The worst part of being a teenager was that adults thought you knew nothing, and children thought you knew everything. Asking questions counted as being lippy; stating an opinion counted as arguing. Adults didn't know everything, either. They sure thought they did. How was any child supposed to learn if questioning wasn't allowed? Most days, it just felt wiser to say nothing at all.

"Hey."

Hannah sat at the kitchen table, poised, the way her father had always told her to be. There was a book open in front of her, which was strange: Hannah didn't read. Crossing her arms on the table, she placed a bookmark on her page. "Yes?" Everything Anna said sounded exasperated. Asher had good memories with her, from childhood, before their father's abuse took away her spirit. That was the saddest part of all of it. "Do you need something?"

She used to be fun. As children, she and Asher would build forts out of blankets and sleep underneath them, telling scary stories and giggling at silly jokes. Hannah wasn't that kid anymore. Asher wasn't, either. "Mara said she’d bake us a cake for our birthday. Do you want to help?”

"With you?" It was a weekend. This meant a break from homework, even if only for a few hours. "Not really. I'm kind of busy right now." They said that twins had a sort of telepathy when it came to each other. This was certainly not true. Most days, Hannah didn’t even feel like a sister, let alone a twin.

He'd expected this. It still was disappointing. "But it's eighteen. It's kind of a big deal-" The adults rarely participated in activities with the children. Life was all about work and worship. It was no life for a teenager.

"I don’t care." Hannah shrugged, focusing her attention back on her book. "Go away."

It was hard to figure out when things changed. When did Hannah stop being fun and playful? The truth was that nobody would believe a child over an adult, even if they really should have. There was still time for things to go back to the way they were, though. When Hannah moved out, when she realized the truth about what was going on, maybe she'd heal. Everybody probably needed to heal.

"Okay. Well, happy birthday, Hannah."

Spring was coming, which meant that Asher would be responsible for tilling the fields for harvesting season. He didn’t love this, but it kept him busy when there was nothing else to do. Turning eighteen meant being an adult. Moving out was possible now, when the twins had the resources and the opportunity. Asher had been saving to move out, but there was a lot more to it than just making money. It was the same for all the family. Once a Zoan child turned eighteen, the adults were no longer responsible for them.

The worst part about growing up in a big family was the constant comparison to elder siblings. There was never any need for individualism, when Asher was growing up. The eldest children looked after the youngest, and the youngest children were made to be clones. If you asked Lillian, she'd tell you that children aren't entitled to privacy, that they have to earn it with good behaviour or doing what they were told. A child was to do what they were told without a question, without a single thought for themselves, without a single opportunity to learn absolutely anything on their own.

In the winter months, Lillian left the fireplace on, so that the house was always warm. Asher had always enjoyed sitting in front of the flame, reading or watching a movie with Alma. This year, he hoped to leave the house and get a job.

"There's nothing wrong with kissing boys," said Salem, when Asher first confessed he might have been interested in it. "I kiss boys all the time." Asher hadn't spoken to his brother much since he moved out, but Salem enjoyed helping out, and Asher wasn't about to reject the support.

This was only slightly comforting. "Mom said I'd go to Hell if I kissed a boy." Of course, Lillian said this about many things.

Asher was speaking to Salem over the phone. He never came to visit, and Asher didn't blame him. "Bro, I've told you a hundred times. There is no Hell. That's just something Mom tells you to scare you into behaving." There was no reason not to believe Salem. Ask anyone. They'd say he was the most honest person in the world.

In the back of his dresser drawer, Asher had a small package of weed he’d gotten from Salem. Some days, he needed something to take the edge off. At just eighteen, it was illegal for him to possess it, and Salem had known this. “I promise not to tell anybody,” Asher had said, pleading, “I promise nobody will ever find out.”

There was a lot about Asher his parents didn't know. He’d met Rowan online a year ago, after being forbidden from leaving the house. Maybe that was a bit unfair. It wasn't like Asher couldn't leave the house at all. His parents were strict for good reason, by way of protection, to shield him from the evils of the world. Rowan saw the world differently. He was from a family that took psychedelics and smoked weed in the house, whose parents treated Asher as part of the family rather than a disgrace. It felt strange. It felt wrong.

The tree in the front yard was bent over under the weight of the snow. As a kid, Asher loved burrowing underneath the snow, and having snowball fights with his siblings. Nothing was fun anymore. Nothing had been fun in years.

Asher was allowed to date, but not the way he did it. When he was sixteen, his parents had chosen a girl from the church for him to date, and this relationship hadn’t lasted long. It always began with a courtship: the most awkward part of any relationship. He was forbidden from attending unsupervised dates; his mother claimed this might lead to temptation or intimacy. Lillian was a hypocritical woman, setting rules for her children that she didn’t follow herself, and treating her family badly after listening to scriptures saying to do otherwise.

"Move in with me," said Rowan, beginning the drive to his house. "I'd like that a lot better than you staying here."

It was hard to do anything without hearing Lillian's voice in his ear: nagging, reminding him what a sinner he was, saying all the things a mother shouldn't say to her child. This made it hard to leave the house, or to have any type of freedom. "I can't."

"Why not?" Rowan was a good driver, but Asher knew nothing about how to drive. "You're eighteen now. You don't have to stay at home."

Rowan’s phone was connected to the radio. Despite being only two months older than Asher, he seemed so grown up. "Where are we going to go? I don't have any money." Turning eighteen came with a lot of stressors Asher hadn't really thought about before. No one ever taught him how to get a job, how to file taxes, how to pay bills. It wasn't fair that a teenager should have to figure all of this out on their own.

It was getting dark when Rowan parked in front of his house. It was an eclectic house, like the people inside it. Rowan smiled, putting a warm hand on top of Asher's. "Come live with me. My parents would love to have you. They'll help you find a job and everything." It didn't feel wrong, to be sitting here like this with Rowan. It didn't feel wrong to have feelings for another boy. But it was. Why did things that felt so good have to be wrong?

He pulled his hand away. "I can't."

Rowan didn't deserve this. He was a supportive, friendly boy, held back by Asher's insecurities. Mary had suggested, once, he visit her long-time therapist to discuss his childhood traumas. People like Mary were sociable and willing, and speaking to people was hard even if you knew them well. "Well, will you think about it, at least?" Rowan took his hand, locking the car door with the press of a button. It must have been nice, to grow up in a normal family. It was something Asher always daydreamed about.

It was challenging to see Rowan these days, with the rules of Asher's father. Usually, he snuck out of the house after dark, when everyone had gone to sleep, and slipped quietly inside Rowan's waiting vehicle. Once, he had been caught attempting to sneak out, and his father had beat him and shouted that he was a disgrace. According to Asher's father, everything he did was a disgrace.

Rowan’s older brother, Crue, was twenty two years old and recently married, living with his wife in another part of the city. The family home was small and warm, filled with bohemian and tie dyed decors and furniture, welcoming to everyone who came through the door. Asher never stayed long, for fear that his absence at home would be noticed.

For most people, turning eighteen meant going to college and learning to be successful. None of the Zoan children had ever learned how to do their taxes, or fill out a cheque, or get a job. It was a surprise that any of them had managed to accomplish anything on their own. For most people, turning eighteen meant finding independence and freedom. For Asher, it meant nothing more than crippling anxiety.

The first time Asher met Rowan’s parents, he was stunned. Both were women around fifty years old, who shared clothing and weed, and never seemed to argue. It felt strange to be loved. Rowan’s mother Brynn was an interior decorator. His mother Jane was a lawyer. Though he was supposed to, it was hard for Asher to feel uncomfortable around the women. From their very first meeting, Rowan’s parents were kind to him, treating him as though he was their own son.

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

Jane and Brynn were children of the eighties, and had never seemed to outgrow the culture. Both women dressed mostly in bell bottom jeans and tie dye shirts; Brynn had purple hair, which suited her. “Good to see you again, Asher. Rowan said it’s your birthday today.”

Rowan had never had to come out. He could simply bring a boy home, and his parents would treat them as just another son. “It is.” Asher removed the arm Rowan had placed around him, unwilling to break a rule, and too anxious to stand up for himself. Rowan frowned, seeming hurt. His parents acted more as friends than parents: poking fun at him for his life choices, offering him joints during get-togethers. Still, despite their lax and carefree upbringing, Rowan and Crue were responsible adults.

Jane smoked weed in the living room, smiling brightly at Asher. “Happy birthday!” Nobody at home cared about this: not even Hannah. “Brynn and I have something for you.”

Over the course of his life, Asher had learned that birthdays meant nothing. As a little kid, he looked forward to celebrating with Hannah. These days, she barely spoke to him. He envied Rowan. He’d spent a lot of nights lying awake, mourning a childhood he’d never been given. It was uncomfortable to be given positive attention. Brynn and Jane were easy to speak to, and perhaps they knew this.

“Why?”

“Because it’s your birthday,” Jane handed him an envelope, sitting next to her wife on the couch, “and you deserve to feel special on your birthday.”

None of the Zoan children had ever gotten a birthday present. Some of the youngest children didn’t even know when their birthdays were. Asher didn’t quite know how to react to receiving a gift; he’d never received one before. The envelope contained a hand-written card and a fifty dollar bill - which may not have been a lot to some, but it was the first birthday gift Asher had ever received, and this was overwhelming.

When Asher left Rowan’s home, he always hugged his mothers goodbye. It had been strange at first, as there was little affection at his own home. Rowan’s bedroom was messy and private; he sat noisily on the bed.

“There’s no way out of here,” said Monty, after an argument with their father. “We’re all either going to run away, or kill ourselves.” The truth was, probably, that nobody would have cared about either of these things.

When he was a child, Asher’s father shouted at him for crying over a bird that flew into a window. “Boys don’t cry,” he said, tossing the bird aside as though it were trash, “No girl wants a boy who acts like a baby.” Mary said there was nothing wrong with boys being emotional. Zeb said it was embarrassing to be known as a crybaby.

Rowan was speaking, and Asher wasn’t listening. Sometimes, he had daydreams so vivid that he seemed to live inside them: imagining new lives and families, creating characters he wished to become. Some days, he’d spend hours inside his head, disappointed and depressed with the realization that daydreams weren’t real. Sometimes, it felt as though he was watching his body from outside of it: like he was a puppet, being controlled by some invisible hand. Sometimes he looked in the mirror and felt as though he was looking at a stranger. It was hard to explain to anybody else. It was hard to understand, himself. Sometimes, his chest hurt so much that it felt as though it would explode. Sometimes, in moments of overwhelming stress or anxiety, he felt as though he was looking at the world through a sheet of fog. He’d asked his father once to be put on antidepressants, and he’d been laughed off. “All of that medication stuff is a scam. The big corporations just want your money.”

"Look." Rowan sat back, his hands comfortably behind his head. "All I'm saying is your family is super toxic. I don't know how you put up with it."

Rowan's bedroom was small, not unlike Asher's. If they hadn't been dating, Asher's father probably would not have hit him as hard. Asher wasn't gay. This time around, it was just Rowan who had caught his eye.

"What do you mean?"

Rowan was permitted to leave whenever he wanted, and didn't have a curfew, and this was fascinating and horrifying to Asher. "I mean-" Rowan shrugged, pushing a grey shoebox off his bed, "you're not even allowed to leave your house without permission from your dad. You and your brothers all have to dress the same and call your siblings Sister or Brother. "It sounds like a cult to me."

Sex is for marriage. It’s a sacred act, meant to be shared between a man and a woman who love one another. For a man to engage in such an act outside of marriage, or with another man, will send you to Hell. Asher remembered his father telling him this, when he was a young teenager. He remembered being scolded for thoughts of impurity, for exploring himself in the early days of puberty. It wasn’t natural, any of these things. It wasn’t natural for a boy to like a boy.

When Rowan reached for him, Asher withdrew, stung. "Why would you say that?" He shouldn't have snuck out that night. Home was lonely and noisy, and didn't feel much like home at all. These days, nowhere really felt like home. "My dad just wants me to be a good Christian boy." Orion had told him this more times than once, mostly at times when he was attempting to make a good impression on the priest. Tomorrow, the priest was coming for dinner.

"He wants you to be a brainwashed clone with no mind of your own." Rowan winced, realizing the harshness of his words. "Okay, I'm sorry, but it's true." Rowan was often opinionated and brash, never taking a moment to think through his words before saying them. This had been one of the things Asher had liked most about him. He shrugged, looking away from Rowan, reaching for his sneakers to return home. He never should have left. "Ash, I'm sorry." He put a hand on Asher's leg, who didn't move it away. "I just hate that you live there."

He'd made this abundantly clear, but it was unfair to judge a situation when you knew so little of it. In a couple of hours, the sun would come up, and Asher's father would come downstairs to wake him. Feeling a pit in his stomach, he began to tie his shoes. "I should go home. Can you drive me?" Some nights, he rode his bicycle to Rowan's house. Tonight, it was too cold. Sighing, Rowan stood.

Twice a day, Asher was in charge of milking the cows. There were twenty of them: some to provide for the family, and some to provide for the community. As the oldest boy, he was meant to gather the milk and cream, plough the fields for harvest, fix finicky machines, and prepare the food for selling. Orion, who didn’t trust his sons, never let them sell. None of them minded this much.

Asher wasn't allowed to have a cell phone. None of his siblings were, until they moved out on their own. Mary, who worried about him, had bought him one secretly, which he was grateful for. It felt lonely, living such an isolated life, but he was eighteen now, and nobody cared once you turned eighteen. His father rarely left the home, aside from church functions and short visitations with members of the community. Orion owned a popular retail store, but everyone knew he didn't care one bit about its employees if he didn't get anything from it. Asher's mother, Lillian, worked as an accountant at the church, which he hated to mention. It was embarrassing, being from a family like his. Thoughts like this would get him into too much trouble.

Rowan drove him home in silence, the city dark except for the streetlights. "I love you," he said, after stopping in front of the farmhouse, which was not as far away as one would think. Sometimes it was difficult to respond. Asher would try and speak, tricked by the words which caught in his throat and made his tongue feel heavy. Being a sinner brought a sense of shame on a person. Asher knew this better than anybody.

"Bye," he said, and hurried inside.

It was risky, returning home at such an hour. Some nights, Seraphim, who knew of his past escapes, would stay up and wait quietly for him, waiting for a chance to expose his misbehaviour to their father. She was always rewarded, in some way or another, when she did this.

Asher was often told to be more like his elder brothers: most frequently, Zeb, whom he didn't trust. To most, Zeb was a charismatic and intelligent man – but he'd always hated Asher, and it was never exactly a secret. Despite his superficial charm, Zeb had a lot of secrets. Then again, so did everybody else, too.

Seraphim sat on a step stool inside the door, staring at her half-brother the way his mother used to. She flicked on a light, scowling at him, tapping her fingers on her thigh. "I know where you were."

"Okay." At eleven years old, she reminded Asher of her mother, in looks and in style. "Why are you staying up watching for me? Don't you have anything better to do?" He was tired, slipping his shoes carefully into line with the others, shuffling down the hall. If the shoes weren't perfectly in order, Orion would have something to say.

Seraphim was a twin, too. Though she looked like Eve, the girls were nothing alike. Seraphim was insufferable and obedient, and reminded Asher of Hannah. Perhaps this was why they struggled to get along. Eve was quiet and never bothered to care about other people’s business. Seraphim followed him, her bare feet slapping on the tile floor. "You should be ashamed of yourself. I know you and Rowan are still together." It seemed she had this strange obsession with involving herself in other people's lives, as if hers lacked excitement or something. Seraphim was annoying. Seraphim was a younger version of Hannah.

Asher spun around, in the hallway outside his bedroom. "What's your problem, anyway? Why can't you just mind your own business?”

As kids, Asher and his siblings were made to kneel beside their beds and say their bedtime prayers. There was a photo of the Last Supper on the wall of the entryway, painted on canvas and framed in a handmade frame. Seraphim sighed, loudly. "You’re supposed to do what you’re told. If you don’t, I’ll get in trouble too.”

Asher knew, like anyone, that what he was doing was wrong. Sometimes it was much too hard to do what was right, even when you knew you should. Though infuriating, Seraphim had much more self-control than he did, and she knew it. "What are you talking about?" He knew what she meant. It was easier to question than to argue.

Their father was awake. Asher could hear him, shuffling around in the kitchen.

"Sariah is trying to be a boy. You're gay. Alma-”

"I'm not gay."

It shouldn't have mattered. Things like this always mattered to his sisters. "I know you and Rowan didn't break up. You can lie to Mother, but I'm not stupid."

"I like girls, too."

"So?" Across the hallway was Seraphim’s room, decorated with purples and greys, looking oddly sophisticated. "You have a boyfriend, so you're gay." Maybe she was right. He'd hate to admit this. When Orion began to make his way downstairs, the children scattered into their respective bedrooms.