Catholic Guilt and the Joy of Hating Men - By Regan Wolfrom Page 0,33
at. And she was talking to them, and the old urges to throw up, or curl up in a fetal position... those urges were gone.
“Would you like to go to Quinta with me?” Diogo asked her one day as they walked along the Avenue. “I would love to show it to you.”
Marguerite laughed. “Have you forgotten who my brother is? He’s an old pro at taking girls to Quinta.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“Then I won’t ruin this for you.” She grabbed his hand and squeezed. “I’d love to go to Quinta with you.”
They kept walking, but with their hands locked together.
“Oh...” Marguerite said, “do you mean right now?”
Diogo smiled and nodded. “If you have time.”
Marguerite leaned over and gave the young man a kiss on the cheek.
He took her through the gardens for a little while to start, telling her stories about Quinta that she’d heard two months before from her brother, although when Diogo told the stories they sounded far better, even with a few mispronounced words.
They reached the glade of flowers and mushrooms.
Diogo knelt down and picked up a mushroom. "Have you tried it?" he asked.
"I have," she said, "but I don't feel like having any today."
"Just eat it." He took an oversized bite and held out the rest.
"No," she said.
“I want to show you the pozo iniciatico,” Diogo said.
“The Initiation Well,” Marguerite said.
Diogo nodded and led her down the path.
“At the bottom of the well is the nine circle of hell,” Diogo said. “The knights would give an... oath, and they would say that they would be happier in hell than they would be to make dishonor to the Templários.”
Marguerite nodded. She was in heaven.
They walked together down the winding steps of the well, deep into the earth. Diogo was getting grabbier, moving from her hands to her thighs, to her hips, to her rear... she didn’t mind at all. It was about time someone made a big deal over her.
When they reached the marble floor and the red arrows, Diogo went in for the kiss. It was a little sloppier than she’d expected from a guy who’d seemed so smooth, but she still liked it.
“You are beautiful,” Diogo said, brushing a tuft of hair from her forehead.
“So are you,” Marguerite said.
Diogo laughed. And then he kissed her again.
“What are you doing?” a voice called out, deep and loud and frightening.
Diogo pulled back.
Marguerite stood and watched as Diogo glanced around the bottom of the well, more nervous than she’d have expected.
“It’s not funny,” Diogo said. “Who are you?”
“Marguerite...” the voice said. “Where has your beloved gone, Marguerite?”
“What beloved?” Marguerite asked.
“Do you not love another? One of my humble men?”
“This is stupid,” Diogo said. “Who are you?”
Marguerite walked over toward the dark at the edge of the well, to where the stone met the rock.
The door was open, the tunnel before them.
“I am not going in there,” Diogo said.
“You are not welcome in here,” the voice said. “Leave us, Diogo. You are a fool.”
“We should go, Marguerite,” Diogo said. “This is not funny.”
Marguerite nodded. “I want to get out of here,” she said.
She felt the hands on her legs, far too low to be from Diogo. She started kicking out, but she felt more hands come.
The invisible hands all pulled at once, and Marguerite dropped to the floor. The hands lifted her, and she felt her body being carried towards the blackness.
“Diogo!”
As she was pulled into the tunnel, Marguerite watched Diogo as he kept talking to her as if she was standing beside him. And then she saw Diogo’s slobbery tongue making out with thin air, his hands grabbing at an ass that wasn’t there.
“Diogo!”
He couldn’t hear her.
The invisible hands kept their grip. And they brought her deeper into the tunnel.
The light disappeared and everywhere was dark; she knew the door had been closed once again.
They laid her down on the soft bed she remembered.
And then the hands let her go.
Marguerite stayed where she’d been placed for several minutes, waiting for someone to come. She hadn’t recognized the deep voice; it wasn’t from her brown-hatted gnome or from his orange-hatted friend. The voice didn’t sound like a gnome, really, not that she had too many examples to draw from.
Marguerite stood up and felt her way around the tunnel, just as she had before. And just like before, she couldn’t find a way out. She tried not to panic, to tell herself