Hey guys, so this is chapter one of Giving Up The Gun 3 3 I hope you'll like this fic...~
When I was just past the fifteenth-year mark of my life, I was a boy who understood a lot. I was popular, and I held my own against anyone who disliked me. I was complete.
Then my whole life changed, in a bad way. It was as if God picked up my house, shook it around, then sat back to watch what would happen. My mother discovered my father was cheating on her; the family's dog got out and run over; my uncle died; a horrid french family moved in next door; then to make matters even worse, God decided to pick up my journal and put it out in the open. Within those few hundred pages, I'd written a daily account of my secret relations with a former classmate I'd liked. Curious, my father picked it up. As soon as my father realised it was another man, he'd snapped.
"Arthur!" my father screamed, bursting into my room. I looked up, terrified. He'd never been this angry at me before. I stared at him over the cover of my favorite novel, fearful of what he'd do. He held up my journal, pointing to one of the many pages. "What the bloody fuck is this?" His voice grew louder. I blinked, feeling my face heat up.
"Wh-where on earth did you find that?" I stuttered, just barely managing to keep my voice steady. His eyes glowing with anger, he whipped the book at me. I didn't dare flinch as it hit me on the head. I felt a bump already begin to rise, and my eyes were pricked by tears.
"You left it on my fucking table, that's where!" He stepped into my room, and my eyes widened. His whole body quaked with rage. I set down my book and stood.
"I hadn't meant for anyone else to read that! Nor did I leave it on any table on purpose!" My voice desperate, I tried to keep from running and or jumping out the window. My father gets truly scary when he's angry. At this moment he was more than angry; he was infuriated.
"WHY did you leave that where you knew someone would pick it up?" He spat.
"I-I already explained to you, I hadn't meant to leave it there!" I felt my blood beginning to boil; I was angry that he thought I did it on purpose. "What is so wrong with my sexual life anyways? It's my life, and I'd like to live it my own way!"
At that he laughed cynically. "Look, you freeloading HOMO, God doesn't approve of or appreciate people who go against his will and neither do I! Gay faggots aren't meant to be in this world!" his words stung.
"So you'd rather I were dead?" My voice screeched at a higher octave.
"If it meant one less bloody gay, then yes I WOULD." His voice loud, his face hard and cold, he screamed those words at me. I felt tears begin to slide down my cheeks, and for that I was angry; angry at myself for showing him it hurt.
"My sexuality and my romantic life are not something you should be concerned with!" I shouted back at him, trying to conceal the tears.
He took a further step into my room; behind him I could see my mother. That's when she spoke up.
"P-please..." She began, her voice shaking in fear. "Just let it go, dear!" As soon as the words left her mouth, she regretted it. He turned and swung at her. With a gasp of pain she hit the floor, and I snapped. I strode up to the man I no longer knew, and I glared at him.
"How DARE you lay a finger on her? She didn't do a bloody thing to you! If anything, she loved you for more than twenty years! Why the hell do you think you can throw that away, then to top it off start HITTING her?" Although my voice wasn't very much louder than a normal tone, it had a frosted edge to it I rarely used.
My father punched me hard, and as the world faded into blackness I heard his footsteps go out the door.
That was the last anyone heard from him. My mother cried day in and day out, terribly depressed that he was truly gone. We then moved to the United States. After about a month more of her depression, she finally went out and found a job. I was proud of her; she decided to move on with her life.
One day whilst making dinner, I made a huge discovery. Pain. I was chopping vegetables for soup, and sliced my finger. The sting of the onion in my laceration was unfamiliar, but not unpleasant. Blood collected around the edge of the cut, and I smiled. I smiled at the pain that tingled through my finger. Then, as quick as it happened, I realised that I was bleeding too close to the vegetables for comfort. I set down the knife, deciding to wash it off after taking care of the wound.
After cleaning off and bandaging my finger, I finished up dinner. As I brought my mother a bowl of the soup, I couldn't help but wonder what I could possibly have enjoyed about slicing my finger. Maybe it was the... pain I felt?
I no longer felt hungry; I usually wasn't by dinner time anyway. I instead went upstairs, wandering into my room. On my way there, I thought about our old house, back in England. It was nothing like this new house.
When I arrived at my door, I went in and sat on my bed, wondering about the stability of my sanity. Then I remembered something, and decided to experiment.
Getting up from my bed, I strode directly to my dresser. Slipping my hand into the third drawer, I reached beneath layers of neatly folded clothes. It was still there, like I knew it would be; the pocket knife I'd received as a parting gift from my only living uncle left. I pulled it out, staring at it with a gentle gaze. I traced my finger over the British flag painted neatly on the handle. Glancing around, I slowly pulled up my sleeve. Flipping the knife open, I pressed the blade to my wrist. I winced at first, but after the slight shock of the cold metal wore off, I dug slightly deeper.
Grinning wickedly now, I pressed harder, enjoying the pain. I felt myself getting carried away; I didn't care. I pulled the blade back, then created a parallel cut to the first directly below it. I continued until I had five in a neat row, and I watched the blood drip to the floor. As footsteps came up the hallway, destined for my room, the dull plinks began to sound more like gunshots to me. Quickly fixing my sleeve, I flipped the blade closed and stuck it back in the drawer. I winced at the friction of my shirt against the broken skin, but no blood seeped through my sleeve.
My mother knocked on the door, then entered with caution. She knew well enough to do so after an extremely embarassing night last summer. "Arthur?" she began.
I turned around. "Oh, hello mum!" I pretended to be surprised. "What brings you here? I was just finishing tidying up the quarters." I closed my dresser's open drawer.
"I came to speak with you." She sat hesitantly on my bed, and I joined her.
"If it's about school, I'll be fine. I always am, aren't I?" I smiled at her. She smiled back, but then began her motherly speech.
"Well, I'm chuffed to bits that you'll be fine, but I am still a bit worried about your..." She couldn't bring herself to say it.
"My... Homosexuality, correct?" She nodded. I felt the beginnings of a blush creep up my neck, and I looked away. "Oh mum, you're off your trolley... I'll be fine. I've never been very open about that anyways. No need to go hopping mad over such a thing."
"Well, I want you to know that..." She wrung her hands. "If anyone teases you for being who you are, I'm going to beat them to a bloody pulp." And right then I wished for nothing more than a meteor to land on my house at that very moment. No such luck.
I felt my ears redden. "Muuum!" I couldn't help the whine in my voice. "Please, I wouldn't want anyone else to become involved!"
"Oh, come now. I wouldn't do anything bad, I'd only get a restraining order against them for you." I felt my face begin to redden, and I just wanted to crawl under the bed.
To make matters worse, though, she went and started saying worse things. Worse how, you wonder? Sort of like this...
"Well, I'm going to go. But before I do, I just have one more thing I have to adress." What on earth could she possibly have to say now? She looked at me with her "I'm your mother so I have to say this" look, and right then I knew. "Arthur, I hate to embarass you further, but..." I stared at my wrist as if it were the most interesting thing in the world. Then it became itchy, so I scratched it gently through the sleeve. I bit back the hiss of pain that bubbled up in my throat. Dear god, that hurt more than I expected. "I just want you to know that... As your mother, I hate to do this, but I must set rules for you. I don't want you having any sort of... Hanky Panky-" at that I felt my face flare crimson; I hated that term more than any other she could possibly use. "-in my house. At least, not when I'm home and that I know of it." I put my head in my hands, covering my face thoroughly.
"Mum, please..." I begged her. "Sometimes I think you're trying to kill me with embarassment. I wouldn't dare when you were home!"
"Arthur, are you really that embarassed?" She laughed. "Don't throw a wobbly on me. I just wanted you to know." With that she ruffled my hair and left.
I flopped down on my bed, face buried in my pillow. "For the Queen's sake," I muttered into its soft surface. "I'm not even sixteen yet, and she thinks I'm going to be having SEX?" I blushed once more at the thought.
Then suddenly, I seemed to remember something. I sat up and examined my arm. Oh, crap. I thought. Blood has begun to seep through my sleeve. When had that happened? Man was I glad my mother was so unobservant.