Keeping A Straight Face | ✔

21 | Empathy

*WARNING: THERE WILL BE HATRED IN THIS CHAPTER - SPECIFICALLY, RACISM AND LGBTQ+ PREJUDICE. PLEASE READ WITH DISCRETION!*

D A R K O' S   P.O.V

Monday Evening, February 11th, 2014. 

I gnawed on the inside of my cheek as I shot through the neighbourhood, the wind tickling my torso as it whipped around me. My knuckles paled against the handlebars as my grip tightened, the white reminiscent of the wild daisies that littered the grassy patches I passed. I'm going thirty kilometres above the speed limit, but I don't care. My mind kept wandering to the phone call I had with Stefan.

"Get home, now. We need to fucking talk about this, and I don't want to do it on the phone." 

My life is over. I want to kill Bella. 

I can hear the disappointment in Stefan's voice. The betrayal. I'm the one thing he despises the most in this world - a male, homosexual human being.

My stomach knotted as I rounded a corner, my tires barely avoiding the curb.

Stefan wouldn't hesitate to tell Mum and Dad everything. I can see it now - I'm going to arrive home and they'll all be sitting on the porch, their faces etched with disbelief and anger. They're going to berate and curse at me until they think I'm straight again. They will never love me like how they used to.

Hell, I wouldn't be surprised if they kick me out.

I rounded a final corner and reached the beginning of my street. Dread filled every muscle in my body, paralysing me on my bike. It would be another minute or so before I reached my house, but it felt like time was speeding up the more I waited here.

My head is pounding. I sighed, hastily taking off my helmet.

This is it. The final stretch before everything changes.

I tousled my hair, letting all of the sweat drip free from my scalp, before fixing the helmet back on. As slowly as I could possibly go, I drove back to my house. There's no point trying to avoid it.

~~~~~

Stefan stood there, arms folded, on the porch couch outside our house as I pulled into the driveway. I took off my helmet, turning to face him.

He shook his head, before walking inside. His arms never uncrossed. I felt like vomiting.

They're probably all in the loungeroom, ready to give me their best intervention, or their 'being gay is bad! Come to church, before it's too late!' speech.

I shoved my key deep into my pocket, clutching my helmet in my hands. I opened the flyscreen door, welcomed by the familiar scent of roasted beef.

I knitted my brows, confusion permeating my nerves.

Stefan was nowhere to be found; from the front door, you could see the stairwell to the second floor, the kitchen, the dining room and the loungeroom. He wasn't anywhere. Mum was humming a tune to herself as she pulled the aforementioned beef from the oven, while Dad watched TV, completely unfazed.

What the hell is going on?

"Hey dear," Mum said, smiling as she looked up at me, "how was your motorcycling stuff?"

I smiled, a complete facade of how I was really feeling. "It was uh... all right. Where did Stefan walk off to just then?"

Dad gruffed, swishing his beer to the stairwell. "Think he went upstairs."