Rated M for a reason. This is basically a one-shot about how Nico's family finds out he's gay, and doesn't accept him because in the 1930's/1940's it wasn't accepted. I wrote this a bit ago (a few months) and my LA teacher asked me if she could read it. She said it was good, and I've actually submitted this to a literary magazine. I'd really appreciate it if you would review me your thoughts, flames or not. THIS IS NOT FLUFF, SMUT, OR ANYTHING REMOTELY HAPPY. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK. TRIGGER WARNINGS. If you're confused about the pronouns, I have a guide at the bottom.
Paint
Three red marks, straight across my cheek.
I still remember it.
When I was going to fast to care, and the one glance I took made my neck snap back to hard, and my hair lashed across my face.
Sure, only hair.
Hair with mud carved into it.
Hair entwined with blood.
Laced with my sins.
Only hair.
I just wanted to get away.
Who cares about your face if you could get just a minute of solitude.
Without him.
I just wanted to feel his strong arms around me, telling me it's okay. Normal.
But my parents disagreed.
No, I wasn't normal.
"He likes the color pink! What boy likes the color pink?! Maybe I should paint his face pink if he likes it so much!" He'd roar before pushing her aside and leaning into my face, forcing me to be cower in the pure presence of him.
To hunch up because I could feel the authority pouring out him.
The catholic radiating off him on waves.
The disappointment seeping from his pores.
All because when I was 11, I asked mom to paint my room "a hollywood cerise pink".
So with his hands and feet, he'd paint my face pink.
Each time, I'd cry out for him.
Each time, he'd never come.
Each time, he'd beat me harder.
Each time after, I'd run.
Run to the lake.
Drive too fast to care.
Glancing back, just to see if he was following.
No.
He never was.
She always came for me.
She wasn't a painter like him.
No.
She never painted.
Never painted me blue.
Or black.
Or pink.
Nor red.
No.
She never painted.
Just burned.
Burn me with her disappointment.
Burn holes through my heart with her lies.
"No! I would never have a freak as a son".
Burned through me with her glares.
All because of hands.
Just because mine held his.
She saw it.
Driving to pick me up.
The first time anyone did.
When I wanted my room pink.
I ran.
The first time.
I meet him.
When I was 11.
In secret.
They didn't know.
No one did.
3 years.
Secrets.
Lies.
No paint.
But there was him.
I'd complain.
Math.
Spanish teacher.
Not seeing a certain film when it came out.
Then she saw.
Saw what I was hiding.
What wewere hiding.
She grabbed my ear.
Coloring it red.
Threw me in the back of her truck.
He watched.
Cried.
Watched as I peeked my head over the ledge and saw the dust fly.
Watched his tears slide to the ground.
Felt my tears slid onto the metal.
He was sad.
I wasn't just sad.
I was terrified.
Terrified of him.
Would he paint me pink?
He liked variety.
There'd be pink.
Blue.
Black.
Red.
Even yellow.
Or green.
Oh, I was terrified.
He loved painting.
I'd run.
Drive too fast to care.
He'd meet me there.
Wipe away my tears, pull me close.
My parents didn't love me.
No.
They hated me.
I was jealous.
His parents didn't hate him.
They loved him.
They baked me cookies when I went to his house.
Before she saw us.
He got further away.
Moved far when he marched to his door.
Painted him pink until his sister ran and hit him with a baseball bat.
My sister hated me.
Didn't recognize me at school.
Locked her door when he started painting.
I heard it.
Didn't hear much when he painted.
But I heard it.
Every time.
Who loved me?
No friends at school.
I was a freak.
Sister hated me.
Click.
Mom burnt me.
Disgrace.
Dad loved painting to much to give it up.
Who'd be his canvas?
He moved away.
Couldn't blame him.
I would too.
I still loved him.
He just pitied me.
Who liked pink, or even red, anymore?
No.
I needed an escape.
So I started painting.
Dad slowly loosened his addiction to painting after he left.
So I was my canvas.
I painted.
Only red.
Maybe I'd see him where I am in a few decades.
I didn't want to see my 'family'.
They could take their bible with them to Hell.
I came here.
Only a bit ago.
Didn't think I'd be here at 14, but hey.
Realized it when I saw the blood consume the water.
Maybe.
If they weren't homophobic.
Or I wasn't gay.
Or I could've been a girl.
Maybe.
Too late for maybes now.
He/He'd/his- Nico's/crush boyfriend he/he'd/his- Nico's father I/Me/I'd- Nico She/She'd/Her/Her's- Nico's sister or Mom.