“Mum!” Eight year-old Harry called from the top of the stairs.
“Yes, honey?” She asked.
“Can I invite a friend over?” He asked.
“Cure, hon-“
“You have a friend, sissy!” Harry’s father yelled from the couch in the living room.
Harry whimpered, and walked down the stairs towards his father.
“Well, son?”
“Yes sir,” Harry whispered.
His father chuckled, “Who would want to be friends with a faggot life you!?”
“John!” His mother snapped.
He looked at her and smirked.
“What?” John asked Anne.
“That is no way to talk to our son!” Anne argued.
“Our son! He is no son of mine! He is a faggot! I hate faggots!” John screamed.
“Get out! Now! There will be no name calling in this household! Go! Now!” She yelled.
Harry’s father growled, and pushed Anne out of the way. Harry gasped and ran over to his mother, but before he could reach her, his father grasped him on the upper arm.
“Where do you think you’re going, fag?”
“John! Let him go!”
Harry struggled out of his father’s grip, hissing in pain when his father clawed him with his nails.
“Dad! Please, let me go-“
He slapped Harry across the face, “Shut up! You little-“
Then he fell to the ground. His father was on the floor, blood coming out of his head. Harry looked up from the sight, to see his mother holding a skillet in her hands. She took a deep breath, dropped the pan, and rushed over to her son.
“Are you alright, baby?” She asked, running her fingers through his hair, knowing that will instantly calm him down.
“Is h-he dead?” He asked.
She sighed and checked the body out, “Yes.”
Young Harry felt a mixture of relief and sadness. It was his one and only father, after all. A tear slipped from his eye as he looked at his mother who had tears welling in her eyes, but they weren’t letting go.
“Are you okay, mum?”
“Yes, honey,” she sniffled,” I didn’t want him to hurt my baby. You mean so much more to me than he ever did. You are my only son. I love you.”
Harry wrapped his arms and legs around his mother for a hug. She picked him up and cradled him, one hand on his bum and the other on his head. He started crying.
“Sh… Baby, what’s wrong?”
“Why was he trying to hurt me, and yell at me?” He asked, wiping tears away with the back of his hands.
His mum kissed his forehead, “I don’t know darling, but this was a long time coming.”
“What is a faggot?”
His mother gasped, “Don’t ever repeat the word. It means a bundle of sticks, or cigarettes.”
“But I’m not a stick, or a cigarette. Why did he call me that?”
He curled up into his pink blanket as his mother sat him on the couch.
“Some people- bad people- call homosexual people that.”
