The Jude Project
by Edward Kyle Stokes
Chapter 3
A Vile Act
That Monday, it was like nothing had ever happened over the weekend. The air between us was a strange kind of normal. I saw him in the corridor; he looked at me, a brief, knowing grin on his face, but no words were exchanged. It was a silent acknowledgment of our shared secret, a reminder of the power he now held. The silence was as heavy as any confession.
Two days later, the day before our presentation, the dam broke. It was in the middle of a class, the teacher droning on about some historical event I couldn't focus on. A piece of paper slid across my desk. I picked it up, my heart hammering in my chest before I even read the words. The note was simple, but it exploded in my head. It read, "see me in the washroom, first floor, lunch break."
There was no way I was going to do anything at school. The idea was insane, terrifying. But I knew, with a sick certainty, I had to go. I was a magnet compelled by an invisible force. My will was no longer my own.
When the lunch bell finally rang, I walked to the first-floor washroom, my legs feeling like lead. I pushed the door open, the stale air hitting me with a wave of dread. The scene that greeted me was a grim tableau. Jude was there, leaning against the sinks, looking calm and in control. Michael was with him, and another guy from their clique was standing at the door, a casual guard.
As I entered, a boy emerged from one of the cubicles, zipping up his fly. His face was pale and he avoided my gaze, quickly making his exit. As he left, another member of Jude's gang grinned and took his place, disappearing into the cubicle. Jude just nodded to me, a casual gesture, and with a slight smirk on his face, motioned for me to look inside the open cubicle door.
My blood ran cold. The same young boy I had seen before, the one Jude had slammed against the mirror, was on his knees. My stomach turned, and a wave of nausea washed over me. Jude just watched me, that same eerie expression on his face, waiting for my reaction. I was a witness to his control, and my own complicity in his dark game.
I hated myself for it, but I was trapped in his world. I had become a voyeur, but not just a voyeur. I had been tainted by his game, and the sickening reality was that a part of me was excited by it. The rush of blood, the fear, the forbidden nature of what I was witnessing—it all twisted into a dark, confusing arousal. My cock was rock hard as I watched, a horrifying testament to my complicity and my own depraved desire.
I finally pulled myself away from the door, a wave of self-loathing crashing over me. I knew I should have done something, should have said something, but I had just stood there and watched. I was despicably, worse than a silent witness to a crime; I had enjoyed watching. The image of the other boy towering over the youngster, his hands gripping the boy's head, was burned into my mind.
I turned away from the door and spat the words out in Jude's face, the disgust I felt for him, and for myself, finally finding an outlet. "You're sick," I told him, my voice shaking with fury.
He just laughed, a short, cruel sound that didn't reach his eyes. "You're one of us now," he said, the grin returning to his face. "Go on," he gestured to the door. "Your turn."
This time, I ignored his instruction. The words "Go on" hung in the air, a final command in a game I no longer wanted to play. My defiance was a cold, hard knot in my gut, a stark contrast to the boiling heat I had felt just moments before. I just stood there, refusing to move, refusing to submit.
Jude's grin didn't falter, but a subtle change came over him. His eyes narrowed slightly, and the easy confidence he'd carried all along seemed to harden into something sharper, more menacing.
"What's wrong?" he asked, his voice still low and taunting. "Lost your nerve?"
"You're not doing that to me," I said, the words coming out as a strained whisper.
He laughed, a short, sharp bark. Michael and the other boy glanced over, their faces expectant. They were waiting for me to break, to fall back into line, to be part of the game.
"I don't have to," Jude said, his voice dropping to a low, intimate tone that was even more terrifying than his anger. He moved closer, his breath warm against my ear. "I already own you."
He didn't touch me, but the weight of his words was more binding than any physical restraint. "I know what you did this weekend," he continued, the memory of my shame, his shame, a fresh wound. "I know what you were thinking. And I know what you wanted. What you still want."
My mind was a whirlwind of panic and denial. I wanted to scream, to tell him he was wrong, but the memory of my body's betrayal was too fresh, too raw. He had seen the proof of his power, and I knew he was right. I was trapped. But as his confidence swelled, I felt a flicker of my own will returning. It was a fragile thing, but it was there.
I finally looked him in the eyes, my gaze steady. "I won't be a part of this," I said, my voice gaining strength. "I'll see you tomorrow at the presentation."
With those words, I turned and walked out of the washroom, my heart pounding, my hands shaking. I could feel his eyes on my back, but I didn't turn around. I had left on my own terms, but the victory felt hollow. I had escaped, for now, but his words echoed in my mind. I already own you. It wasn't a lie. I had walked away, but a part of me was still in that room, held captive by his gaze and by my own dark desires. The game wasn't over. It had just moved to a new playing field.
I was determined to do something. The shame and self-loathing I felt were a bitter cocktail, and I knew the only way to rinse my mouth of the taste was to try and make it right. My mission was clear: I had to find and talk to the boy. I didn't know his name, but I knew his face—pale, terrified, and now, etched with the memory of a humiliating ordeal.
I spent the rest of the day looking for him, my eyes scanning the halls, the library, and the schoolyard. I finally spotted him at the end of the day, standing alone by the bike racks. He was hunched over, his hands gripping the handlebars, his whole body a picture of silent despair. I walked toward him, my heart in my throat.
"Hey," I said, my voice coming out as a shaky whisper.
He looked up, and the moment our eyes met, I saw it. There was no terror there, no fear, only pure, unadulterated hate. His face, so young, was suddenly a mask of contempt.
"What do you want?" he spat, the words laced with venom.
"I... I wanted to say I'm sorry," I stammered. "I saw what happened."
He laughed, a short, bitter sound. "You saw? You were right there with them. I saw you."
"No, I wasn't," I insisted, my voice gaining a desperate edge. "I just... I was with Jude. I had to go in there."
"You didn't have to stay," he shot back, his eyes narrowing. "You didn't have to watch. You liked it, didn't you? Your face..." He trailed off, shaking his head in disgust. "You looked like you were enjoying the show."
The accusation hit me like a physical blow. The shame I had felt was now amplified, externalised, and reflected in the hate in his eyes.
"I didn't," I pleaded. "I was just... I was just scared."
"Scared of what? Jude?" he sneered. "He's not a monster. He's just... a bully. But you... you're worse. You're part of it."
I had no words to defend myself. He was right. I hadn't acted. I had stood there, a silent, complicit voyeur. I had let my own twisted curiosity and my obsession with Jude trap me in a moment that had left a permanent scar on this boy. He turned away from me, a final act of dismissal.
"Leave me alone," he said, his voice flat. He put on his helmet and mounted his bike, leaving me standing there, alone with my guilt and the bitter taste of his contempt. I had gone looking for absolution, but all I had found was the undeniable proof of my own complicity.
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