It was colder than what he was used to. His walls, though sturdy, were thin and did little to keep the December chill away. The wind outside howled and rain scraped against his window like fingernails on a chalkboard. Bookshelves lined his wall filled with novels of every genre. Everything immaculate and alphabetically ordered. His walls held very little personal touches besides a calendar and were the same pale blue as when he was born seventeen years ago. His fan turned in a steady lull over his head. The rhythmic click of the slow spinning was hypnotic and he almost forgot the terrors of that day. Almost.
He could hear the shouts of his mother from downstairs. The sound, though muffled by the pillow over his head, echoed in his ears. He had buried himself in his bed; a fort of childhood covers and feather pillows. He kept his eyes squeezed shut and didn’t dare to poke his head out from under his pillow, even though he was slowly running out of air. A glass shattered downstairs followed by a curse. His mother, though sweet and kind when sober, was a monster in a floral patterned dress when drunk. The shouting grew louder and though he pushed himself further under his covers he couldn’t escape the venom filled words.
“I think you should calm down,” His father's voice was recognizable by his deep baritone, “it’s really not that big of a deal.”
“No big deal?!” His mother's voice was high and sharp like a whip. Even though she was inebriated her words were not slurred, “This is a very big deal!”
The sound of another glass breaking was followed by the knowledge that this one had probably been no accident.
“There is no reason for that type of behavior. Have you even talked to him since dinner? He is your son, you know.”
“That thing is not my son!” The steel tone of his mother's words and the finality behind them stung. He curled in on himself; a fist protesting the harsh words thrown at him by the one person that should understand and love unconditionally.
“He’s a monster! Impure! I dont know what he did with my little boy but that thing is not my son!”
“Mary, I’ve had just about enough of you tonight!” His father had finally snapped, “You seem to have a knack for pointing fingers at everybody but yourself! You wave that Bible around, playing God, and I’m tired of it!”
“Dammit Henry, listen to me! I’m not playing God! All I’m saying is that its not right for a male to love anoth-”
“There you go again! Looking down on him as though you're better!”
“I am better than him! We both are! I don’t know where I went wrong! I took him to church every Sunday,” The clacking of his mothers heels could be heard as she paced back and forth, “we even sat in the very front pew!”
“Well maybe you should go back to church Mary, because despite your regular attendance you don’t seem to have learned much! I’m going out.” His father used harsh, curt words meant to sting. The sound of a door opening could be heard and then a slam as his father left.
Silence followed, undisturbed except for the occasional sniffle from his mother. He wanted to go down and comfort her but he could still feel her harsh words echo in his mind. He couldn’t work up the courage to confront her and wondered if she had been right in assuming he wasn't her son anymore. He didn't feel any different, but his mother did know him better than he knew himself sometimes. However this thought led to another; if he wasn’t himself anymore than who was he? It was only then that the tears came. Tears from the harsh words his mother had said, tears from the confusion he felt within himself. He rolled over in his bed, water dripping downfrom his closed lids, staining his pillow, hoping sleep would take him.
