“I’m sure they don’t wish that.” They were fucking assholes if they did. Even more than Logan had thought.
Seth laughed, and Logan hadn’t realized how much he liked the usual gentle baritone of Seth’s laughter until he heard this ragged bark that set his teeth on edge.
“Oh, they definitely wish I was dead.”
“I’m sure—”
“No, I’m sure. Here, I’ll prove it.” He pivoted and strode to the stairs, thumping up them without waiting to see if Logan was following. Which he was, his pulse racing. This was all so wrong, and maybe he could still fix it.
In his bedroom, Seth flicked on the overhead light and marched to his dresser to open one of the top drawers. He pulled out a square leather box, dark brown and expensive looking. Logan waited in the doorway, wary. He should have kept his damn mouth shut and just left Seth alone.
Seth was practically shaking with tension or maybe fury. Logan wasn’t sure. He only knew he hated it.
Whipping around, Seth held out a folded piece of paper. “Here.” It sounded like he’d swallowed sand.
Logan didn’t have a choice but to come inside and take the paper, which was bent a bit at the edges and seemed to have been read many times. When Logan unfolded it, the crease down the middle was deep. It was typed, which he wasn’t expecting for some reason. He blinked at the words that ran in a narrow column down the page.
MARSTON, SETH
October 2, 1981—December 24, 2006
Seth Michael Marston passed away suddenly. Seth was raised in the loving arms of Christ by his parents, Mary and Stephen; grandparents Doris and John, and Sarah (reunited with Christ 1998) and Michael; alongside his loving siblings Christine (David) and Paul (Bethany).
Seth tragically chose the abominable path of the devil, sinning without shame And choosing the wicked homosexual lifestyle. He broke the hearts of his family, who weep for his loss and take solace in Jesus Christ our Lord.
There will be no service. Memorial donations gratefully accepted at The Church of Christ’s Grace in Macon, Georgia.
Logan stared at the words, first with confusion, then disbelief. Then the horror slammed into him, his throat painfully tight. He had to swallow twice before he whispered, “They wrote your obituary?” The paper shook in his hand. “Jesus fucking Christ.”
Seth laughed harshly. “Indeed. They published it too, in the local paper. I’d have never thought they’d want a soul to know the truth, but this way, I guess they were in control. They probably knew rumors would run rampant, and this way, they were the righteous victims. And I think they expected me to be so humiliated and ashamed that I’d repent my sins and beg forgiveness. But I didn’t. Couldn’t.”
“Shouldn’t!” Logan stared down at the hateful words dressed up in religion. “This isn’t what Christians should do. Jesus wouldn’t do this.”
Seth smiled thinly, taking the paper back. “I don’t think so either. There are many accepting churches out there, but mine wasn’t one of them, to put it mildly. Everyone knew—all my old friends, extended family. No one ever talked to me again.”
He folded the piece of paper back into the box and closed it away in the drawer. “I think maybe they still expect me to beg forgiveness and repent. Crawl back to them.”
Logan wondered why Seth hung onto that piece of paper at all, let alone in a fancy box like it was something precious, but he kept his trap shut. “That’s fucked up.”
Tense from head to foot, Seth nodded. “I’d been living in Atlanta with Brandon for three years after college. In a studio apartment. I mean, I thought they might piece it together when they came to visit one summer, but apparently not. So I decided that year to tell them all when I came home for Christmas.”
He paced a few steps, his fingers digging into his arms where they were crossed. “I told them I was gay and in love with Brandon. That I knew I’d never be able to change, no matter how much I prayed. That… That I didn’t want to change. That this was the way God made me.”
Seth jerked his shoulders in a shrug. “The next morning, my dad and my brother dragged me out of the house. Threw my suitcase after me. Then my mom gave me that piece of paper with the obituary they’d written. My sister and grandparents were there too. They watched from the porch. Everyone was crying and praying. They turned their backs on me and locked the door. That was it.”
“Unless you changed your mind?”
“Right. Obviously that’s not going to happen.” He paced again, shaking his head. “And every year I send them Christmas cards and tell them about my life as if I think it will make any bit of difference. They’re bigots. They’re not going to change. But I keep hoping anyway. I’m an idiot. Pathetic.”