III What's in a Name?
II Disclaimer : Me no own, You no sue.
I Chapter One: "D" to "F" to "G" to "P" to "S" to "U"
II WARNINGS
III Graphic language, SLASH, child abuse
He's been called many things.
Most names spouted from his drunken father whenever he wasn't in front of the cameras and they were safely hidden away in the privacy of the four story mansion. He never retaliates, never denies anything. What good would it do? All it would earn him is his mother's tears and he hates it when Mom cries.
Dumbass.
"What's the square root of 169?" Tom asks, a folder in his lap and textbook laid out in front of him.
"Are you serious?" Owen turns around in his chair and raises his eyebrows at the older teen.
"Yeah," Tom nods.
"Thirteen, dumbass," Owen shakes his head sadly.
Faggot.
"Are you telling me that my only son is queer?" the senator's beady eyes dart between his wife and his son.
"I'm not a queer," Tom states indifferently, keeping his voice carefully controlled.. "But there are a couple guys I have sex with," he keeps his head lowered so it doesn't look like he's trying to argue.
"How long has this been going on?" his mother asks, her voice is soft, she's just asking a question, she's not condemning him and he loves her for it.
"I lost my virginity during freshman year at Westlake," Tom answers, his voice is still neutral and he's still carefully avoiding his father's glare.
"With a woman, I hope?" the older man snarls. Tom shakes his head in negation. "I can't believe I'm having this conversation."
"I can't believe you care enough to have this conversation," the teen mutters under his breath before he can stop himself. The senator's head whips around and glares at Tom with such hatred that the teen feels as if he's ready to just burn right up into ashes.
"Who wouldn't care that their only son is a faggot!" the senator shouts, turning on his heel and heading toward the Corner. Tom's eyes widened in fear and he glances at his mother who has already risen to her feet.
Good for nothing.
"Shut up!" the old man shouts. He downs whatever alcohol is in the cup by his hand as he strides over toward the Corner.
Tom does nothing. He says nothing. He's used to this; he's heard the speech over a million times. But when he sees his father go over to the Corner, which absolutely deserves capitals, he knows that he's screwed, knows that what's gonna happen next will be a real bitch.
"I'm sorry, dad," he whispers hoarsely and oh, how he wishes his mother was here, she would protect him, she always did because no matter how drunk or angry his father is, he never hits a woman. "Please," he hates the weakness in his voice but he can't help it.
"Good for nothing, queer," the old senator growls in the back of his throat as he quickly strides back over to Tom, the two-by-four plank of cedar swinging at his side.
"Dad, you're drunk," Tom tries to reason with his father but the alcohol-induced haze clouds up his words and prevents them from getting through. Tom's eyes dart between his father's face and the wood at the older man's side.
Prick.
"Why didn't you call me back?" Karen's voice is shrill and it's giving Tom a headache. He had somehow been coerced here but this little tramp and now he was being chewed out.
"I told you, Karen, I found someone else," Tom says quietly, he's looking at the blond from underneath his eyelashes, Oh yeah; I'm just an innocent puppy.
"You could have at least called me!" she screams again.
Tom lowers his head and scuffs his expensive black shoes in the dirt, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "Look, Karen," he rubs the back of his neck and takes a deep, shuddering breath.
"Don't 'Look, Karen' me, you bleeding prick!" she stamps her foot and her voice becomes impossibly louder. "I don't even want to hear any of your excuses!" she turns on her heel and stomped off.
Tom doesn't even watch her go as he drops his act and turns around and heads back toward the boy's dorm, he wants to see Owen.
Son.
Tom is on the ground. His father long gone and the two-by-four returned to its hidden corner. He wants to get up, but he remembers that pain will shoot through his entire body and he's not quite read for that just yet.
He hears the door open and his mother's voice glides its way into the room like a song. He hears her heels clicking hurriedly toward the room he's in, a servant must've delivered the news, wonderful. He hears the doors open and her soft gasp. He can't see her but he wishes he could. He tries to get up, but the pain is worse than he thought it would be and he's forced back down.
"Tom!" his mother's voice is hurrying toward him and Tom feels laughter in his throat. "Oh, my son," she whispers, kneeling beside him and turning him over to his back.
"What up, Mom?" he asks, looking up her as he lifts up an arm and wipes blood away from his nose.
Useless piece of shit
"Why can't you go one day at school without getting into trouble?" she chides him quietly.
Tom holds the ice on his knuckles and glares out the window, jaw muscles clenching.
"Answer me, Tom," she demands, her finger hooking under her only son's chin and forcing him to look up at her.
"He was talking trash about a friend of mine," Tom answers with a sigh, his moss green eyes softening as he watches the principle's office.
"Would that be Owen Matthews that you're speaking of?" she asks with a small smile. Tom's eyes dart over to his mother and his mouth opens slightly. "Don't be so surprised, I know more than you think."
Before Tom can say anything else, the doors open and Tom's father walks out quietly, he turns around and shakes hands with the principle before striding over to his family. He glares at Tom.
"Useless piece of shit," he snarls under his breath as he pulls the lacrosse captain out of the chair by the back of his shirt.
Oh yeah.
He's been called so many things that it's hard to keep track.
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