You Won't Be Coming Home Tonight

A bad day at school, that’s all. Some name-calling. Some fights. That’s nothing out of the ordinary for me. Lain on my bed back at home, I could finally forget every aspect of school. Out of site, out of mind. I pushed myself up from my bed and stalked across my basement room to my desk. Unfinished novels, unfinished artwork and comics littered the surface. As my bony fingers ran over the surface, memories flooded back.

“Billie, that room is too damn pernickety.” My Father sighed across the dining table. My face fell. I had spent the last month persuading my parents to let me move into the basement. It was perfectly creepy and secluded, the perfect space for an artist. My parents had quickly caved in, however, so far the search for perfect furniture had been futile. My ten-year-old mouth had then turned into a pout and I flounced over to the sink, placing my dirty plate heavily in the basin.

“Fine. I’m off to Adam’s then.” And I had continued to flounce out the door, against my Mother’s protests.

Outside it was just beginning to turn light, pinks tumbling through the clouds. My breath was forming little clouds in front of my face.

“Stop acting like a butt-head Billie.” Came a voice a few paces behind me. I spun on my heels and was met by the face of my good friend, Bert.

“Where you headed doofus?” I said, trying to act tough.

“Adams. You?”

“Oh. Me too. Let’s go it’s cold.” So we walked down the sidewalk together, acting as tough as possible. Adam’s house was only a street away, but to two ten-year-olds, the walk was like a mile hike.

A few houses before Adam’s I noticed someone was having a yard sale. There was a lot of furniture, weird shaped furniture. Furniture, that would happen to look good in my basement.

“Bert, you carry on to Adam’s, I need to go get my Mom.” I spluttered, before tearing down the street.

That was nearly nine years ago, things were different now.

Mother never loved you. Father tried to touch you with hand of God he’s gripping tighter. Saying you will burn in hell.

I shook my head sharply, the last thing I needed was to think, that never did me good. Turning my back on the memories, my eyes settled on my guitar. I gentled padded over to my tape player and inserted my Greenday tape. Picking up the guitar, I strummed a few chords, before finally plugging it in the amp and playing along to the tape, not missing a chord.

Another turning point;
a fork stuck in the road.

Time grabs you by the wrist;
directs you where to go.

It was electric it was biblical. Static coursed through my veins where blood should have been. Whenever I had my guitar in my arms, I was a man possessed. My left hand curved to form chords with ease, whilst my right arm pumped up and down at the right beat, hitting all the correct strings. It wasn’t until the tape drew to a halt, that my reverie was broken. My eyes glanced anxiously to the small clocked above my desk. 5:34. I had ten minutes maximum. I couldn’t be caught playing my guitar. Guitar was not an instrument that respectable Catholic boys should play. Punk music is not the music of a respectable Catholic.

No, Billie’s whole damn existence was not what a respectable Catholic boy should do. Billie should have listened at Catholic school, learnt how to tie his tie, not fantasize the splendidly gory deaths of his peers. He should have read the bible, not hide a comic in his spine and read that instead. He should never have been introduced to punk, never worn black unless at a funeral, he should be preaching the testaments, not fighting against it. But he had and how sorely the punishment would come. He had been up on the curb, the pressure on his teeth. Crying in the mud as his spleen had ruptured from the relentless kicking to his abdomen. He had stared into the mirror every day as he applied foundation, concealer and every other product possible, to cover the ugly blue bruises littering his face.

A door slammed above, I had spent my last minutes of freedom recollecting the past.

“BILLIE YOU HOME? DADDY’S HERE.” Came the drunken scream from above.

“I- I’m in my room Dad.” I managed to call out. Heavy footsteps and the doorknob to the basement began to turn. All I could do was stare in horror and shrink against the wall as the door was flung open and the drunken form of my Father staggered down the stairs. His eyes scanned my room, quickly spotting the guitar I had foolishly left out. A sharp pain seared through my cheek as my Father’s fist flung home.

One for the music. One for the clothes. One for disobedience. One for the art. One for the boys.

“Catholic boys don’t play guitar Billie. Only fags play guitar.” He hissed. My arm instinctively rose to my face. He punched that away too.

“Rule number two, Catholic boys take it. Take it like a man. The same way our savior Jesus did.” I abided and dropped my arm. My eyes followed my Father as he stalked round my room, tearing things from their shelves. He finally reached my tape player, proceeding to pop the tape out and read the title.

“Greenday. Tut tut Billie. You haven’t been abiding my rules.” I winced as he stormed up to me and screamed in my face.

“WHAT ARE THE RULES BILLIE?” I recoiled slightly.

“That, That. Not to listen to punk.” I mumbled, fighting tears. I wanted to stand up tall and defend my music, but I couldn’t not unless I wanted to be beaten through to next week.

“Good boy. And why musn’t you listen to Punk?” He sneered.

“Because Punk is faggy. Only fags make punk music, only fags listen to it.” I whispered shame surging from my head to my feet.

“Good boy. That brings me on to my other point. No catholic boys are fags. No son of mine will EVER be a fag. I will beat seven shades out of you. I will beat it out of you.” I finally let my tears fall freely.

You will burn in hell they say, you will burn in hell.

“THERE’S NOTHING WRONG WITH IT. JESUS TAUGHT YOU TO LOVE EVERYONE.” I screamed hysterically.

“Jesus NEVER taught a man to love another man. Jesus FROWNED upon it. BOYS love GIRLS. Being a fag is a disease. And torture is the only treatment. Fag.” My raven black hair fell from behind my ears and into my face as my Fathers fist connected over and over with my face, my arms, my stomach. In my mind I wasn’t here, being beat for sexuality by my own Father. I was miles away.

Back in the middle of the day that starts it all.

I was never popular in middle school. No one wanted to be friends with the strange kid, the kid who wore all the wrong clothes. Clothes too baggy and clothes too dirty. His hair was too long and greasy and it was far too black to be accepted in society. He didn’t have the right lunch box and read comics instead of divulging in gossip. But he had friends, just not at the school. His other friends didn’t have to go to catholic school. On the plus side, the middle schoolers didn’t have to wear uniform, on the downside this just isolated me.

High school was a clean slate, I was transferring to the local school where all my friends attended. On the very first homeroom was when I met Frank. That very first homeroom is when it finally clicked that I liked boys. Frank, to me at least, was perfect. He was cool, he wore the right stuff and he liked decent music. Another reason my parents hate Frank, he introduced me to Punk. We instantly hit it off. Best friends from go. It wasn’t until out junior year that we both admitted to hiding behind the shroud of friendship. When I reached senior year, the already fragile foundations of the relationship between me and my parents fell apart. They found out about Frank.

The constant collisions to my body and face, brought the one thing I was terrified of most. Not my Father’s hand but bile.

And I guess it’s okay I puked the day away.

Oh emetophobia.

Resist. Resist. Resist. My mind pleaded. It was weak to be sick. It was weak to be ill. But as bile reached his mouth. The sound of vomiting became beautiful. Maybe his Father would stop. The floor was stained with my blood and my insides. But still the relentless beating. It wasn’t teaching me a lesson. It wasn’t washing away my feelings. It was bringing out the ones I was scared of most. Hatred and pure anger. A final kick to my stomach was all it took. Stepping back as my Father swung for the countless time, caused him to topple to the floor. What he deserved.

Raising my foot a sharp pain, sharper and stronger than any I had ever felt tore from my stomach to my heart. I glanced down. I watched my Father pull a knife from my stomach, I watched the blood begin to seep through my shirt.

“Rule number seven: Never disobey your Father.” I fell to my bed, shock muffling the screams threatening to rise in my throat. Through my blurry eyes, I followed him as he walked over to my desk, snatching a picture and a pen.

“Suicide, one of the biggest teen killers, a tragic affair. They always leave a note.” He said sollemly, passing me the pen and paper. I understood immediately, I was to write a note.

My life flashed before me. I was too weak to fight back, I was going to be killed tonight, by my own Father. I would never see Frank again, never do the things that every other person had done. I put the pen to the paper and began to write. Something inside me told me that did I abide, he may reconsider the murder. Afterall, how could one bring themselves to kill their own son?

“Make it sound real.” So I did. I poured out my heart, all the time my eyes dropping further as eternal sleep threatened to over come me. I told Frank I loved him. Told Mother I hated her. That I was too weak, that I couldn’t live anymore. Finally I clutched the note in my hand and pleaded with my Father.

“Please. I’m your only son.”

”You are no son.” He stated simply. “You are a fag. You are scum.”

“Well, I can change.” I screamed getting desperate.

“Really? Oh. Well maybe I should reconsider. I mean you are right you are my only son.” He rambled. All the time my mind was screaming to escape.

”I guess when it comes down to it. I wanted to prove I could win.” He grinned. I was too slow, through panic I failed to see the gun. Until it was too late. My body slumped as I died on impact, my blood staining the walls.

They say
This is the city
The city of angels
All I see is dead wings

He walked round the room, arranging it. His son wasn’t a son. He was a fag, he got what he deserved. Oh but did he? Does anyone deserve to die? On the exterior, he was a murderer. Inside, he was a mess. He had murdered his own son. His son that he loved. His son just needed a lesson not a death sentence. He thought as he arranged the body in his gloved hands, placing the gun in his son’s cold and lifeless hands. He looked once again to his sons face. His innocent son’s face. Makeup stained. Like a fags. But for the first time, Dan didn’t care. His son, his beautiful but queer son. Didn’t deserve this. What had he done? He had taken his sons life all over a matter of love. Killed for loving. Hands lingering over the gun longer than they should have, he finally walked out of the room, locking the door, as always.

“You won’t be leaving this room again honey.”

Just the same as every night. Had it been another night. Billie would have picked himself from the floor and lifted his tired and beaten body through the window.

But he couldn’t because he was dead.

Once in the cold New Jersey air, he would have run to his boyfriends house, where he would collapse into strong arms, from which he would have been transported to a bathroom, where he would be cleaned.

But he couldn’t because he was dead.

Back in time for morning, when his door would be unlocked as his Mother left the house. Breakfast left out in the kitchen, as she couldn’t bear to see the faggot she had raised.

BUT HE COULDN’T HE COULDN’T HE COULDN’T BECAUSE HIS FATHER HAD KILLED HIM. KILLED HIM.

Moments after Dan had left the room, a pair of dcs shoes slipped through the window, followed by a short boy’s body, and then a scream, a long and endless scream.