February 10, 2011
I knew my parents weren’t going to like what I had to say. I knew my parents were going to deny the truth of my confession. I even expected them to tell me that I was no longer their son. I never could’ve imagined that they would hurt me. I was ready for the cold, harsh words when they fell from my father’s lips. I wasn’t ready for the slap across the face that accompanied it. A look of shock was frozen on my face, eyes wide with fear for what was to come as the silence rang through the room.

“We don’t hit our kids, John.” My mother said, in a clam voice, carefully avoiding my gaze.

“As far as I’m concerned, we don’t have any kids, because this boy-”he pointed an accusing finger at me“-is no son of mine!”

They continued fighting like that while I just stood there. Was this really a reason to hit me? Of course not, the rational part of my brain told me, but there was always that one small part that told me I deserved it.

I was running late, and I knew it. These days I tried to stay out of trouble but while studying for my final exam in calculus at the library, I had lost track of time. Carefully leaning my bike against the shed, I entered the house with my key and shut the door as quietly as I possible could; hoping I would be able to slip up to my room without my parents noticing… but my father noticed everything.

As soon as I had closed the door, he had come out of the living room. I could tell by the lack of sound that my mother wasn’t home.

I saw it coming and dropped my bag from my shoulder. I wish I could say that the sound of my books hitting the floor made a louder sound than the one that his fist made when it connected with my face.

I could feel the blood dripping from my nose and down my face. I tried not to make a sound as the blows continued to land, leaving aching pain and bruises I knew I’d find later, but I couldn’t help but cry out in pain. I could feel the tears sliding down my cheeks, and screamed out as I was thrown into the stairs, busting my chin open as well.

I scrambled up, only to be tripped by my father’s outstretched leg. I heard him fall with me, and he grabbed onto my legs so I couldn’t get up. Adrenaline finally rushing through my veins, I kicked out and as soon as I felt my foot connect with his face, I got up and ran out the back door into the night.

I took the bag of ice that Lysander handed me and held it to my gradually swelling nose, leaning against him when he sat next to me on the bed in his small but homey room. As I looked around at the familiar stained bureau, the dark blue walls covered in posters of favorite bands, the small desk in the corner with a laptop, the small nightstand holding a digital alarm clock and a picture of the two of us, and the bed with the fraying quilt, I wished that my parents were as accepting of me as Lysander’s parents were of him.

He wrapped his arm around me and murmured, “You can stay here with me, James. My parents won’t mind…”

I gave him a small, genuine smile. “Thanks.”

And as his lips pressed to mine, the world finally felt right.

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LunaLover14 This work has been published in the Teen Ink monthly print magazine. said...
Feb. 17, 2011 at 5:58 pm

This is good, I liked it.  

Is there a chapter before or a chapter after this or something?  I didn't really understand what was going on.

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