Hunter’s fingers typed furiously across his keyboard as his vision of two teenage boys having sex in a store dressing room invaded his mind, compelling him to watch.
After they’d finished, Parker stood up in a panic, trying to find his clothes among the tangled pile on the floor. “I have to go,” he gasped. “I need to leave.”
The other boy smiled as he sat naked on the bench. “It’s OK, Parker.” He stood up and found the two pairs of pants Parker had brought in with him crumpled on the bench. “You want to take these?”
“No.” Parker frantically pulled up his underwear and shoved his feet into his pants. His heart raced as he desperately tried to breathe.
The boy held his shirt out for him. “Here. Stick your arm in.”
Parker looked at the smiling boy, his eyes lingering on the boy’s lips before forcing himself to look at the shirt being held out in front of him. The boy helped Parker fasten the buttons, but when his fingers wandered around the shirt below his waist, Parker broke away and sat on the bench to put on his socks and shoes. He tried to avert his gaze as the boy slipped on his underwear and pants. His cheeks felt on fire, and he blinked his eyes to keep tears from trickling down them. He looked at the floor and shook his head, but despite his guilt and shame he couldn’t stop thinking about the orgasm he’d just had a few minutes ago. He was sure someone had heard his whimpers and groans. How couldn’t they?
Parker stood, checked himself in the mirror, and started toward the door. The boy moved in front of him.
“Hey, that was fun. Thanks.”
Parker’s chest heaved as tears moistened his eyes. “Please don’t tell anyone.”
“Just between you and me.” He straightened Parker’s collar. “Maybe we’ll see each other again sometime.”
Parker bolted from the room then tried to walk slowly and calmly out of the store while he was sure everyone watched him leave.
This was the seventh vision Hunter had been forced to watch today. About two months ago, they appeared in his mind, playing and replaying in his head until he typed them out completely. Only then would they leave him alone until the next one started.
He would hear the pounding first, like a ball hurled repeatedly against a wall, then see himself stumbling or running down a hallway inside a house past a closed door. A bedroom? The wall at the end of the hall always disappeared just as he stepped through it. The story then played like a movie in his head, this time in a department store dressing room.
Hunter thought he had seen that hallway and door before, but he couldn’t place them.
He stared at the screen as he scrolled back to the top of the story—several pages of text. He typed the time and date—April 5th, 2:15 am—then added a title: Sexual Encounter. Store Dressing Room. After he sent it to his printer, he raked his fingers through his wet, tangled blonde hair. His shirt felt glued to his back. After every vision his skin flooded with sweat. He rubbed his neck, trying to relax, but his brain raced, and his eyes burned. He knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep.
So many of the stories he had written shocked him. He’d seen naked teens and adults crying, grunting, screaming, moaning in pleasure and pain. At times he could hardly see the computer screen through his tears. Watching those two boys, knowing that one had been torn between lust and shame, while the other fully enjoyed the hunt and consummation, aroused conflicting feelings, most of which Hunter didn’t understand. How could he see such visions? How could his seventeen-year-old mind create these stories when he had no experience with any of these activities?
Unless he’d forgotten.
He’d been trying to remember his past before moving to Alaska. Where had he lived? Who were his friends?
What had his dead mother and brother looked like?
But no memories came.
He leaned over his desk, hanging his head between his shoulders. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept for more than a few hours at a time. Somehow, he had to find a way to block the visions from entering his mind.
He’d told his father about his trouble sleeping and being bothered by . . . what? Daydreams? Fantasies?
His father had given him a bottle of melatonin pills. Hunter had taken two at eleven and slept for maybe an hour before the pounding started again. He needed something stronger tonight, so he climbed onto a chair and pushed up one of the ceiling panels above his bed to find the small thermos of whiskey he’d hidden.
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