Jam & Jelly

Mom, Why are there Nails in the Closet?

Chapter Ten: Mom, Why are there Nails in the Closet?-

(Samuel's POV)

(Memory of Samuel's: Samuel's Perspective- Time depicts his youth when his mother was alive.)

"Samuel?" She called, her voice cracking from the kitchen. "Samuel, come here now!"

I was laying back against my bed, my heavy eyes finally closing as I found it in me to relax. But then my eyes opened, widened, and narrowed from the sound of her call. "Yes, mother?" I answered back, rising to my feet as I headed down the hall.

"What is this?" She snapped.

Great, all I need. I thought. Mother was an odd character. She never had high days or low days; it was either low days or rock bottom days. Honestly, I could care less if her days were visiting to the deep pits of Hell and back, I hated her- I still do.

She had these stupid rules, and no matter what I did it wasn't good enough. I hated how she treated Carolina like she was my age, expecting her to follow her pathetic guidelines; she was only four at the time. I couldn't stand mother's ways. You had to always be on point; making your bed, cleaning the house after school, making dinner, washing the dishes, washing the family clothes, I could go on forever. And boy, the punishments were high if you didn't.

I made my way into the kitchen, seeing her pointing finger at a dish. "You ate dinner in your room mother." I remarked, taking note that dish was, in fact, hers but also made sure to keep my tone as respective as possible. "I figured you'd call when you wanted me to wash it. Would you like for me to clean up your dish, mother?" I asked.

Her eyes narrowed as she looked over me. "Fag." She retorted. I stood there, my fingers drawing together in spite of the awkwardness. "Would you like for me to clean up your dish, mother?" I repeated as my eyes locked to the floor.

Her lips pressed together into a tight smile. "Does cocksucker want to wash the dishes like a pansy?" She mocked. "Huh?" I turned red, my hands moving to play with the hem of my shirt. "I- I um." I croaked out, my eyes flickering up to hers.

"Wash it!" She screamed, whipping the wet cloth at me. "Wash it!"

She was beyond drunk. I can always tell when mom's drunk because she raves on the fact that she doesn't have the athletic, masculine son she always wanted. She always called me a queer for that reason, not because I ever came out to her. I think it was the fact that she never really knew which way I swung that upheld a little bit of a consciousness in her mind. She had no immediate proof of my sexuality, just the fact that I was more of a feminine man lacking in any sort of dominance.

Once the whacking stopped she sighed, throwing the cloth hard against my chest and shoved past me. "Just wash the damn dishes like I told you to. I don't ask much of you." She muttered, heading down the hall.

I honestly wasn't shocked by her crude behavior; to tell you the truth she has done worse. Even if she didn't have the proof that I was gay that didn't mean she had no problem shooting the names at me one after another. I'd say my least favorite is when she calls me a vagina, I'm use to fag by now.

I never really looked at my family life as that bad. I made the mistake of telling a close friend of mine, Allie- she never let it go after that. She's still one of my closest friends till this day and I suppose it wasn't exactly a mistake telling her if I think twice about it.

Allie was the first person I came out to. It felt nice getting it off my chest, even though I did cry when I told her. I knew how my mother would react if she ever, ever found out.