Chapter 55 Garrett
Garrett
The pen moved across the page with slow, deliberate strokes.
“Frequency,” he asked.
Fuck. Daily.
"Intermittent," I said.
“As measured by what standard?”
My cock.
“Self-reported cognitive interruption,” I answered, because that was the language he trained into me.
The monitor emitted a sharper beep. I kept my eyes fixed on the far wall instead of the screen. Looking at the numbers only made it worse.
“Have you fantasized about any male peers?”
“No, sir.”
I tried to play with the definition of "fantasize" in my head, but the spike came anyway. Not dramatic, not explosive, just a small vertical betrayal in neon green.
My body was always the weakest link. I forced my breathing into the pattern he had drilled into me years ago—four in, four hold, six out.
“Have you engaged in physical contact with a male peer that could be interpreted as intimate?”
The question landed without inflection, as if we were discussing attendance records.
“No, sir.”
The lie slid out smoothly.
The monitor betrayed me immediately. My pulse jumped hard enough that even I saw it from the corner of my eye. Not subtle. Not ambiguous. A clean spike in bright green.
Two times. Two deliberate encounters. His mouth. Mine. Skin and heat and breath that did not fit into therapeutic language.
And here I was saying no.
Graves’ eyes lifted to the monitor at once. Not startled. Not confused. Attentive.
He watched the spike crest.
Then settle.
“Physiological elevation,” he said calmly. “Noted.”
That was all.
He lowered his gaze and wrote something down.
“You understand that lying correlates with relapse severity.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And relapse severity might require increased intervention if I request it, correct?”
The words settled heavily in my chest. Increased intervention meant isolation. Revoked privileges. Removal from campus. Paperwork signed before I finished packing.
“Sir, I have done nothing to harm anyone.”
I knew after twenty-one that would be their claim.
“Uncover your wrist, Garrett,” he demanded.
Before I could decide, a staff member behind me did it for me. The marks were unmistakable.
He held my gaze long enough to make the message clear. He had seen the spike and recorded it, and now he knew I was a danger to myself. As they usually said.
“There has been no ongoing behavior,” I said carefully. “I have taken corrective action. I had stopped it.”
That part was true. I had stepped back. I had chosen distance. I had lined up Trisha like a shield and held her hand where everyone could see.
Graves nodded once. “Maintenance remains appropriate. For now.”
For now.
He leaned back slightly. “Attraction is not identity. It is a compulsive neural misfire, but you will not act on it again. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You are not tempted because you are inherently disordered. You are tempted because you are wounded.”
“Yes, sir.”
Wounded. That was the new framing. Not sinful. Not broken. Damaged enough to justify correction.
He slid a sheet of paper toward me and drew four clean columns in precise handwriting: Trigger → Thought → Physical Response → Moral Failure.
“Walk me through the most recent incident.”
“My trigger was proximity to a classmate.”
“Name.”
“Aslan Rivers.”
He wrote it down without hesitation.
“Thought.”
“That I wanted physical closeness,” I was honest.
“Physical response.”
“Elevated heart rate. Loss of focus.”
He tapped the final column. “Moral failure.”
My hand hovered before I lowered the pen. “Entertaining the impulse.”
I wrote it neatly, refusing to write that I gave in and sucked his cock.
“A moment of weakness does not define your future,” he said. “Discipline restores alignment.”
“Yes, sir.”
“My desires are distortions.”
“My desires are distortions..." I recited.
He studied me in silence. “You were admitted for eleven months because concealment escalated into behavior. Maintenance is sufficient as long as honesty remains intact.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Is there ongoing emotional attachment to this classmate?”
“No, sir.”
The lie came cleaner this time. There was nothing emotional.
He closed the file. “Then we will proceed with cognitive reinforcement and a revised accountability contract. Let’s not make this harder than it needs to be.”
Stay compliant. Stay free.
“Yes, sir.”
Fear is a powerful silencer. Whatever I felt for Aslan Rivers did not outweigh the memory of eleven months in this building.
And I had no intention of going back.
He stood and walked toward the cabinet without asking me to follow. I knew the drill.
“Remain seated,” he said.
I remained seated.
He dimmed the lights slightly, not enough to make the room dark, just enough to make the monitor glow brighter. The machine stayed on.
“I want you to observe your responses without judgment,” he said as he adjusted the tablet on the stand in front of me. “You are not your impulses. You are the one who governs them.”
“Yes, sir.”
The first image appeared.
Two men standing close together. Hands brushing. Not even kissing. Just… touching.
Neutral. Harmless. Something you could see walking down a street anywhere.
The white noise started immediately. A thin, high-frequency hum that drilled straight behind my eyes. Not loud enough to complain about. Just sharp enough to grate.
“Breathe evenly,” he instructed.
I did.
My pulse crept upward anyway.
I kept my hands flat on my thighs. Didn’t shift. Didn’t react. Didn’t allow my face to betray anything.
The image changed. A beach. Shirtless bodies. Sunlight on skin.
My body remembered before my brain could stop it. Heat. That stupid, automatic spark that doesn’t ask permission.
The monitor beeped faster.
“Observe,” Graves said calmly. “Do not indulge.”
Observe like I’m not inside it. Like I’m not the one who wants.
The hum sharpened. Somewhere behind it, a recording began. Scripture in a low monotone voice. Words about flesh. About discipline. About self-control. The verses were stripped of warmth, reduced to correction.
My pulse spiked harder.
“Breathe,” he said.
Four in.
Four hold.
Six out.
You are in control. The impulse is not you.
That’s what he always said.
What he meant was suppress it.
The image shifted again. Two men laughing, foreheads touching. Intimate in a way that had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with closeness.
My throat tightened.
This wasn’t about arousal anymore.
This was about wanting, and I didn't really understand why my body reacted at all.
The spike was immediate.
Graves didn’t raise his voice. He never did. “Your body reacts because it has been conditioned to respond to proximity. Reaction does not equal identity.”
My jaw clenched, because that wasn’t what it felt like.
It didn’t feel like conditioning.
It felt like real emotion. Like safety.
The monitor beeped again, faster.
“If escalation continues,” he said evenly, eyes on the numbers, “we will need to reassess the intensity of your maintenance plan.”
There it was.
The cage door.
I forced my pulse down through sheer will. Forced my breathing to slow. Forced the reaction back into whatever dark corner of my brain it came from.
The beeping steadied.
The images stopped.
The room went quiet except for the low hum of the machine.
“Good,” he said.
Good.
Like I was a dog who had learned not to lunge at the leash.
He turned the tablet off and returned to his seat across from me. The lights brightened again, clinical and cold.
“You see?” he said calmly. “You are capable of governing yourself.”
I nodded.
“Yes, sir.”
Inside, I felt scraped raw.
He opened a folder and slid a stack of papers toward me.
“Given the physiological reactivity observed today, we will implement additional safeguards.”
Safeguards.
The word made it sound protective.
“No unsupervised one-on-one time with male peers,” he continued. “Mandatory reporting of intrusive urges within twenty-four hours. Weekly purity documentation submitted digitally. Increased participation in heterosexual social reinforcement.”
Trisha.
“Your mother has already expressed her support for these measures,” he added, almost casually.
Of course she has.
My chest tightened again, but this time there was no machine to expose it.
He placed a pen on top of the contract and nudged it toward me.
“This ensures we avoid unnecessary escalation.”
Unnecessary escalation.
Isolation rooms.
Observation unit.
Eleven months of being dismantled and rebuilt into something quieter.
My hand did not shake when I picked up the pen.
“I understand,” I said.
I signed my name.
“We’ll review trend data next week,” he said as he closed the folder. “Progress is measurable. Let’s keep it that way.”
Trend data.
Meaning this wasn’t over.
Meaning he was watching.
Meaning one wrong spike, one wrong confession, one wrong moment with my lion, and I would be back in a room with no inside handle.
“Yes, sir.”
When I finally stood to leave, my legs felt steady.
That was the worst part.
I looked functional.
I looked disciplined.
I looked cured.
And all it had cost me was denying Aslan.