Can't Afford To Lose Another Second With You (Scömìche)

Family

A/N: There's homophobic and generally hateful language in this

"Why'd you come?" I asked coldly, clutching the diploma against my chest as if it could protect me. I needed to hold onto something, something that could keep me grounded. Isn't it ironic how parents are supposed to be that safety anchor? My anchor was a high school diploma I had gotten about twenty minutes ago.

My mom shrugged, crossing her arms over her chest and leaning against the expenisve car nonchalantly. "Why do you care, we're here. Can you just stop complaining for once?"

I looked at my dad, slowly losing my temper. "Is this because of your reputation?"

"Your principal said you were the best art student they've had in a while," my mother mentioned, not letting my dad answer.

If looks could burn holes, my mother would be a pile of ash. Morbid? I hope so.

"Yes, that's right," I answered cautiously, not breaking eye contact.

"Are you sure they were talking about you? How untalented is this town that they call you the best artist?" She huffed, but my dad interrupted when he grabbed my left hand in disbelief.

"What is this?!"

I slapped his hand away, bringing mine to my chest.

"It's nothing!"

My mom's eyes widened and she took my hand again to look at the ring.

"What the actual fuck- Mitchell, you're not getting married, what the fuck?!"

I panicked. I did the only thing that came to my mind.

"Jeez, mom, can you calm down for a sec? It's just a fucking ring! I'm not engaged!"

My parents looked at me wide-eyed, in disbelief. And that's when the unthinkable happened. I felt the burning pain in my cheek before I realized that my dad had slapped me.

Tears threatened to fall but I didn't let them. My voice was quavering, but I didn't care.

"Fine," I said. "You want the fucking truth, here you go. There's a person who fucking loves me like I deserve to be loved."

"By loving you you mean fucking you in our house?" my mother spat through gritted teeth. "Last time I checked that's called being a goddamn whore!" I turned away. I couldn't believe it.

"You know what? I don't have time for that. I have better things to do than listening to you two."

I turned away to go to my car but my dad gripped my wrist tightly and stopped me. I hissed in pain.

"You were right," he spat. "All those times I gave you money to buy my fucking respect because I thought I was a bad parent. You know what it did to me? I was blaming myself for the fact that you turned out to- to be a fucking fag. But now I know it. Some kids just don't turn out the way you want them to be. You should've died so we could stop feeling guilty. We didn't want you anyway."

The words stabbed me right into my heart and pressed the air out of my lungs. I didn't know how to respond, I didn't even know how to breathe. I just turned on my heels and ran. I just ran, trying to not let the tears blur my vision. I ran to my car, getting in and then I finally let all my walls collapse. I cried and sobbed until my body felt numb. I opened my eyes again, my senses telling me that someone had wrapped me in their arms. I panicked, but before I could hit the person the familiar scent of old spice and Gucci Guilty told me it was Scott. It made me cry even harder.