all I could feel was the pain, creating bloody gashes as I pulled the poker away, my melted skin sticking to the metal. The tears that would fall from my eyes gave me no relief, only told me that I felt what I shouldn't, what I came here to stop feeling.
I did this every time I thought of you indecently. It's just a spell, I'd say aloud to myself. An evil spell put on me by the devil, sent to test my faith.
The real fever came to me in July.
During Mass on the second Sunday of the month, I'd felt dizzy as I stood on the small altar, the candlelight from the side of the pews seeming so much brighter than usual. You'd looked at me in concern during communion, and for some reason, you felt prompted to approach me after my sermon, just as I was excusing myself.
"Father Lucian, wait," you'd said, grabbing my arm before I could slip out the door. "You seem unusual."
"I'm sorry?" Your face was out of focus, and I tried to keep my eyes from blurring.
"Please, let me take you to the cottage. I think you've caught --"
"No, no, I'm fine," I'd insisted, even though I knew very well I was not. "I just need some sleep."
Your eyebrows ruffled in concern. "Then let me take you to your home."
You wouldn't hear no, so I let you lead me into your horse's carriage. It was terribly difficult to stay awake as you took me through the forest, each bump in the path the only thing to jolt me to consciousness. But as the cart rolled to a stop, I jumped out of it as quickly as I could, and hurriedly thanked you before closing my door to you. You'd tried to call after me, insisting I wasn't well, but I couldn't let you in my house again.
This wasn't a wise decision.
It's still a blur when I try to remember it. Out of all my memories of you, it is the most unclear.
I don't know how many days passed before you came back. I hadn't been able to leave my bed. I hadn't eaten or bathed. I'd only managed a few small sips of water, but I was so void of energy that even reaching for the bottle was near impossible. I felt hot enough to burst into flames, and yet I shivered as if I was the coldest I'd ever felt.
This is it, I thought to myself. This is how I'm going to die.
And then through the mist of my fevered haze, I heard your voice. At first, I thought it was a hallucination. It wouldn't have been the first of the fever. I'd seen you plenty of times. But this time, you indeed came to me.
"I knew something bad had happened to you. You should have let me help you." You stroked my face. "You're fever is worse than I thought."
You ran out of the cottage, and I heard you dismissing your assistant before reappearing with your medicine bag.
"No..." I mumbled. "No, you can't."
You narrowed your eyes at me. "No, I have to. Lucian, you're..."
"I'd rather die."
You ignored me, lifting bottles and syringes from the bag. I drifted in and out of consciousness, watching you place a needle in my arm and then I fell asleep.
I awoke when it was dark, as you were patting a water-soaked sponge over my body. I was still so weak I couldn't push you away.
The coolness was comforting on my flushed skin. I closed my eyes again, letting myself feel the relief of it.
"You know, I wouldn't ever let you die," you said to me in your soothing voice. You moved the sponge lower down my torso, and I knew what would happen if you went any further. I tried to free my mind of these indecent thoughts as you moved the sheet off my leg, but you never exposed the part I was so afraid of.
But then you stopped.
"Lucian..."
I opened my eyes, watching his gaze fall on the burns on my legs.
"What... what are these? What have you done?"
You looked confused and pained, almost as if they were on your own body. When you finally met my eyes with yours, I could feel my cheeks glisten with my tears.
"Leave them. Please."
Your lovely mouth gaped. "I'll do no such thing. Burns like those... They could get infected."
I wanted to grab you to stop you, but I could barely move my body. I was sure you'd poisoned me, and it wasn't just the sickness taking me over. And then you looked at me with such warmth in your eyes that I could have melted.
You rummaged around in your bag, pulling out bandages and cotton and a bottle of what I could only hope was some kind of disinfectant. You cleaned the wounds carefully, and I tried hard to control myself from whimpering at the pain of it.
Soon you were binding my thighs, being careful to keep me covered decently. I felt too embarrassed to look at your face again, but as you attempted to feed me more medicine, I couldn't avoid your gaze.
"Don't worry, Father, you'll be okay in a day or so. I'll stay here with you, though, just in case."
I wanted to argue, but I knew it was pointless. Instead, I quietly directed you towards extra sheets and a smaller down mattress under the bed.
When I awoke in the morning, you were already by the stove, filling the cottage with a delicious smell.
"I hope you don't mind vegetable stew," you'd said, looking at me briefly with a smile as I sat, keeping the sheet over me. "You're looking better already."
I looked around. You'd tidied up my desk, lit the fire and swept the floors.
"You didn't have to do all that," I mumbled quietly.
"There's nothing worse than having to live in an untidy space when you're not well." You smiled again. "A simple thank-you wouldn't go amiss, however."
"Oh, yes, of course," I stuttered. "Thank you. Bless you."
You were quiet as you stirred the pot. I glanced around the room for something to cover myself with, realising all my robes were across the chamber.
"Father Lucian." Your face was suddenly serious, your voice quieter. "Why did you do that to your legs?"
I looked away from you. I couldn't tell you why. What would you say?
"It is not becoming to ask me such questions." I tried to move off the bed, but you stepped toward me.
"You're not going anywhere."
I could feel my cheeks blush.
"If you need to... relieve yourself, there's a chamber pot by the bed. You can't possibly think I'm letting you out of bed." You glanced at me, sensing my discomfort. "I'm a doctor."
You didn't leave that night. Or the next night. Or the next. Your assistant came by to take you home, but you insisted I needed further care, and that I wouldn't be well for the next mass.
"I'm really feeling much better," I declared after the carriage left again. "I'll be alright on my own."
You looked down at me as I sat at my desk, attempting to write a sermon. I watched you as you bit your lip.
"Lucian, I'm worried about you."
"But why?"
"Those burns..." You paused. "And you said you'd rather die than have me treat you."
I turned in my chair. "Christopher, you can go. I'm alright, now."
"Luc--"
"Please. These things shouldn't concern you."
You didn't move straight away. I could feel you staring at me. And then I felt your hand on my shoulder, your touch electrifying me.
"Then why do I feel so?"
The silence that followed was terrifying. I slowly turned to you, unable to pull myself away from you. "I couldn't possibly imagine. But I'd like you to leave."
I hated to talk so coldly toward you after you'd taken such excellent care of me. But being near you made me question everything about myself; I felt hot, uncomfortable, nauseated. I was sure that if you left, the feelings would go away.
"I wouldn't be a just doctor if I left before you are well," you replied through gritted teeth.
I stood then, suddenly angry. "And, pray, what sort of doctor are you? Only eighteen, who carries blood around your neck instead of a rosary. I don't think you are any kind of doctor I want treating me."
You took a step back, your eyes full of hurt. It wounded me to see your eyes like that.
"I've been learning about medicine since I was a child --"
"I'd rather you no longer came here. If I'm unwell, send for your assistant, and he can treat me."
You became angry as my words fell on your ears. "My father, grandfather, his father before that have been treating the priests of this village for generations!" I watched your face turn red. "How dare you come here and tell me you don't want to be treated by me! It is you who is the unusual one in this village. It is you who comes from another place, and it is you who should adapt to us. But if that's what you wish of me, I will send my assistant from now on. I won't be accused and insulted by the likes of you."
I watched speechlessly as you gathered your medicines and stormed from the cottage.
I could feel an aching in my chest as I saw you go and felt your absence immediately. In my heart, I wanted you to return. I wanted to take back what I'd said. You'd been kind to me, and I had been ungrateful.
I knew it was wrong to pull on my clothes at that moment and run after you. //
I avoided you at mass, choosing instead to talk meaninglessly with your wife. Every Sunday she would insist I go to your cottage for rabbit stew, and each time I declined. I was afraid of you.
You weren't just a doctor. I had never been more convinced of it. There was something about you that wasn't right; the way you composed yourself as if you knew something no one else did; the way you hid your jewellery under your shirt while all the other men wore their rosaries around their neck.
I knew it was because it wasn't a rosary you were wearing.
But I thought of you endlessly.
I must be getting sick, I'd think to myself as I lay awake at night, the early summer heat making it impossible to concentrate on anything else. I'd pull the sheets off my naked body, hoping to cool down. But it only reminded me that I was a man, as the moonlight shone through the high window, illuminating my skin. You haunted me in these moments of doubt, and I found myself wanting to touch the place I wasn't supposed to think about. This convinced me that you were the devil.
With your image in my mind, I would take a hot poker to my thigh. I burned myself until all I could feel was the pain, creating bloody gashes as I pulled the poker away, my melted skin sticking to the metal. The tears that would fall from my eyes gave me no relief, only told me that I felt what I shouldn't, what I came here to stop feeling.
I did this every time I thought of you indecently. It's just a spell, I'd say aloud to myself. An evil spell put on me by the devil, sent to test my faith.
The real fever came to me in July.
During Mass on the second Sunday of the month, I'd felt dizzy as I stood on the small altar, the candlelight from the side of the pews seeming so much brighter than usual. You'd looked at me in concern during communion, and for some reason, you felt prompted to approach me after my sermon, just as I was excusing myself.
"Father Lucian, wait," you'd said, grabbing my arm before I could slip out the door. "You seem unusual."
"I'm sorry?" Your face was out of focus, and I tried to keep my eyes from blurring.
"Please, let me take you to the cottage. I think you've caught --"
"No, no, I'm fine," I'd insisted, even though I knew very well I was not. "I just need some sleep."
Your eyebrows ruffled in concern. "Then let me take you to your home."
You wouldn't hear no, so I let you lead me into your horse's carriage. It was terribly difficult to stay awake as you took me through the forest, each bump in the path the only thing to jolt me to consciousness. But as the cart rolled to a stop, I jumped out of it as quickly as I could, and hurriedly thanked you before closing my door to you. You'd tried to call after me, insisting I wasn't well, but I couldn't let you in my house again.
This wasn't a wise decision.
It's still a blur when I try to remember it. Out of all my memories of you, it is the most unclear.
I don't know how many days passed before you came back. I hadn't been able to leave my bed. I hadn't eaten or bathed. I'd only managed a few small sips of water, but I was so void of energy that even reaching for the bottle was near impossible. I felt hot enough to burst into flames, and yet I shivered as if I was the coldest I'd ever felt.
This is it, I thought to myself. This is how I'm going to die.
And then through the mist of my fevered haze, I heard your voice. At first, I thought it was a hallucination. It wouldn't have been the first of the fever. I'd seen you plenty of times. But this time, you indeed came to me.
"I knew something bad had happened to you. You should have let me help you." You stroked my face. "You're fever is worse than I thought."
You ran out of the cottage, and I heard you dismissing your assistant before reappearing with your medicine bag.
"No..." I mumbled. "No, you can't."
You narrowed your eyes at me. "No, I have to. Lucian, you're..."
"I'd rather die."
You ignored me, lifting bottles and syringes from the bag. I drifted in and out of consciousness, watching you place a needle in my arm and then I fell asleep.
I awoke when it was dark, as you were patting a water-soaked sponge over my body. I was still so weak I couldn't push you away.
The coolness was comforting on my flushed skin. I closed my eyes again, letting myself feel the relief of it.
"You know, I wouldn't ever let you die," you said to me in your soothing voice. You moved the sponge lower down my torso, and I knew what would happen if you went any further. I tried to free my mind of these indecent thoughts as you moved the sheet off my leg, but you never exposed the part I was so afraid of.
But then you stopped.
"Lucian..."
I opened my eyes, watching his gaze fall on the burns on my legs.
"What... what are these? What have you done?"
You looked confused and pained, almost as if they were on your own body. When you finally met my eyes with yours, I could feel my cheeks glisten with my tears.
"Leave them. Please."
Your lovely mouth gaped. "I'll do no such thing. Burns like those... They could get infected."
I wanted to grab you to stop you, but I could barely move my body. I was sure you'd poisoned me, and it wasn't just the sickness taking me over. And then you looked at me with such warmth in your eyes that I could have melted.
You rummaged around in your bag, pulling out bandages and cotton and a bottle of what I could only hope was some kind of disinfectant. You cleaned the wounds carefully, and I tried hard to control myself from whimpering at the pain of it.
Soon you were binding my thighs, being careful to keep me covered decently. I felt too embarrassed to look at your face again, but as you attempted to feed me more medicine, I couldn't avoid your gaze.
"Don't worry, Father, you'll be okay in a day or so. I'll stay here with you, though, just in case."
I wanted to argue, but I knew it was pointless. Instead, I quietly directed you towards extra sheets and a smaller down mattress under the bed.
When I awoke in the morning, you were already by the stove, filling the cottage with a delicious smell.
"I hope you don't mind vegetable stew," you'd said, looking at me briefly with a smile as I sat, keeping the sheet over me. "You're looking better already."
I looked around. You'd tidied up my desk, lit the fire and swept the floors.
"You didn't have to do all that," I mumbled quietly.
"There's nothing worse than having to live in an untidy space when you're not well." You smiled again. "A simple thank-you wouldn't go amiss, however."
"Oh, yes, of course," I stuttered. "Thank you. Bless you."
You were quiet as you stirred the pot. I glanced around the room for something to cover myself with, realising all my robes were across the chamber.
"Father Lucian." Your face was suddenly serious, your voice quieter. "Why did you do that to your legs?"
I looked away from you. I couldn't tell you why. What would you say?
"It is not becoming to ask me such questions." I tried to move off the bed, but you stepped toward me.
"You're not going anywhere."
I could feel my cheeks blush.
"If you need to... relieve yourself, there's a chamber pot by the bed. You can't possibly think I'm letting you out of bed." You glanced at me, sensing my discomfort. "I'm a doctor."
You didn't leave that night. Or the next night. Or the next. Your assistant came by to take you home, but you insisted I needed further care, and that I wouldn't be well for the next mass.
"I'm really feeling much better," I declared after the carriage left again. "I'll be alright on my own."
You looked down at me as I sat at my desk, attempting to write a sermon. I watched you as you bit your lip.
"Lucian, I'm worried about you."
"But why?"
"Those burns..." You paused. "And you said you'd rather die than have me treat you."
I turned in my chair. "Christopher, you can go. I'm alright, now."
"Luc--"
"Please. These things shouldn't concern you."
You didn't move straight away. I could feel you staring at me. And then I felt your hand on my shoulder, your touch electrifying me.
"Then why do I feel so?"
The silence that followed was terrifying. I slowly turned to you, unable to pull myself away from you. "I couldn't possibly imagine. But I'd like you to leave."
I hated to talk so coldly toward you after you'd taken such excellent care of me. But being near you made me question everything about myself; I felt hot, uncomfortable, nauseated. I was sure that if you left, the feelings would go away.
"I wouldn't be a just doctor if I left before you are well," you replied through gritted teeth.
I stood then, suddenly angry. "And, pray, what sort of doctor are you? Only eighteen, who carries blood around your neck instead of a rosary. I don't think you are any kind of doctor I want treating me."
You took a step back, your eyes full of hurt. It wounded me to see your eyes like that.
"I've been learning about medicine since I was a child --"
"I'd rather you no longer came here. If I'm unwell, send for your assistant, and he can treat me."
You became angry as my words fell on your ears. "My father, grandfather, his father before that have been treating the priests of this village for generations!" I watched your face turn red. "How dare you come here and tell me you don't want to be treated by me! It is you who is the unusual one in this village. It is you who comes from another place, and it is you who should adapt to us. But if that's what you wish of me, I will send my assistant from now on. I won't be accused and insulted by the likes of you."
I watched speechlessly as you gathered your medicines and stormed from the cottage.
I could feel an aching in my chest as I saw you go and felt your absence immediately. In my heart, I wanted you to return. I wanted to take back what I'd said. You'd been kind to me, and I had been ungrateful.
I knew it was wrong to pull on my clothes at that moment and run after you. //
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