Incendiary Hearts

Chapter Nineteen

Michael parked the car but stayed put and just stared at the rundown house in front of him. There were several areas where the once soft blue color that his mother had loved so much had greyed and even chipped off. No one had mowed the lawn in ages. It looked like someone had given up on the house years ago. Which was kind of true. Michael had been the only one that had bothered to take care of the house after his mother's passing. His father couldn't have cared less.

Dilapidated, was the word he looked for. The house looked dilapidated.

He backed out the car and drove away a million times in his head before finally stepping out of the car. He walked up to the porch with care after hearing several floorboards complain underneath his weight. There was light coming from the window, so he guessed his father was home. It's not like he'd gone anywhere apart from work and then any nearby bar even when Michael had lived here. Why would now be any different?

He checked under the weathered door mat. They're still there, he thought as he picked up the keys. He drew in a deep breath before putting in the key and turning it. The door creaked open and Michael's nose scrunched up from the smell.

"Whose there?" A familiar yet much frailer voice called out from the living room. Michael heart thumped uncomfortably, but he still walked inside. "I'll call the police if you don't reveal yourself!"

Michael nearly rolled his eyes and walked straight over to the living room and stepped inside. An old-looking man was sitting in his father's worn-out armchair. The dim light coming from one of the lamps on a bureau somewhat lit up the wrinkled features of the man's face. His thin lips were chapped, hair thinned, and the laughter lines seemed to go on forever, even though Michael had barely heard him laugh once while growing up. This man looked old and frail, well past the sixty-four years he had actually lived. The nasal cannula in his nostrils and the oxygen tank next to the armchair didn't exactly help. But his eyes. His eyes looked as cold and cruel as Michael remembered them.

"You?" The man said in a rough yet week voice. "What are you doing here?"

"What, I'm not allowed to visit my own father?" Michael asked but the voice was contemptuous, as he sat down on the couch opposite his father; the man who had caused him so much suffering throughout the years, yet whose love he'd always craved, at least up until his early twenties.

"Oh, so I am still your father?" The old man scoffed.

Isn't it interesting, no matter what your parents do to you, no matter how much they let you down and no matter how old you get, there's always going to be a part of you that still hopes for their unconditional love. How Michael had hoped, prayed and exhausted the wishes for his father's love throughout the years, no matter how much of a bastard he actually was.

He remembered their last talk so vividly, it could have occurred yesterday. How, after his father had punched him for seeing him kiss a guy, Michael had snuck over to his place when his father had been at work to bring some of his things over to the Hart family. Just when he'd finished packing, he'd heard the front door open and close, and his whole body had frozen into place. His heart had started ticking like the milliseconds of a clock as his eyes had darted around the room. He'd tucked a few more things into his duffel bag before zipping it up and leaving the room. He'd known he wouldn't be able to avoid his father completely, but he'd wanted the man to have as short awareness of his presence as possible, and so he'd quietly snuck down the stairs and had managed to reach the hallway before the floorboards had betrayed him.

His father had come out from the kitchen, already a bottle of beer in his hand and had stopped at the entrance, glaring at his own flesh and blood. "Thought I wouldn't see you for a while," he'd grumbled.

"Oh don't worry about it, I'm leaving, for good this time."

"Off to that perfect little Hart family, eh? Tell me, do they know you're a fag? Or better yet, do they know that you've been getting nasty, doing sinful things to their own son?"

Michael's whole body had frozen into place. Sure, the Hart family already knew Kevin was gay, and they didn't treat him any differently for it. They had loved him just the same. But what would they have thought if they knew that the boy they'd taken under their wings had, in fact, taken their son's virginity? Under their own roof, at that. Michael had felt sick, close to open his mouth and just let the sour puke leave his body along with the embarrassment and self-hatred he'd felt in that moment. His hands had turned into fists, but he'd kept his back to his father.

"That's what I thought," his father had sneered, and then left the hallway, taking a large gulp from his bottle before he'd sunk down on the armchair and turned on the TV.

Michael had stood still for several seconds, weighing his options. He'd known the threats to be empty, even if they were painful, but there was so much he'd wanted to say. So many things he'd wanted to ask, one question burned extra bright in his mind.

Why do you hate me so much?

His lips had formed into thin lines, and he'd eventually strode toward the door, knowing his questions would never be answered. "Goodbye, father," were the last words Michael had spoken to him before he'd slammed the door shut.

Michael let go of a breath as well as letting go of the memories. Let them fly away in the wind, never to return, he hoped. "You never stopped being it just because you banished me from my own home."

"No son of mine is a faggot."

Four and a half. Four and a half years had come and passed since his father had seen him kissing Kevin outside the house, and he had barely seen him since, yet that was still what his father was thinking of when he saw his son for the first time in years. He truly was a sad man. Why hadn't Michael seen this before? It was all so clear to him now. Michael still raised an eyebrow, though, surprised over how little his father's words affected him. "But the money I send you every month is still good?" He couldn't help but counter.

"Why are you here?" His father all but growled.

Michael squared his shoulders. "I guess I've finally decided to confront my demons. All of them." When his father didn't say anything, Michael decided to continue, say what he'd come here to say. "All my life, I was afraid of you. And I only ever craved your acceptance, your love. That's all I ever wanted," he said, feeling more and more relieved as he uttered the words that had been branded on his mind for so many years. His father scoffed before coughing. Michael looked at the pathetic man before him. Wondered why he'd ever feared him. "I'm bisexual and in love with a man, and I'm not going to be ashamed of it. Not anymore."

He could see the anger building up in the old man's face, but also the realization that he couldn't do anything about it. Michael was stronger. Much stronger. The older man chose to fight with words instead. "Your sins will take you to hell."

"Well," Michael started with a shrug of acceptance and stood up from the musty couch. He left the living room and went for the door, finally ready to leave all of this behind him. "I guess I'll see you there then."

"Sodomy is a sin!" His father shouted after him. "You're a disgrace! Disgusting!"

Michael didn't reply as he left the house. He didn't need to. He found the words didn't touch him, not like they once had. And it made him feel... free.

This transformation gifted him a sense of emancipation, as though a lifetime of burdens had lifted off his shoulders, leaving behind a weightless existence. Like all the toxins were finally drained from his system. Well, most of them at least. There was just one more thing he needed to do, though he feared it would be the most difficult one.