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The sound of wheels spinning echoed across the road, the sun peaking over the horizon. The dusk was warm with the summer air, turning cooler as the sun dipped past London’s field of view.
Jack’s curly hair flew in his eyes as the wind rushed past him. He was biking home from Maurice’s house. Senior graduation was a few weeks ago, and things had been weird at home ever since then. Discussions of what Jack was going to do now that he was out of highschool floated around the house, filling the air with tension, and he had to get out of the stuffy environment before he lost it.
But now he was pulling up to his house again, weeds growing in the cracks in the driveway, the dim light on the porch that continued to gather dust, and the dead flowers on the side of the house that his dad still had yet to get rid of ever since his mum left (he was secretly grateful that his dad had forgotten).
As Jack rolled his bike into the driveway, he felt his chest tighten, as it always did when he got closer to his house. It wasn’t voluntary, it was just something his body did. Jack assumed it was survival instinct; a way for his body to prepare for whatever he was going to get into when he walked in the door.
He paused on the steps for longer than he normally did, but he shakily rested his body, pale fingers on the loose door knob and took a deep breath before opening it.
“Hello father, I’m home!” Jack called as he closed the door behind him and clumsily took off his shoes, having to hold onto the stair railing to balance. Once he placed his shoes next to the door on the mat, making sure they were even, he walked around and looked for his dad.
In any other universe, the young boy would never actively seek out his father. But if his dad found out Jack had gotten home and not told him? He would have Jack’s head for that.
As Jack turned the corner into the living room, he saw a flash of orange and knew he had found his father.
But the sight he was met with was not what the ginger boy was expecting.
His dad was on the ground, his legs crossed. He was looking down at the ground at…
Pieces of paper? What is he…
Oh God. Oh my God, this cannot be happening right now.
Letters. Hundreds of pieces of paper littered the floor in neat rows on the ground, not one hidden, stacked, or misaligned. Each paper had slightly messy handwriting, ink filling every crevice of the paper, front and back.
Each letter was different, but there was one thing that each of them had in common.
They were all signed with the letters R-A-L-P-H in big, cursive letters.
Jack felt like he was going to be sick.
The boy could almost feel his heart jump into his throat, choking him. How had his father found these? He swore he had hidden them better than anything he had ever hidden in this god-forsaken house. But he should have known, nothing ever slipped past his father’s watchful eye forever.
There was something behind Jack’s dad, but he couldn’t quite see it because his father’s head was blocking the complete view. It was too good to be true.
Slowly, Jack’s dad looked up at his son.
His gnarly silver and ginger beard had been shaved to stubble again. Glasses perched on his crooked nose, brown eyes resting on either side.
Jack had seen every side of his dad. He had seen his father livid beyond human comprehension.
But nothing, absolutely nothing could compare to Jack’s father’s expression at that moment.
Jack could have sworn if his life were a cartoon, you could have seen smoke coming from his father’s ears and nostrils. He was shaking with anger as he quickly took his glasses off and rested them on his pants. Something in his eyes darkened as he looked at Jack, something Jack couldn’t quite describe.
Now that his father’s head was up, he could see behind him.
Dozens of empty beer bottles littered the floor, some smashed into pieces. Droplets of beer were splashed on the floor, next to a…
A…
Rifle. Jack’s father’s hunting rifle.
Jack could physically feel his stomach drop as he froze, his veins cooling as anxiety and utter fear pumped from his heart. He backed up a couple steps, as every instinct in his body told him to run, faster than he had ever run in his short life.
“Hello Jack.” His father spoke, his eyes piercing through Jack like knives. “How is Maurice?”
“Fine, he’s fine.”
“Good, he’s a good boy.” He paused as he continued to stare. “Jack, do you see what I’ve placed before me?”
It was like Jack’s mouth was filled with molasses, sticking his tongue to the roof of his mouth, he couldn’t speak. He felt like someone had sucked all the oxygen out of the room with some magical device and he was silently suffocating.
“No? Suddenly got nothing to say?” he chuckled. “Well, I guess I’ll just speak for you.”
He took a deep breath in, “These are letters, Jack. You see, today I was in your room and I noticed a floor board peeking out from under your nightstand was coming up a little. So I moved the nightstand and pulled up the floor board with my hands so I could caulk it and put it back. And do you know what I found?” His face wore a smile, as if this were the funniest thing he had ever heard. “I found papers, Jack. And at first I thought that maybe they were old papers from school, but then I began to read them to discover context, and I found…” He paused and sucked in breath through his teeth, shutting his eyes a moment, “I found these bloody things in the floor.” He laughed, throwing his head backwards.
“I just can’t—I won’t believe it! After everything I’ve done for you?” Jack’s father stood up, Jack taking a step back. “Have you learned nothing—have I taught you nothing?” He gestured wildly. “Your entire life I’ve tried to preach the gospel to you—has none of it stayed in your brain? Or has it all emptied out through that big mouth of yours?”
Jack had begun to back up, the air was getting tense and that urge to run was pounding in his head. He had so many things spinning in his brain, but he couldn’t seem to get any of them out.
“F--f–father I’m so–I’m so sorry, I didn’t, I don’t—”
“Bullshit, you know exactly what these are. Don’t even try to play stupid with me right now Jack Merridew, I know you—”
“Do you dad? Do you know me? Because I think we both know you don’t, you just pretend you do.”
Silence bit the air around both of their ears.
“Excuse me?”
Jack froze. Completely froze. He had no idea was to do, his chest was spasming with breaths he couldn’t take in. He couldn't believe that he had just talked back. He never talked back, it was one of the most important rules in the Merridew household. And he had just broken it.
Jack began to write his eulogy in his head.
His father stood up and walked over to Jack, when suddenly a loud smack reverberated off the surrounding walls, as the boy felt his head whip to the side, his face burning where he he'd just been hit. Involuntary tears pooled in his eyes.
A large, rough hand grabbed him by the face as nails bit into his skin, “You will not backtalk me in my own house, do you hear me boy? You are not in charge here, understand?” He let out a mix between a scoff and a chuckle. “..thinking yer all grown.” The man was so close to Jack’s face, droplets of spit fell on his cheek as his father barked at him.
Just as Jack began to nod, he was violently shoved to the ground, skidding against the floorboards. As he began to get his bearings, a sharp heel connected with his stomach, knocking the wind out of chest.
Jack wheezed, curling in on himself, subconsciously protecting his lungs. The heel of his father’s shoe kicked into his chest repeatedly, until the red-head was gasping for air. Having rendered Jack temporarily immobile, his father stopped.
The boy was grateful for the momentary pause, the mercy, but when he got the opportunity to glance up, through the glare of the dying sunlight blinding him, he could see his father moving, doing something.
Taking something…off…
His belt.
Jack cried out and scrambled to stand, but his father quickly wrapped his hand around Jack’s ankle to keep him still, as he yanked the rest of the belt off and raised it over his head, bringing it down with a sharp crack.
Desperately trying to protect his face, the boy raised his arms over his head, but it was remotely futile. The belt branded his arms and Jack could feel the blood begin to drip from the fresh gashes. The air made sounds like a whip cracking on a horse.
Jack lay on the ground, shaking violently, his father panting harshly, standing over him, the now-bloody belt wrapped around his calloused hands.
Suddenly, the man bent down and grabbed his son by the red curls, yanking him upwards to his level, eliciting a yelp from Jack, his legs swinging below him. The boy squeezed his eyes shut, preparing for the worst.
His father bellowed, “Why did I find those letters Jack? Huh?” The red-head cried out as a fist connected with his jaw, a copper taste leaking into his mouth. “Who is Ralph? Who is he? Why are you talking to him? Answer me!” Jack briefly opened his eyes, just as a fist connected with his left eye and made it close again. The poor boy whimpered.
“Is he another fag like you? Hm?” Another hit, more metal taste in Jack’s mouth. “Well, clearly he is, or else he wouldn’t still be talking to your sorry ass!” His father’s breath reeked of scotch, making him nauseous. It made Jack’s heart hurt; the fact that he had never truly met his dad sober but a few times in his life.
He croaked, “I-I’m sorry, please—” he gasped, “—it’s—it’s not him, h-he’s not…”
“He’s not…?”
Jack shook his head. He knew if he said yes, his father would find Ralph, somehow. And he didn’t want to put Ralph in danger. He would rather be killed by his father’s rough hands than put Ralph in danger.
His father let a breath out through his nose, a light laugh. “Well then. That’s good. Good that we don’t have a little friend to enable your disgraceful tendencies.”
Jack swallowed, looking at the ground.
Before he could realize what was happening, he was thrown across the room, hitting his back against the wall, but thankfully not his head.
With the distance put between him and his father, despite the injuries he had endured, his gut told him things would only get worse. Scrambling to his feet, he clumsily ran as fast as he could to the stairs and clambered his way to his room, limping slightly, his father screaming for him to come back.
Slamming the door behind him, Jack’s shaking hands rushed to lock the door, turning the lock as he heard the click. Very shortly after, Jack jumped backwards as loud bangs echoed inside his room from the door.
“JACK—I SWEAR—WHEN I GET MY HANDS ON YOU—” he heard heavy breathing from behind the door as he backed up, hugging himself, trying to wrap his mind around what he’d just done.
Desperately trying to comfort himself, Jack curled up on the floor and pulled his knees to his chest, tears flowing from his eyes, mingling with the blood on his face, dripping from his nose onto his knees and shirt.
He rocked back and forth, flinching at the loud, aggressive banging on the door, his father absolutely screaming at him. The walls were vibrating, he could feel his father’s anger in his bones. But then again, he always could.
“JACK MERRIDEW. OPEN THIS DOOR. NOW.”
The boy shook, he was terrified. But he knew if he opened the door, he was toast. He wished he had just accepted the punishment downstairs. But, he was afraid his father would throw him out again. What if he put him in the closet? He had no idea, his father was completely unpredictable. And it was true that Jack had grown accustomed to it, but sometimes it wasn’t enough.
Suddenly, silence replaced the ringing that had grown in Jack’s ears, and the screaming was gone. He heard his father’s footsteps retreat downstairs, and Jack heaved a sigh of relief.
But then they came back upstairs, and he heard his father huffing behind the door. The boy felt himself straighten, preparing for whatever he was going to say or do.
“Jack, I’m going to give you one more chance. Open this door.” he seethed, “I’m warning you.”
Hesitantly, Jack reached for the doorknob, shaking violently. But quickly, he pulled it away, like the doorknob was red hot. He didn’t know why, but his gut was screaming at him to keep the door shut.
“Alright, son.”
Then Jack heard a sound that was imprinted in his mind from his childhood.
The cock of a gun.
And before the teenager had time to react or move, wood chips flew as a gunshot went off through his door, making Jack scramble backwards. The bullet went through Jack’s door and broke his window, landing in the side yard.
Another followed, and another, Jack having to cover his ears to block out the loud, ear splitting sound as each gunshot of his father’s rifle went off. He couldn’t help the choking sobs that came from his mouth with each wet gasp.
Finally, they stopped, after about eight holes were bored into Jack’s door. He wasn’t entirely sure, he wasn’t keeping track.
“Okay, Jack, I’m about to reload, but I’ll give you the chance—open the door. If you open the door, son, I’ll put the gun down.”
Shakily, Jack stood, almost passing out from the lightheaded feeling washing over him. As he walked over to the door, he rested his hand on the doorknob and slowly opened it, greeted by his father on the other side, clearly livid, eyebrows furrowed.
Before Jack could speak, his father raised the gun over his shoulder and hit Jack in the chest with it, knocking him down.
He threw the rifle to the ground, walking over to Jack. The red-head would have tried to move away, but he didn’t want to anger his father further.
Jack opened his mouth to apologize, to plead, to beg, to say anything, but before he could get words out, his father began to beat him senseless.
It all seemed to blur together, until he heard his nose break, and warm liquid flowed from his nose. Jack brought his hands up to cradle his nose, red staining his hands, but just as he brought his hand to his face and saw the blood, a shoe came him way and a loud crack echoed off the walls and white, hot pain erupted from Jack’s chest, where his lungs were. Where his ribs were.
He couldn’t help the loud cry that came from him when this happened, especially as his father continued to kick him in the stomach. He knew his ribs were broken, probably multiple of them. Pain burned throughout him, it was unbearable.
Whispers of begs for mercy fell on deaf ears as his father continued. He was furious. Jack heard him yell about the letters and about Ralph and about how Jack had hidden the letters from him for years, but mostly about how his son was a queer. His entire childhood, it had been burned into his skull that being homosexual was a sin, and he had tried to hide it from his dad. His father was in a fit of rage.
Jack was teetering on the edge of unconsciousness when the blurry figure of his father got closer and closer until he was undoubtedly on top of him, breathing harshly like a bull, pinning Jack wrists above his head.
“Look at me.”
Jack could barely move, let alone make eye contact.
“I SAID, LOOK AT ME DAMN IT!”
His father grabbed his face, forcing Jack to look at him. Jack’s eyes were glassy, unfocused. He was only half there, in so much pain and within an inch of his life.
“Are ye determined to make my life miserable, Jack? Is that what it is? Because it seems as if everything ye do is done with the intent to defy me, to defy my authority.” He breathed, not even noticing the way his accent slipped out. “I have tried to teach you the words of God since you were a boy, why are you determined to be a child of the Devil? Is it because ye hate me?”
“No..” Jack breathed.
“Pardon?”
“I—” Jack wheezed. “I–I can’ he’p it. ‘M s’rry.”
“Ye can damn sure help it, son. Believe me.” He growled.
Blood dripped down his chin. He just wanted to sleep. He was so tired. “I—I–I’ve tried…I–I c’nt..no m’tter how h’rd I try, I can’t..” Tears fell from his eyes.
“Jack, just tell me this—what was that letter that you were drafting to him?” He stuck his jaw out. “Did it really say what I thought it said?”
Jack paused. Tears continued to fall from his eyes like waterfalls.
“I…I–I love ‘im, dad..”
“Excuse me? You what? Speak up.”
“I…” Jack coughed, wheezing, “M’ sorry. I love him, dad. I can’t help it.”
“NO!” His father yelled, shaking Jack aggressively. “You’re just confused, it’s the devil trying to tempt you! You’re a good, Catholic boy. You’re not a flit. I will not have a faggot as a son.”
His father was shaking with anger, tears pooling in his eyes.
“‘M sorry…”
He was. His entire life, Jack had prayed, begged God to make him normal. He had spent nights in the church, alone, crying himself to sleep because he wanted to be like everyone else. But deep down, Jack knew he never would be. No matter what God he prayed to, what therapists he saw, he knew he would never be considered normal. Since he was born, every bone in his body had been dedicated to making his parents happy, especially his father. His worth, his value, rested on his father’s opinion of him. He wanted more than anything to make his father proud of him. Despite everything, his father meant the world to Jack. He hated to make his father upset. It was the worst feeling in the world. But no matter how hard he tried, he could never change.
It was like trying to make a crayon that’s blue color things red. Even if you took off the wrapper, colored the crayon red, gave it a red label, and told the crayon to act like it was red, no matter how hard that crayon colored the paper, it would always be blue.
The man above him screamed, like a child. He was so angry, yelling and trying to get Jack to explain. But Jack had nothing more to say.
Suddenly Jack felt hands fly to his neck.
Jack choked, “Ple’se..dad” He whimpered, sobbing, gasping for air like a fish out of water. Jack’s freckled hands went to his father’s calloused ones as he desperately tried to take his father’s hands off his neck, but his limbs were growing heavy and his head was filled with so much pressure it felt like he was going to explode.
Eventually, his hands rested on his father’s, his efforts calmed as his eyes drooped and he teetered on the edge of consciousness. Squeaks came from him, his throat closing under his father’s monstrous grip.
His father was so angry, he couldn't even speak. His anger consumed him, like it always did.
Black spots danced in his vision, his eyelids flickering. He felt so guilty that he had disappointed his father, yet again, but Jack knew that as long as he was alive, his father would inevitably be disappointed in him, forever.
The final few tears fell from Jack’s eyes, onto his father’s hands.
“I l’ve you…dad…” he breathed, his eyelids finally closing.