MARK SULLIVAN

Seven Years Ago

I was diagnosed with psychopathy at the age of seven. My psychiatrist wrote "ASPD"—Antisocial Personality Disorder—on my medical chart.

It didn't mean much to me. It wasn't a big deal. But my parents? They acted like it was the end of the world.

They were insufferable, rich assholes who thought money could solve everything. Their solution for me? Behavioral treatment.

I still remember my mom crying as strangers loaded me into their car. Her hands shook, her face blotchy from tears. She could've stopped it if she wanted to. But she didn't. She chose the tears instead, like it was some kind of performance to absolve herself.

My father? He didn't cry. He just grabbed my shoulder, looked me dead in the eyes, and said, "Listen to them, son. This is what's best for you."

Best for me or best for them?

Now they didn't have to deal with me anymore.

Charlie watched from the porch as they drove me away. His arm was in a cast—because of me. He'd broken my toy robot, so I thought it was only fair he experienced the same thing. I didn't understand why my mom reacted the way she did, screaming, "What the hell is wrong with you?"

That was the day I learned to wear the mask.

The mask that let me blend in with "normal" people. I fooled everyone—the psychiatrist who eventually sent me home, the therapist I saw every week, and even my brother, who trusted me again.

"Hey, Mark! Are you listening?" Charlie's voice cuts through my haze.

"Hm? What did you say?"

"Tiana said you won't text her back," he grumbles. "She's been on my case all day about it. What's wrong with you? She's hot. Don't you like her?"

"I told you, he's gay," Jamie laughs.

Jamie's Charlie's best friend. I don't care for him much, but Charlie does, so I pretend to.

"Shut up with that bullshit," Charlie snaps, elbowing Jamie. They start play-fighting like toddlers in the middle of the hallway at St. Bernard High School.

I roll my eyes at their antics and instinctively reach into my pocket for my phone. It's not there.

"Hey, you guys go ahead. I think I left my phone in the locker room," I tell them.

"Hurry up," Charlie calls over his shoulder. "We promised Marco we'd help set up for the party tonight."

I resist the urge to roll my eyes again. Another party. Another game. Another performance to keep the mask intact.

"Yeah," I mutter, turning toward the locker room.

The door creaks as I push it open. It's quiet at first, but then I hear it: muffled moans.

I could've walked away. That's what most people would do. But I'm not most people. I didn't care enough to leave. I'd see who it was and report them to Coach tomorrow.

The moans grow louder as I approach my locker. My footsteps echo, sharp against the silence. When I round the corner, my eyes land on the source of the noise, and for once, I'm not sure how to react.

Someone was standing by my open locker, sniffing my shirt while masturbating.

I stood there, my mouth slightly open, taking in the scene. My mind worked to process the situation, but the behavior didn't align with anything in my mental repertoire of "normal."

"Uh... I don't want to interrupt, but what are you doing?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.

The sound of my voice made him jump. He flung my shirt to the floor and hastily turned away, fumbling to pull up his shorts.

I walked forward, picking up the shirt with deliberate slowness, then grabbed my phone from the locker. He stood next to me now, his back still turned, his breathing uneven.

"I can explain," he muttered, barely audible.

"You can explain why you were by my locker, sniffing my shirt and masturbating?" I said, amused. "Are you sure I want to hear it?"

He spun around, eyes wide and panicked.
That's when I noticed them-his eyes. I'd seen them before, always watching me. In class, in the cafeteria, even from across the driveway. He thought he was subtle, but he wasn't.

"What do you mean, your locker?" he blurted out, voice trembling.

I pointed to the locker with a calm precision. "I mean, my locker. Are you going to pretend you didn't know?"

"I thought it was Jamie's," he stammered, still avoiding my gaze.

"Jamie's?" I repeated, incredulous.

"I've seen him use it a few times, so l assumed..."

Jamie did use my locker occasionally, forgetting that his was literally next to mine. Idiot.

"So, you like Jamie?" I asked, more curious than confused. It didn't make sense. Jamie was an obnoxious idiot-and extremely homophobic.

"You can't tell him," he said, suddenly grabbing my arm. His grip was firm, desperate.

I glanced down at his hand, and he recoiled as though burned. A good choice- I knew he hadn't washed those hands yet. That mental image would haunt me for weeks.

My phone vibrated, breaking the moment.
It was Charlie, reminding me he'd leave without me if I didn't hurry up.

llooked at the boy, then back at my phone.
I typed out a quick reply: Just go.
Something came up.

With that handled, I turned my attention back to him. He was staring at me now, fully.

"Name?" I asked.

"Josh," he said, brushing the hair out of his eyes.

"Do you know mine?"

"Mark. You're Jamie's friend, right?"

The association made me want to gag, but I nodded anyway.

"So, you don't want me to tell Jamie about this?"

"Yeah," he said, nodding enthusiastically.

"Then I need you to do something for me, too."

He froze, cautious. "What do you want?"

I hesitated. The next words out of my mouth would sound insane, but the opportunity was too good to pass up.

"I need you to kiss me," I said.

His head snapped up, eyes wide. "What?"

"I know how it sounds, but hear me out," I said, my tone carefully controlled. "My brother made sure the whole school knows about my diagnosis-ASD, psychopathy, Whatever they want to call it. So I don't need to go into much details. I've never felt sexual attraction of any kind before and so I'm experimenting just like my therapist suggested."

"Why me?"

Good question. Why him? Before walking into this locker room, the idea hadn't even crossed my mind. Maybe it was because he wouldn't talk. Or maybe it was his eyes-dark and inviting, like they held secrets of their own.

"Because I know you won't say anything," I said simply. "I have leverage."

He looked conflicted, weighing his options.

"If you don't want to do it, then forget it," I said, turning toward the door.

"Fine," he said abruptly, grabbing my hand.

I stopped, turning back to face him. He still wouldn't meet my eyes, and for some reason, I needed him to.

I pushed him gently until his back hit the lockers, forcing him to look up at me. His hair fell into his face, and I brushed it back, exposing those eyes fully.

They were mesmerizing, dark and intense, pulling me in like gravity.

I stepped closer, so close our chests touched. He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. I leaned down, letting my lips graze it, my teeth brushing against the skin. He flinched, a soft moan escaping his lips.

It was... satisfying.

Then I kissed him.

The moment our lips touched, electricity coursed through me, sharp and heady. His lips were soft, moving tentatively against mine. I deepened the kiss, my hand tangling in his hair, angling his head just right.

The world narrowed to this moment, to him.

I pressed against him, feeling our bodies meld. My hands itched to explore further, but the door creaked open.

I pulled away immediately, turning to see Jake and Ruben walking in.

"Mark?" Jake said, confused.

Josh bolted, brushing past them without a word. He stopped at the door, turning back briefly.

"I did what you wanted. Keep your end of the deal," he said, then disappeared.

"What was that about?" Jake asked.

"No idea," I lied, grabbing my bag and walking out.

But seriously... what was that about?