But To Live Does Not Mean You're Alive (BoyxBoy)

Chapter Four

The walk home was relaxing. Cool breeze caressed my pale skin. I am somehow thankful that I do not own a car. Walking is really rewarding. Not only is it good for your health. It also gives you time to think.

Not long after, I found myself just few blocks away from home. Our house came into view. The house as originally painted blue, but due to poor maintenance, the once sea coloured house faded into a shade of sky blue. I like it better that way though. Sky Blue is the colour of beautiful morning clouds.

Approaching the porch closer, I noticed something different. Obviously, the doormat was moved from its usual spot. It should be in parallel with the door step. But as what I saw, half of its length was hanging on the steps of the porch. I don’t remember placing it there before I left for school.

I brought it back to its rightful place only to become more suspicious. The mat had dirt and  marks on it, implying that someone might have stepped on it mindlessly. Who could it be? Did dad come back from work and left again?

Simple things like this give me creeps. I just hated suspense and mysteries. My nerves cannot seem to handle it. Once more, I examine the surroundings of the house. Nothing seemed suspicious. Maybe it was hunger that was giving me all the thinking. I have to agree though, when you starve, sometimes your imaginations might get outrageous. It happened to me more than once.

Finding no reasons to panic, I shrugged and fished my spare key out from my bag. When I walked in, everything was perfectly in place. Nothing seemed touched or altered. Well, that was just the living room. I cautiously headed to the dining and kitchen. Nothing was different. In fact, the bowl I used for breakfast was still on the sink.

Before heading to my room, I took care of it. An hour or so from now, Dad would be home. That meant that I had to start preparing dinner or else Dad will definitely serve me with his belt. Speaking of belts, I kind of hate them. Life would have been a little different for me if belts were never invented. I would not have to bear the stinging feeling as they would hit your bare skin. Not to mention, the pain would always be excruciating. My back, being decorated with scars and marks could really tell. If only it could speak.

After a quick change to more comfortable clothing, I started making dinner. Being not much of a kitchen fan, I just decided to heat up some left-over meat from the fridge. It’s not yet spoiled though, so why put it to waste?

It was 6:32 on the clock when I finished everything in the kitchen. The food and table were set for dad. He never lets me eat with him anymore. He always eats first, and then it’s up to me.

FLASHBACK

It all began when I came out. It was a fine evening just few days after I turned fifteen.

In elementary and middle school, I noticed that mingling with boys felt odd. I shouldn’t have felt that way. Boys do not feel awkward with other boys, right? That was when I figured, I was gay.  

I have always been open about my sexuality. But not with anyone else though, just to myself. I accepted myself for what I am. I believed I was meant to be that way. However, I kept it to myself for the same reasons any gay person may have encountered in his life.

But then one day, it all changed. To be honest, I really did not know what was on that book that influenced and encouraged me so much to feel comfortable on my skin. It was a book about “self-actualization” and it once belonged to mom. My mother liked reading. It must have been her to whom I inherited my connections with books.

Self-actualization is a state where an individual feels accomplished and contented with his or her life. That was the first thing I learned from the book. With continuous reading, I grasped that being true to you is the only way to achieve genuine happiness. And all these time I wanted to be happy. I mean, when you're life is as cruel as mine, who does not.

I thought about my decision many times. I did re-think over and over. I still had doubts and fears on me. I was afraid of what could be the consequences.

Would he accept me? If he would not? Would he disown me? Or beat me to death? Not one from those questions was left untouched. At that time, it wasn’t new to me anymore that my father has turned abusive.

I witnessed him changed. It started eventually after mom died. Gradually, he became more independent to alcohol, as if it was his way of coping up with reality. At the same time, he became increasingly hot-tempered. He would yell at me for dropping a utensil on the floor. I was fully aware that dad’s behaviour was turning worse. I thought it would just pass. Mistake.

He started hitting me. From simple smacks to slaps, slaps turned to punches and punches turned to kicks. His physical strength didn’t give him full satisfaction though. There were times where he would resort for “things”. Any object he could find around him has landed some time at me redundantly. Bottles, knife, mops, chop board, stools and worst was leather belt. The objects were random. He was unpredictable.

But for some reason, my heart was overwhelmed with courage and bravery. No matter how much my mind reminded me of the negative outcomes, the courage and confidence I mustered from reading seemed to be unfazed.

After what seemed like to be the most pressuring and longest time of my life, I spilled the beans. Anxiousness was eating off the whole of me. The only thing I heard from dad right after the confession was “WHAT”.

Astoundingly fast, he stormed towards me. My mixed emotions paralyzed my body. He hit me hardly that it sent my chair along with me to the ground. He then proceeded with kicks, blows, throws, spits and degrading insults.

“Hell awaits you!” He yelled that message at me like it was the only thing that came out from his mouth. It happened like a cycle. Over and over again to what seemed like endless. Everything was in slow motion. I passed out and was left.

Closely a week after that night, my body was way far off from recovery. The first time dad threatened to kill me if I tell anyone about the incident; I gave him my assurance with no qualms. I may be was not thrown out, but trust me I was feeling like rubbish, nothing else.   He became my master. I became his servant. The identifier “son” seemed to be forgotten intentionally.

The injuries, bruises and cuts forced me to isolate myself from the outside. That way, nobody saw my condition. I learned how to heal my wounds, the physical wounds. But the wounds in the inside remained open. And I suffered, not knowing how to make the bleeding stop.