Virtus thinks too much i wish he could get mental help but this is the 70's so instead he's just supposed to take it out on his wife and kids

or become a homosexual serial killer. why were there so many gay serial killers in the 70's? this is a serious question.

-also hi i wrote a new bone cutter book, (its not rly new there's like 27 chapters now lol) but it's titled The Bone Thief and it's about Prosper Halis, the bone cutter from the 90's (psst also it's gay, and i've never written a gay novel before so check it out pls im scared nobody likes it)-

Chapter Twenty-seven

Virtus's POV

There are few times in my life where I've felt a real, genuine feeling of contentment. All of those moments were during my childhood, before I turned thirteen. I haven't felt content since.

Until today.

I lean against the counter, drink in my hand, and watch Uri, being dragged away by a few women I wasn't stranger too. They were sex workers, none I have ever solicited, but I trusted them.

Really, I just found it funny.

The panic on her face as she's being pulled away to one of the bedrooms enlightened a spark in my chest, a prickling form of excitement. Yes, this was fun.

I bite down a grin, as I take another drink. I told them to scare her a bit, attempt to take her clothes off, let her feel shaken up.

I just want the conversation that will occur afterwards. I want to watch her pretend to be into it, I want to watch her squirm when I question her.

I want to mess with her like she did me. I want her to admit who she is.

She has lied to me this whole time, and so, I will lie right back. 

If I burden her enough mentally, will she finally admit to me that she isn't a man at all? If I can so completely humiliate her, or slaughter her comfort, would that do it?

I think of these things with anticipation for the answer. I want her to tell the truth. I want to hear it, and live in the memory of it.

The drink in my hand becomes empty, and I am a little drunk. I make a point to never entirely allow myself to lose my grip on my composure whilst out, but it was tempting. I want to drink the whole night away, because I feel excited, because I feel content, because I don't know how to handle these thoughts, these emotions. Despite it all, I still can't seem to scrounge up any bit of happiness. I am excited, I am content, but I feel no happiness. I am twisted, my chest feels torn, I think I will order another drink.

The bartender fills my glass, and I stare at it, watching the liquid bubble up, and then deflate. Is this normal? To stare down your cup and only wish it'd drown you? Am I experiencing a manic episode, one to which I am so exhilarated in these foreign emotions, but suffocated by them as well?

I daydream often about what it'd be like to breathe.

Uri hastily, as if on queue, swings open the door, and pushes herself out. Slamming it behind her. I see how white her face is, how desperate she is to hide this rotten secret. It angers me, not even because I fell for it, but because I was enjoying the fall.

Now, I lack any sort of confidence to build back who I was when I thought she wasn't a female. I often want to kiss her again, but how do you do that, when you know now, that it is entirely something you desire? I kissed what I thought was a man, because it was unusual, and nothing could have come from it.

If I were to kiss a woman, the potential was dangerous. I hate that about her. I hate that about women. They are so, so entirely desirable.

"Back so soon, intern?" I pretend to be surprised, and I try to ignore the realization that our whole relationship whether it be professional, or something a bit more, was nothing but the both of us pretending.

The bloodless look on her face didn't satisfy me to the extent that I had anticipated. I wanted more, but wasn't sure how exactly to pursue that 'more' without flat out telling her I knew what she was.

No, that 'more' can wait.

"I was not exactly ready for a violation." She said through clenched teeth, "It was entirely unwelcome."

This did surprise me, I never expected her to admit she wasn't into it, "Violation? You're a Trinity man, if you didn't enjoy that then what exactly is it you do for fun? I thought I was helping you." I was almost certain she hasn't set foot in Trinity University, but I still play along.

She frowns, and gets closer to me until only I can hear her response, "Says the Bone Cutter who read for six hours straight today." There was a pause and then she adds, "Besides, I don't see you going around with sex workers, in fact, I've barely left your side the last few months, you haven't had sex once."

The accusation doesn't shock me like she expected it would. In fact, I found it interesting that she thought of it at all. So she noticed I am alone, how does that make her feel? I want to know so badly that I forget my composure for only a moment.  "You forget I just got married."

"So then where has your wife been? I've been in your bed more than she has."

Something in my chest stings at her words, not because of embarrassment, or even shame, but simply because I find myself wanting her in my bed often. It is such a deep desire, that I can't comprehend it. The idea of her in my bed as a she made it impossible to imagine without being entirely overwhelmed. I'm wholly invested in the act of getting to that point. Me and her in my bed, without her clothes. That's exactly the future I want.

I feel a hook pull my wandering urges back, piercing me with the reminder that I am a married man.

Another wicked voice could not be stifled as it asks; Yes, but for how long?

"Do you want to return to my bed?" I ask her, a question that had no place being on my lips, or slipping off my tongue. The words felt sweet, as if simply asking for the one thing I might desire more than anything else right at this moment.

Her response was a bitter, cruel stab to my lungs, taking the breath out of them with each thrust. "That will never happen again."

She says that, and though it hurts to hear, I can't bring myself to believe her. "Won't it?"

"Absolutely not." She says it with an air of finality, "Never again."

"And what if it happens here?"

I see her eyes widen, and the look of shock on her face that she so desperately tries to mask, "What?"

"What if I take you to one of the beds here?"

She stares at me, and I stare at her, and I feel trapped, because I know she feels trapped. Not because I'd do anything to her, but because I think she wants to do it, and I want to do it, but she has her secrets, and I have mine.

I'd like to disregard those secrets, I'd like to push them all away tonight.

I lean forward, and whisper in her ear, "We can share a bed right now, intern."

I feel her still as my body stood against hers. I enjoy it, for one singular moment, and then I pull away, and I tell myself I will not touch her again tonight. Of course, that's a lie.

The way she stared at me, a shocked, wide-eyed look of panic. This wasn't fun anymore. I only feel empty.

I buy her a drink, beckon for her to sit beside me, and I let myself drink a bit more.

She tries to be silent, I can tell, and then, very quickly she is not. She leans closer, again, only close enough where I can hear her, "What did you mean share a bed? Why would you ask me that?"

I take a drink, and welcome the slight warmth of drunkenness that follows, "You brought it up."

"Yes, but I didn't fucking offer."

"But you made a point."

"A point that is?"

I turn to her, the room spins, yes, I'm certainly getting drunk. "The point is that the only person I have ever enjoyed being in my bed is you."

That was too much. I said way too much and I can tell by the look on her face. She's frightened of me, or perhaps it is horror. Repulsion maybe.

I have to recover from this, so I quickly add, "What does it mean when I enjoy the company of a man? I should get evaluated."

Wide-eyed she asks, "Are you gay?"

I can't help it, I laugh. She stares at me like she had never seen me laugh before. I don't remember the last time I did. "Gay." I laugh more, "Of course you would think that."

"How else am I supposed to take it?" She's still whispering, like this was a big secret. I guess it was, but I can't bring myself to care.

"Have you ever thought, that you look feminine?" I feel I am close to the line that I should not cross, "Maybe you just look like a woman."

I see her body go still, and she stares at me, searching for any sort of clue that I know what she is. I shrug, playing along, "You should really hit the gym, your body is pathetic for a grown man." I clasp a hand on her shoulder, and then I walk past her. "Let's go home, intern." And as I hear her shuffle to follow me, I clench my hand, still feeling her shoulder underneath it long after I released her, and I realize I am wholly obsessed.