Heart of Stone

I Don't Believe

It's been two days since the lion attack and my leg is healing up well. I can walk fine, but Brendon still keeps a close eye on me.

We walk towards the setting sun, keeping an eye out for wild animals- or humans, for that matter.

"Ryan?" He asks, almost nervously.

"Yeah?"

"Are you gay?" I stop walking at this. He looks at me like I'm ready to blow, which, well, isn't that far off.

"Excuse me?" I ask, my voice raising two octaves.

"I just- I don't know. You just seem like it, that's all."

"And why would I seem like it?" My tone is growing colder by the second.

"Well, gee, Ryan. Let me think. Hm." He puts his finger on his chin in mock thought, then suddenly raises it and his eyebrows furrow. "You fucking cuddle me at night! And don't think I don't notice the way you look at me. God, you're a closet case 101!"

I stare down at him incredulously. He caught that? Shit. I stay silent while he continues. "And I don't think you're sharing all of your childhood. I think your dad kicked you out because of your sexuality."

"You have no right to talk about my parents!" I yell at him.

"But I have the right to help you. Ryan, there's nothing wrong with you. Your parents just couldn't see that." He grabs my hand, trying to comfort me. I yank it back.

"What do you know? You weren't there! You were too busy living your perfect fucking life with your stupid fucking accepting family! They probably don't even genuinely care about you!" I scream at him, our faces inches apart. I watch the fire build and build in his eyes.

Suddenly, Brendon slaps me across my face. Hard. And just like that, everything goes black.

I nervously peek into the living room. I see my mother sitting on the couch, knitting that blanket she's been working on the past few weeks. My father sits in the chair adjacent to her, newspaper in hand.

I take a deep breath and walk in the room.

"Hi, sweetie," my mom says.

My dad looks up at me. "Hey, son."

I shakily take in a breath and say, "Can I talk to you guys?"

My mom sets down her knitting needles and stands up. My father joins her.

"Of course," he says softly. "What is it, George?"

I want to crawl in a hole and hide forever. Telling them is the last thing I want to do, but I have to. If I want to be happy, I have to.

"It's, uh, it's about me starting Catholic school in the fall," I spit out and nervously await their response.

"Oh, yes!" my mom says excitedly, clapping her hands together. "It'll be so good for you, George! You'll love it! You'll make plenty of friends, don't worry." As if that's what I'm worried about.

"No. No. The thing is," I pause to find the words. "I- don't. Want to go." I finally look up and watch their expressions fall.

"What do you mean son?" My dad says, crossing his arms.

A wave of nervousness washes through me. I run my hand through my hair and say, "Maybe we should sit down."

My parents pass a questioning look between them, but they follow me to the couch anyway.