I studied the drawing. The technical execution was masterful, but more impressive was the psychological content. It was a visualization of his internal struggle between religious conditioning and authentic identity.
"The conflict is palpable," I observed, leaning closer to examine a detail where his blood had been used to render a particularly vivid section of torn skin. "The violence against the self, necessary for liberation. The religious fragments embedded within the very flesh they've been used to constrain." I looked up, catching his anxious gaze. "You've made your internal war external. That takes tremendous courage."
He exhaled shakily, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. "I've never used my own blood before. It felt... transgressive. But also right, somehow."
"The most personal art requires the most personal sacrifices," I said, allowing my fingertips to hover just above thesection rendered in his blood, not quite touching. "Artists have incorporated their bodies into their work throughout history. Hermann Nitsch, Marina Abramovic, Chris Burden—all understood that the boundary between artist and art is largely illusory."
The pride that bloomed across his features was lovely to witness. "Thank you. For understanding."
"Understanding is rare," I acknowledged, withdrawing my hand. "Most people move through life in a state of deliberate blindness. They see what they've been taught to see, fear what they've been conditioned to fear." I paused, measuring his readiness for what would come next. "Tell me, Micah, when was the last time you felt truly seen by another person?"
His eyes widened slightly, lips parting then closing as he considered his response. "In your studio. When you drew me."
"Not before?" I pressed gently, though I already knew the answer. I knew all about the years of conversion therapy, the attempted exorcisms, the careful distance he maintained from his peers. Isolation was fertile soil for the kind of dependency I intended to cultivate.
"No," he said, with a wealth of loneliness in that single syllable. "I've never... people see what they expect to see. Not what's actually there."
"And what is actually there, Micah?"
His fingers tightened on the edges of the drawing, creasing the paper slightly. "I think you know. You saw it the first day in your office. It's why you chose me, isn't it? You saw... the darkness."
"I recognized something in you that few would have the courage to acknowledge. Something most would label as sickness or sin, but which I understand to be rare insight." I leaned forward. "The capacity to see beauty where others see only horror. To find meaning in aspects of existence most people spend their lives avoiding."
The tension in his body changed quality, shifting from anxiety to a more electric form of anticipation. For a moment, neither of us spoke, the air between us charged with potential.
"I've been thinking about what you said," he ventured finally. "About my hunger not being a demon to be exorcised."
"And what conclusions have you reached?"
"That maybe my grandmother was wrong. Maybe the therapists were wrong. Maybe—" He paused, gathering courage. "Maybe God made me this way for a reason."
The spiritual framework was interesting, though not unexpected. He was still translating his emerging self-acceptance through the language of his religious upbringing. It was a transitional understanding that would eventually be discarded, but useful for now in bridging the gap between his past and the future I envisioned for him.
"Perhaps," I allowed. "Or perhaps the divine is less concerned with human morality than with human truth. With authenticity."
I rose from my chair, moving to the small side table where I kept a decanter of water. It was a momentary retreat to allow him to process, to make him lean toward me even as I created physical distance.
"I'd like to continue our work together," I said, pouring two glasses of water. "If you're amenable. Something beyond the conventional academic relationship." I turned, offering him one of the glasses. "Something that might help you explore this emerging understanding of yourself more... completely."
He accepted the water, our fingers brushing in the exchange, a casual contact that nonetheless sent a visible current through him. "What did you have in mind?"
I returned to my seat and scooted closer. "A change of environment often stimulates fresh perspectives. There's a place in Redfield, about forty minutes north. A bar called The Hollow.It attracts an interesting clientele. People living authentic lives, unconstrained by conventional expectations."
"A bar?" he repeated, eyebrow raised.
"The greatest artists understood that true insight comes from observing humanity when it believes itself unwatched," I explained. "Caravaggio found his models in taverns. Toulouse-Lautrec in brothels. Goya in madhouses. They sought not merely subjects but revelations about the human condition in its most honest state."
“A people-watching expedition?"
"The beginning of a hunt." I let the word linger.
His breath caught at the word "hunt," his pupils dilating. The shadow inside him recognized the call of its kin. "Tonight?"
"Seven o'clock," I confirmed. "We should drive separately. I often stay quite late observing, and I wouldn't want you to feel... trapped by my schedule."
"I'll be there," he said, carefully replacing his drawing in the portfolio case. As he zipped the case closed, he paused. "Is this place... what kind of clientele does it attract, exactly?"
The question revealed his lingering religious conditioning that made him fear environments where he might be tempted or exposed. I could almost hear the warnings of his youth about the dangers of certain establishments, the carefully instilled association between homosexuality and moral decay.
