Arthur
"Stop it, Alfred."
"Look at me."
I kept my eyes on my shoes, and not on Alfred, my son, standing in the middle of my room, naked.
I could still feel his eyes on me. "Please, Alfred," I said quietly. "Put your clothes back on."
"I found the pictures." I knew he had. They were clutched tightly in his hands. Pictures of boys, young boys, some under fifteen, naked or near so, provocatively posed. Carefully hidden in a recess under the drawer of his desk. Either Alfred had searched for hours, or he had seen me looking at them.
"Look at me," he repeated.
I did. He was still standing there, body pale, lean, muscled, young, blue eyes narrowed and savage.
I swallowed. "I'm looking at you. Now stop it. Dress and talk to me."
"You were looking at this stuff." He shook the crumpled pictures. "While you were raising me. Me and Matt. While you played with us and tucked us in at night and gave us baths."
"Alfred, please. Whatever I've done I'm so sorry. I never meant to hurt you. I never meant—"
"Do you look at me like you look at these pictures?"
I stared. "No, Alfred. Of course not. You're my son. You're my ison/i."
"You don't think about me?" Was that hurt in his eyes? Was that a trembling in the arm the held the crumpled kiddie porn?
"I—Not like that, Alfred. Please."
He walked forward, too close. I stepped back. My heels hit the wall. He was within two feet of me. Too close.
"I know what I'm doing," he said seriously. I don't think Alfred's voice had ever been that serious.
I shook my head, looked away from him. "No, you don't."
"Yes, I do." He edged a bit closer. For a second, I had a flash of panic that Matthew would come through the door and find us. But, no. Matthew was away… somewhere. Matthew was taken care of. He took care of himself. He wasn't an issue.
"Ever since I was little."
"Stop."
Alfred took a deep breath. "Tell me that you want me."
"Alfred."
"I know that you're my father. I know that I want this. I know that I'm not going to let anyone stop me. I know that you want this too. Just…"
His fingers gently brushed my forearm, and my stomach turned to jelly. He looked at me with furious, burning eyes.
Tell him to stop. Tell him to get dressed and go think. Leave the house. Go. Don't do this. Don't be weak.
He kissed me. My son's lips, soft, pink baby lips, on mine.
I used to brush his teeth when he was too little. When both of his soft, fragile hands fit comfortably in mine. When those blue eyes were oversized and guileless, and I once closed my hand in a desk, because I found myself thinking of them in a horrible way, and the pictures never filled that particular void, but there was no way that they could, because it's so wrong.
I put my hand on his back. I let him push harder. I kissed him back.
He is my son. He is my son. He is my beautiful little boy, I promised to cherish and keep and protect from the horror of the world.
I touched him. I kissed him. I put him on the bed, and held him close, and told him that he was my favorite. That he was a wonderful, brave, pretty little boy. That he was mine. Mine.
"Yes," Alfred said. His voice was frank and joyful at the same time. He nuzzled my neck and smiled and laughed with little tears standing out at the corners of his eyes, as if this was all that he ever wanted, being delivered to him all at once.
I just gave him what he wanted. I had to. I love my son.
And it's wrong. It's so wrong.
