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It contains yaoi, mentions of homosexual sex and incest, violence, cursing. R-rated, shouldn't be read by persons under 18 years of age.

Worshipped
by Camui

"Worship is destructive, even towards itself, I should know that
knowing what happened to my mother, but it's worth even that,
it's worth life and death, every crime and every amount of pain,
every sin and deviation, every single second when someone is
looking at you like he would at the God itself, worshipping you,
glorifying you, is worth it."

Chapter 1

My name is Jens. My mother has called me that. She was German. She was, she doesn't live anymore, in fact, I barely remember her. She half-orphaned me when I was only four, leaving me and my father alone. It didn't hurt me that much as I had never really loved her, but my father... He had to love her very much, too much for their good, too much for this to be normal. My mother... He hadn't known a word in German when he'd gotten to know her, but he'd learned, frantically, in a few weeks, to be able to be talking to her, to be flirting with her. Since the very first time he had seen her he'd been deadly serious about her and his feelings for her. Since the very first time he'd looked in her clear blue eyes.

There was something about her that was just making him burn, unable to think about anything but getting her. It wasn't a sexual attraction, it was love, desperate, sudden love with no sense and no reason. She hadn't loved him back like that since the beginning, but discovering what kind of awesome feelings he had for her she learned to love him back, with equally much of devotion.

Then they had me.

Four years after my birth she was already lying buried under the layer of cold soil. She slit both her wrists open. There was no one home then, beside me, but, of course, I couldn't help her. I was watching cartoons on the TV, then I needed to go to the bathroom, something I had just learned to do on my own, so I went and saw her, lying there on the cold tiled floor in a puddle of blood, very crimson, thick and reflecting the bathroom lamps that were on despite full-out sunshine shining through the slightly open window, cold breeze filling the small room as I opened the door. Cold breeze that brought awful smell of blood to my nostrils. Her blood. Her wide open, empty eyes, devoid of shine as I turned her over to look at her face. Blood all over her white dress and white tiled floor. Razor blade she had done it with, one of my father's, and blood...

I screamed, for a very long time, until my father, who had driven from work alarmed by one of neighbors came inside the apartment and rushed to the bathroom, and opened the door, and stopped dead in his track in the doorway, his eyes getting equally empty as my mother's so I feared he was dying, too.

I knew what it meant to die, mother had told me. She had been talking a lot about death these times and I'd asked what it was, she'd told me. She'd even told me she'd wanted to die.

I remember everything, like if it happened yesterday, how the police came and took her body out of our home in a non transparent, bright blue plastic bag. How they examined the razor blade and blood on the bathroom's floor and on my clothes and hands and face, where it had gotten when I'd been trying to wake mum up. How we moved hurriedly to the hotel and then another apartment, just to be out and away from there, how we buried mum, on a catholic cemetery, under a magnolia tree covered in blossom, on a beautiful, sunny afternoon.

My father was sleeping with me in his arms ever since.

Why did she do that ? I think I know. She couldn't have handled what he'd been feeling for her, she couldn't have handled being a deity for someone, I think it was that, that she couldn't have reciprocated all his feelings, that she had been hurting him with that, that he'd been burning for her and slowly burning out, detaching, closing to the world and to her to stay just with the love he'd had for her, which she hadn't been really worthy, but how could she's been ? No one's worthy that kind of love and the wonder her blue eyes had been had been just an unfulfilled promise of her being equally wonderful as whole, as a soul. No one's perfect, nothing really divine is on Earth, there are only promises, fake promises which some people believe, getting to love what's standing behind them beyond everything not bothering to check if it's worth that love. My mother hadn't been exceptionally beautiful, my mother hadn't been wise nor kind. She'd had bad temper, moods, she'd been lying too much, she'd been cold and unable to show her feelings, she'd been cold to me, she'd never been holding me in her arms, singing for me, cuddling me. But she'd had eyes of an angel. Angel my father had gotten to believe she'd been.

His love had killed her and refused to go away even with her death.

I've been a lot like my mother, when it's come to the appearance, the same slim build, skinny wrists, fair complexion and hair, grown long to my shoulders, as hers used to be. It had to hurt him to look at me, being so much like her. It's been hurting him, I've been seeing it in his eyes. I didn't want him to be hurt. I loved him, he was my father, he was the only person I had. I wanted him to be happy, I was ready to make him happy.

I was twelve and we were still sleeping in one bed, clutching each other tightly at nights, having only each other. With every passing day, I was becoming more like her. I was getting older, but something childlike to my appearance, childlike and innocent didn't intend to leave me, as it had never left her. I was still looking like a little angel. Only my eyes, dark green like my father's haven't been fitting the image. But eyes have been the only thing I've inherited after my father, the rest has been hers, has been her.

He loved her, he loved me, everything in me beside the eyes. He was never looking me in the eye. I bet he imagined they were blue. He loved me, as he had loved her, with the passionate, all consuming kind of love. He loved me as his child, too, but that love wasn't strong enough to stop him from getting to love me and want me like he had my mother, to stop him from incest.

From first clumsy kisses to his hands, moving all over my body, worshipping me, worshipping her in me, to him filling me tightly and making us one.

There was something unreal to our sex, something... I could feel her presence there, too. I could see it in his eyes that when we were doing this he wasn't hearing my moans, my screams of pleasure, but hers, he didn't feel my body under his hands, but hers, he didn't feel my tightness, but hers.

It wasn't much of a pleasure, he didn't care for pleasure, it was a worship, a ritual, not fun, not at all, in any way. He wasn't stretching me, but entering dry just like that, like he would have done with a woman, moving viciously enough to draw blood but never to brush my prostate more than just once or twice, neglecting my member, he never ever touched, refusing to acknowledge its existence, refusing to acknowledge the main difference which was between me and my mother, that I was male, as well as every other difference, as the fact I wasn't her as such.

I wasn't coming after our sex, his semen was flowing from inside me down my thighs and I was staying unfulfilled, tossing under the sheets the rest of the night.

I loved every minute of that, when I could take her place in his heart, for once being welcomed there, being so special to someone.

As a father, he was cold to me, he hated me because it hurt him to even look at me, being so much like my mother. As a lover, he was warm, loving, devoted, he was whispering things to my ear that were making my heart want to leap out of my chest, referring to me as `she`, but I could care less. I loved him back, I didn't want this to stop. Never...

But it didn't last, it couldn't. We were caught and gotten apart, then a quick lawsuit in the court for incest, my father going to prison, me - to an orphanage where I was spending long hours on talking with a psychiatrist sent there to bring me back to normal, because I refused to eat and drink.

I was thirteen. I wanted to die.

They had taken the only person for whom I truly mattered away from me, I had no one, no reason to live. I would have suicided if there would have been a chance, but there wasn't, they were taking good care of me. Why couldn't they understand that the only way to treat me was to get me back to my father ? Why couldn't they understand that I loved him back, that I hadn't gotten to hate him because he'd fucked me. I'd wanted this, I wanted this, I loved him, with the passionate kind of love, too. Who wouldn't have at least tried to reciprocate that kind of feelings ?

They gave up on me at some point, all of them, but my psychiatrist. She refused to give up. She's adopted me, taking me into her home and family. I've gotten a mother, a foster father and an older sister, a family, a home, love, not the kind of love my father had for me, but still, enough to make me want to live again.

Live to wait for someone to come and love all of me like my father loved everything that's been from my mother in me, for someone to come and fill the painful void in my soul with the same kind of half-insane love.

I'm eighteen and I'm still waiting. I'm not beautiful, but there is something to me that makes other males burn for me. They want me, for a while, for one night, to play with me. But I don't want something like that, I want worship, I want love beyond anything, worship... There is something of worship in their eyes sliding slowly down my body, which they crave to touch and know they can't and won't. It is something close, but I know, somehow, that if I let one of them touch me and have me like that he would have done it and left in the morning, not craving for me anymore, because I'm not really important to any of them, I'm not their everything, I don't want to be less.

So I've made myself untouchable, to crave for, but never to get. They burn for me with carnal desire, not with love, but at least they burn. So I tease them making them burn even more, making them go crazy with need, explode, making them worship me.

I'm sneaking out of my home at nights to go to sing at a gay bar, being the main attraction there and not taking money from that at all. The owner told me he won't be giving me money for making them burn with unfulfilled desire, that if I want money, a lot of money, and he meant a lot, I'll need to sleep with them. I turned the offer down, I don't need money, I have a home, a warm place to stay, food, I want worship, not money. He's letting me sing there still because he thinks I'll change my mind soon and he'll get a nice whore.

No. I can't be bought with money, only with worship, with devotion, with loving beyond everything, with nothing less. Being loved like that once in the past already I'm not going to be satisfied with less, ever.

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