Broken Home Bar

:: 3 :: T E R R E N C E :: 3 ::

"Idiot" Terrence mutters to himself as he leaves the bar. He realized that he told Charlie that he would see them tomorrow at school. But it's a Friday night. Neither of them have school until Monday. Idiot.

Terrence lets his mind wander as he begins the 20-minute walk to his grandfather's house. It's not his house, and it sure as hell isn't home. Terrence doesn't call anywhere home. Home died with his Mama. It left with his unknown father. Home sure as hell isn't with his grandfather.

Terrence shakes his head, trying to focus on something, anything else. Naturally, that something else is his long-time crush. Charlie. Charlie has to be the most adorable person on this earth, in Terrence's eyes. Their hipster glasses and grey beanie. Their love of flannel. Their obsession over books and musicals. He lives the way Charlie's eyes light up whenever they talk about a book or a random art fact or the latest musical they listened to or about the latest swim meet.

Just today at school, Charlie spent the entire lunch period talking to Terrence about swimming. Terrence has very little knowledge about the sport, but he lives how excited Charlie gets about it. They make their friend Jean Paul, beating their friend Karl by .6 seconds in the 50 Fly sound exciting. Or the way Charlie bounces in their seat when they tell Terrence that they beat their last time or won their heat or event.

A fond smile makes its way onto Terrence's face and he allows it to stay until he sees his street sign. Then, he schools his face into a neutral expression. Two, three, four, houses pass before he reaches his grandfather's house. Walking up the porch, he opens the unlocked front door. Hearing nothing, Terrence assumes that he's in the clear and prepares to speed-walk to his room.

"You're late" the sound of his grandfather's voice sounds from the living room. Terrence winces, freezing.

"I'm sorry, sir."

Terrence's grandfather stands up and walks over to him, towering over his grandson. Terrence is only 5'11 to his grandfather's 6'7, and the old man is intimidating. Six-foot-seven with a build like a football player and a straight posture and stern face that remains even in his sixties.

"That's the third time this week that you've been late, boy." His voice is raspy, strained from years of smoking.

"I know, sir. I'm sorry, sir" Terrence keeps his head bowed. Looking his grandfather in the eye is a challenge and an insult. Terrence never does it. His grandfather makes a displeased noise at his response.

"Where's your pay?" The elderly man demands.

"I get paid biweekly, sir. I was paid last week, I'm not paid until next week." Terence knows that his biweekly just-over-minimum wage payments aren't cutting it.

"I ought to punish you here and now. Your measly pay isn't enough for you to earn your keep here. Your lucky I still have a job or you'd be out on the streets where bastard orphans like you belong." His grandfather's words are harsh and sting, but Terrence accepts them. Each barbed word speaks truth.

"I know, sir" he says quietly. A slap punctuates the end of that statement and Terrence feels the familiar burn in his cheek. Too quietly, apparently.

"What was that, boy?" The man snarls.

"I'm sorry, sir. I know that my pay isn't enough. I'm grateful that you've kept me" the words are recited and monotonous. Terrence makes eye contact with his grandfather's shoes, not daring to look up.

"As you should be. I should have sent you to the orphanage, a bastard orphan born out of wedlock. Even your own parents didn't stay long enough to keep you around. Serves your mother right, getting pregnant like a common whore. Not that you'll ever amount to much more. Tell me boy, what are you?"

Terrence fights back the lump in his throat and prays that the tears in his eyes don't fall. He keeps silent, staring into the hardwood floor. Suddenly, he's being shoved against the wall, the air being knocked from his chest as his grandfather put his hand on Terrence's throat.

"Well, boy?!" The man demands.

"A bastard" Terrence chokes out. "A-a disgrace. I'm nothing more than a whore's son, sir."

"And?" The grip on his throat tightens.

"And-and I'll never be anything more than a whore's son, sir." Terrence manages to choke out, trying to hold back the tears. He fails as hot, salty tears leak from his eyes.

"The truth hurts," his grandfather states, releasing Terrence's throat. He laugh a harsh laugh as he does.

"Yes, sir" Terrence agrees. The truth does hurt. And his grandfather knows it. That's why Terrence has to go through this. So that he doesn't forget the truth. The truth about him and his mother.

His grandfather slaps Terrence across the face once more before ordering Terrence to go to his room. And so Terrence does.

Later in the night, after an angry phone call with a coworker, Terrence's grandfather barges into his grandson's room.

"Kneel" The man orders, and so Terrence does. "Remove your shirt" The man orders, and so Terrence does.

Terrence allows his grandfather to beat him with a wooden cane, the wood whipping across his torso. And he sits still and takes it, flinching and wincing, but making no sounds. Until his grandfather kicks him over. He helps and whimpers, sparking a new vigor in the hits. Now Terrence is silently crying as he lays, his forehead and face pressed against the wooden door as he kneels, folded over, back bared.

But he does nothing to stop it or to lessen the pain. The mantra in his head tells him that he deserves it. That this is him earning his keep in this household. That this is a small price to pay to have a roof over his head, clothes on his back, and food on his plate.

He deserves this. That's the truth.

(Sorry about the absence, dual swim team was kicking my ass. I'm back now, though.)