Naughts and Crosses

Chapter two

Everything in that house on the hill was dull. The walls, a horrible white colour of concrete, adorned with more white details. The pond was not blue in colour anymore, but a dull, toned down brown colour. The green around it didn't seem as vibrant as it once had been.

The living room where Clay sat felt different than it once had. As a kid, it would feel cavernous, the ceilings reaching up to the second floor, and the windows that showed a large back garden, their pool never covered.  Now, it felt quite suffocating, with his parents' terrifying glare.

The furniture hadn't been changed since Clay's grandfather had owned the house, giving it that eerie feel, like perhaps it may have been haunted.

He always felt as though he had to dress nice when at home. He had a white polo shirt on, the top few buttons undone to let himself breathe. His shorts were more of a cream colour. He felt stupid, dressed like that, but it is what his parents expected of him.

"Drinking, again?" His father's voice was loud, booming against the walls as it always did. "What are you doing with your life, Clay? This isn't how we raised you!"

Clay only leaned back on the grey couch, arms folded. He cursed himself for hoping one of his younger siblings to fall and break a bone, or maybe something less dramatic, just something that means he had enough time to leave.

"It was a beer," Clay exasperated, eyes involuntarily rolling into the back of his head. "I'm sure there's much worse things I could be doing. It's not like I was the one who was out of my mind drunk! That was Nick! What the fuck does he have to do with me?!"

Loud slam
   Loud crash
      Broken vase

"Richard," Clay's mother said, an almost scolding tone. "Stop that."

"No!" The father yelled again. "First he's drinking, next thing we know he's going to knock up some poor girl and he'll be left with a baby to take care of!" Watching his father like that wasn't unfamiliar; the rage was expected as a reaction to even the tiniest thing. "Better yet, for all we know, we've let him use the beach house for the summer and he could be off being a faggot!"

Clay bit his tongue, rolled his eyes.

"I'm not a fag, Dad," He murmured. "Fucking Christ, I drink a few beer with my friends and all of a sudden I'm a faggot?" His voice became gradually louder, and he stood up from the couch. "This is such bullshit!"

"Don't use the Lord's name in vain," The mother scolded, a harsh tone to her voice. "And stop that swearing!"

Clay only rolled his eyes, and brought his hands to his temples. "I can't do this anymore," He mumbled, his throat becoming tight. "I'm going back to the beach house. I can't be here anymore."

He turned around, eyeing up the large wooden doors that lead to freedom, the escape from his own personal hell. He walked towards them as if they were the gates to heaven.

"You will stay right here until you can learn to be the boy we raised you to be!"

Clay halted, turned around.

"I'm not perfect!" He shouted, so loud that he had to stop for a moment, allowing the rawness of his throat to soothe. "I'm sorry that I'm not the son you wanted, okay? Push these expectations on Harvey! I'm done!"

Everything was silent. He could only hear the beating of his own heart. It felt as though the room darkened, like the sun had ran away.

Clay tensed his jaw. "I'll see you at the birthday dinner," He mumbled, and then he stepped foot into the gates of heaven.

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