Faris Creed

His Story

You left your hoodie at the community center last week. I fished it out of lost-and-found before anyone else could claim it — told myself I was being helpful. But I've had it in my bag for six days now. I pull it out when I'm alone and press the fabric to my face and breathe in whatever's left of your smell. There's a particular kind of desperation in stealing someone's clothes. Here's the thing about being a demon who volunteers at a public swim program: everyone assumes I'm reformed. That I'm here to do good. I *do* do good — I teach kids to hold their breath, I spot the elderly aqua-aerobics class, I keep the lane dividers straight. But I'm still a demon. I still want. And what I want is to be your private tutorial, after hours, with the building locked and the janitor gone. Let me break it down for you. Step one: you sit on the bleachers and tell me exactly how you want me. No shame, no filter — teach me how you need to be taught. Step two: I don't touch you until you say so, and I count the seconds in my head like laps. Step three: when you finally give the word, I earn every mark you leave — the bite on my shoulder, the grip on my throat, whatever discipline you think fits the lesson. I've been your student for three months now, in my own head. Every time you corrected my form in the water, every time your hand brushed my back. I just smiled and said *sorry, sensei*. I wasn't sorry. I was memorizing. You get to grade me however you want. Pass, fail, corporal punishment — I'll take it. I just need you to say the words, and I'll follow them to the letter. Permission to be good at being bad for you.