Summertime

I suppose I'd better start from the beginning. I'm Frank.
I'm 18 (well, almost 19. just a couple more weeks...) and homeless.
That's right. I'm homeless.
Got kicked out for coming out.
I believe my Dad's exact words were, "My sons not going to be a faggot."
My mother cried and screamed prayers. I think she thought I was Satan. 
My Dad set the microwave timer for half an hour and told me whatever wasn't packed by the time the timer stopped would be burnt.
I ran up to my room, packed all my stuff in well under five minutes and lay on the bed.
I didn't have a lot of stuff.
Not really.
I packed all my clothes; a Misfits t-shirt, three pairs of black skinny jeans, underwear, socks and other band t-shirts that were worn-out. I packed two pairs of black converse, too.
Ripping a drawing of a cross (which was, by the way, supposed to keep Satan away) off my wall, I scribbled a note on the back.
"I've already gone (before the timer ended). Packed my stuff and left. By the time you read this, I'm probably half way to wherever I'm going. if I'm lucky enough to get a cab, I might just be there. So bye. Frank. x"
I added the X at the end after half a seconds debate.
Just to show I loved them. And stuff.
Closing my suitcase, I did a last minute 'errand' with a smile on my face.
As soon as I was out the back door, I looked at the garden. No swings. Not even a glimpse of colour. Just grass, a wall about twice the height of me, and the sky.
I walk cautiously around the house. Stepping out onto the road, I sigh in relief as I feel the burden being lifted off my shoulders.
I hear Dad's yelp of fright after a minute or two.
Timer must have gone, he probably barged into my room to get me, and the door fell down.
I just HAD to unscrew the hinges of my door. I just had to.