I Have Only Myself to Give, Nothing More

“I’ll pick you up from school today, Ryan,” Dad said as I headed out the door to the school bus. He’d been in a scarily happy mood since our Sunday morning trip to the confessional.

But now I’m standing here in the parking lot after school and I don’t see him anywhere. “Where are you?” I ask in frustration, knowing that it would be just like him to go out drinking and forget about me. Which would really suck since the school bus has already left.

“Why you still here?” Brendon asks, surprising me by popping out of nowhere. “Didn’t the bus already leave?”

“Yeah,” I mumble. “But my dad wanted to pick me up today.”

“That’s cool,” Brendon says and I detect a hint of wistfulness in his voice, as though he’s jealous the family I have.

You have no idea.

“Do you want me to wait with you?” he asks. “I bet Jon wouldn’t mind waiting a while before heading home.”

I shrug. “You don’t have to,” I tell him.

“I want to,” he insists and crosses his arms.

“Okay.”

We stand in silence for a couple minutes and there’s still no sign of my father so I turn to Brendon. “Bren?” I ask hesitantly. “Can I ask you a personal question?”

“Of course you can!” he says brightly but I can see a slightly guarded look in his brown eyes.

“Why do you live with Jon? Why don’t you live with your own family?”

His eyes darken and he reaches to take my face between his hands. “You can anything of me anytime, Ryan,” he says fiercely. “But you cannot ask me that.”

“O-okay,” I whisper, a little scared by his intensity.

Giving me a weak smile, Brendon lets his hands fall away from my face and surprises me by wrapping his arms around my waist and leaning into me. “I’ll do anything you ask of me, Ryan,” he mumbles into my shirt. “Except for answer that question.”

“Then I won’t ask it,” I say and put my arms around him, content just to stand there, locked in his embrace, until a car horn blares and I look to see Dad’s little SUV stalling in the parking lot. “Gotta go,” I tell Brendon and quickly release him, running off to the car.

“Bye, Ry!” he calls out, waving at me.

I wave back and get in the car, and I wait for Dad to make the first move, to say the first hello, but all he does is drive off in stony silence. Whatever sort of truce we held on Sunday is now over.

“What’s wrong?” I ask as Dad pulls into our driveway.

“I need a drink,” he mutters and stalks into the house to fix himself some toxic concoction.

I’m practically quivering with fear when he reemerges from the kitchen, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You really are a faggot, aren’t you?” he asks, voice already beginning to slur. “And I won’t have a fag for a son!”

Braced for his attack, it still hurts when his hand catches me across the face. I just stand there and take it as he unleashes all his pent-up fury on me; I stopped trying to run away years ago.

“You’re gonna go to hell, you faggot!” he shouts, knocking me to the ground. “No amount of confessions will save you!”

Swallowing a cry, I curl up into a ball when his foot collides with my stomach. “I love you, Daddy,” I whimper as his hands find their way around my neck.

“You’re no son of mine,” he spits, eyes unfocused and furious.

The priest was wrong, I think as the heel of his hand smashes into my face and my vision begins to darken. I won’t forgive you.