Damaged Gods

I turn the Jeep off and notice there’s a light on in my cottage. I get out and just stand there in the parking lot for a moment, looking up at the bedroom window. Picturing myself up there with Pia that first day. Looking down here, where I’m standing now, and watching Old Man Grant get in his car, practically giddy with excitement.

And I guess he won, didn’t he?

He got rich, didn’t pay off any debts, didn’t grow old, and he took his magic with him. That’s quite an accomplishment. And I could do the same. All I have to do is invite him in.

“Ha!” I laugh out loud. “It’s all fake. The whole thing is fake. And how pathetic am I? That I have to make up a cupid to find myself a love interest and a prison guard with a giant cock!” This time, when the laugh bursts out, I really start to feel crazy. I cover my mouth to stifle leftover giggles, push through the gate, walk around to the front of the cottage, open the door, and go inside.

And there is Pell. Sleeping on my little couch. His giant dick just lying there in wait like a lion in tall grass on the savannah.

I sigh as I look at him. He’s a very nice delusion, actually. Sexy monsters are… well. Sexy. He’s far, far too big for that particular piece of furniture, so only his upper body is actually on the cushions. From the hip down, he’s dangling over the side of the armrest.

He’s sleeping. Soundly, apparently. Since me walking in didn’t wake him. His arms are crossed over his muscular chest and his head is propped up on a pillow. I study his horns. They are a deep chestnut brown with flicks of orange heat inside them. This heat glows and pulses, like there’s a whole furnace of fire inside his body. The horns are interesting, I think. They do not go above his head like the mythological creatures in books. They kinda drape down over his shoulders, pressing against either side of the soft cushion that elevates his head. They are not the horns of a goat, or a bull, or a ram. Not a gazelle, either. Some other animal. His chest is almost hairless. In fact, his entire upper body is almost hairless. Even his head, which is only covered in a velvet of light stubble, just like his jaw.

I plop down into an overstuffed chair and clear my throat.

He awakens slowly, like he was somewhere else, his eyelashes fluttering a little. They’re also blond, like his chin and head scruff. Then he draws in a deep breath as he opens his yellow-orange eyes and smiles at me.

“You’re home.” His voice is husky with leftover sleep. “How’d it go?”

I don’t know what to say because there is only one way to describe what just happened to me. “It was a total disaster.”

“What?” He sits up, his fucking package shifting around like a living thing. And that just reminds me of what happened back there in town with Russ.

Did it happen? Didn’t it happen?

“At first,” I say, my words very soft—so soft, Pell leans forward, like he’s trying to hear me better—“at first I thought I was delusional. I made the whole thing up.” A tear slides down my cheek.

“Pie?” Pell is confused. “What the fuck happened?”

I just shake my head.

“Did he hurt you?”

I can only shrug.

“What does that mean? He hurt you?”

“I don’t know.” My voice cracks. And I’m not sure what that is. Fear? Shame? I don’t know.

Pell gets up, and with one stride, he’s kneeling in front of me. “Why are you crying?”

I sniff and wipe a tear off my cheek. And then I whisper, “I don’t know.”

“What did he do?”

“I don’t know.”

“How could you not know?” His voice is loud.

So I get defensive. “I don’t know what’s real. I don’t know if I really did those things in the restaurant. Did I climb in his lap? Did I pull my dress down and place his hand on me? Did I squirm like an animal? I don’t know what’s real anymore. I don’t think any of this is real. I think you’re fake. Or a hallucination, like Pia was. I think I’m dead. I think I died that night. On Halloween. I think I woke up a ghost and that’s why that nun called me a whore of Babylon.”

His eyes search mine, fast and hasty. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“I’m insane, Pell. I’m fucking crazy. I’ve always been crazy. And this place…” I cry harder. I can’t stop it. “This place is purgatory. It’s punishment. Or I’m living in my mind. I’m in some coma somewhere, making this all up. Pretending to be real. But I’m not.”

He sighs, and that’s when I realize he’s got a hold of my hand. His grip is tight. Not tight enough to crush my bones, but tight enough for me to know he’s there. He’s real.