Polaroid (Troyler)

Chapter Two (Tyler)

CHAPTER TWO                                                                                                                          
August 15, 2015

*TRIGGER WARNING- EXCESSIVE CURSING, PARENTAL ABUSE, DARK THOUGHTS, PANIC ATTACKS (not really but just in case), OFFENSIVE SLURS (is that a trigger idk i just wanna make sure no one gets hurt or trigger or anything reading this ok ily all)*

I was hiding when I heard him.

I could feel the panic slamming through my body, and to some it may feel like adrenaline, but to me it was pure, unadulterated horror.  With every slammed footstep he came closer, and I tried to squirm farther back into the corner of the closet I was hiding in.  He usually couldn't find me in here.

Not many eighteen year old boys are still scared of their fathers, I know.  But this is a special case, I guess.

"Hey faggot!  Where are you hiding, you disgusting piece of shit?  I wish you were never fucking born, you fucking bastard!" 

I let out a whimper unintentionally, immediately clamping my hand over my mouth and screwing up my face in frustration and fear.  My chest was rising and falling at an unnatural rate, and the darkness felt as if it was furling around me and crushing me on each side.  I really should be used to this treatment after three years.  One day he was your average suburban dad in Birkenstocks and a hawaiian tee, and the next day I was out of the closet and he was suddenly as homophobic as the 1900s. 

If it wasn't for me, mom would still be alive.  It was my fault.  Everything was my fault.

A bang outside of the door brought me back to earth with a jump.  I scrunched up my face.  He'd found me.  I'd hoped today I could miss out on the bruising- I had a job interview to look decent for. 

"Get out of there now, unless you want me to use the belt this time!"

Last time he had used the belt I was bruised for three weeks.  I got up and shakily left my hiding spot.  He was waiting outside the door, the stringent scent of alcohol clinging to his skin.  I could feel the blood drain from my face and my knees violently trembling when his disgust filled eyes met mine.  I mean, I deserved it, but that didn't help me from being selfish and wishing it wasn't me, that it was anyone but me here dealing with this punishment. 

Before I even had a chance to prepare myself, I felt his hand make contact with my cheek, sharp and stinging. 

"You ugly, stupid, pitiful fag.  You're not my son, I would never allow someone like you to be created, you piece of shit," he breathed maliciously into my face, his breath washing over my face in a warm, biting cloud.  I rolled my lip between my teeth, subconsciously trying to move backwards away from him, but of course he noticed. 

"Where are you going, faggot?  Trying to run away?" He demanded.  That was my chance.  I turned and sprinted towards the front door with all I had in me, my father right on my heels.  I thanked my lucky stars that he was old and slow, because if he wasn't he definitely would've caught me before I got outside.  My ass barely cleared the door when I slammed it shut and blocked the handle with a porch chair.  I breathed a sigh of relief, feeling my anxiety levels slowly begin to dwindle.  I had been lucky.

I felt around inside my pocket for any money to take a bus into town instead of walking the mile.  Nothing.  I probably needed the exercise anyway. 

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It took a little under half an hour to arrive in town, leaving me 30 minutes before I had to be in the coffee shop.  Speaking of, I guessed I should probably figure out what it was called before going in there to grovel for a job to keep me out of the house.  Upon further investigation (read: stalking from a distance), I learned the shop was called Cinnamon Cafe- not the most original name, nor the most interesting.  It was, however, well named, as when I stood across the street from the place, the thick sugary smell was effective in furthering the calming of my nerves.