Self-Developed

"Goodbye," I said. He kissed me one final time before parting ways. His hand, still interlocked with mine. He refused to let me go when I attempted to disconnect my hand with his. "I have to go, my mom will be wondering where I am," I explained.

"I know, but I don't want you to leave; I never get to see you anymore," Brandon told me with a puppy dog glimmer in his eyes.

I sighed. "You know why that is, you know why I can't see you all the time. We've been through this many times before. I don't know why you always seem to bring it up. I'm trying here, I really am. If my parents knew about us, I would be dead, no question about that," I explained in an irritated tone.

"I know that, I just," he mumbled. "I just don't like keeping us a secret; I don't know how much longer I can do this."

I was in awe, he had never told me that before. "You have always said that it would be fine, if I kept you and I a secret. Where is all of this coming from? What changed?"

"I, I, I don't know. It just hurts feeling like you don't care enough about me to talk to your family about us. I'm being selfish. I know how difficult it is, Josh," Brandon attempted to put his arm around my shoulder.

I shrugged it off. "Yeah, you are being selfish. I love you so much and I want to be with you, and I want to tell that to the whole world. You don't know my parents. They can't accept anyone or anything that is different from their white picket fence lifestyle. Even if it's someone like their son. I can't tell them. They'll kick me out. Why can't I just love you in private?"

That must have struck a nerve with Brandon; his face went blank and emotionless. He only ever expressed that when he was pissed.

"Brandon, I didn't mean to," I tried to hold him, but he brushed me off.

"You know what, Josh? I've been patient with you for a year and a half, in private. I've done everything you wanted me to do. You don't get to do this. I just want this one thing from you. That is all, but you can't even do that for me. I know it's hard. Talking to my dad was rough too. He came around. Just like your parents are going to do," he told me sternly.

"You don't understand. How could you? Your parents love every single thing you do. You telling them that one part of your life was never going to change anything. My parents aren't like that. I was always raised that being gay is wrong. My parents are not going to change their beliefs. Nothing I do is going to change that. I can't tell them. At least not now. If you care about me, you'll respect that," I said.

"I can't do this anymore with you, Josh. I can't keep doing this. I hate hiding you. I hate not being able to see you. I hate getting into stupid arguments like this. We keep dancing around this problem, and my feet are getting tired." I broke into tears. I could see through my blurred vision that he was holding his own tears back as well. He looked away to hide his own misery. "I'm sorry, Josh. I just can't do this with you anymore." He walked away and left me in my tragic state.

I was shocked, and sad, and angry. I had an image to keep up though. I wiped my tears, blew my nose, took a few deep breaths. "Get it together, Josh," I said to myself.

I began walking home. It was only a couple blocks away from the park I was at. It would only take me a couple of minutes to get there. I turned onto the street where my house resided and I peered in the direction of my house, there was a white 2015 Kia Soul in the driveway, which meant that my dad was home. I looked at my phone, it was 1:37 P.M., my dad usually worked till late. Something must have been going on. I picked up the pace slightly and hurried towards my house and into the front door.

"Mom? Dad?" I called out into the seemingly empty house. I walked around the living room and the kitchen, nothing. I shrugged. I walked into my room and my parents were sitting on my bed. "Hey, I didn't realize you guys would be in here. Is something going on?"

My mom just began crying. "Mom? What's going on?" I imagined that someone must have died or had cancer or something serious. I looked at my dad, he had one hand on my mother's shoulder and the other behind his back. I looked down towards where his arm ended and he followed my gaze. He pulled what he was holding in his hand in front of him. It was a composition book. It was my composition book. My journal. My heart sank.

"What the hell is this?" My father was pissed and more than likely, disappointed.

"It's my journal," I told him innocently.

He opened it up to one of the more recent entries. I knew exactly which one he was going to ask about. I put my head down and started crying. My father walked over to me, still holding the page and jerked my head up. "What the hell is this?" He pointed to a polaroid picture that I had put in there of Brandon and I . We were kissing. I couldn't look at my father anymore, his disappointment hurt me more than anything.

"It's me," I said between sobs. "and a boy named Brandon. We were kissing." I started crying hysterically.

"We did not raise you this way, Josh. It's not natural. This is not okay. You know that. You weren't raised to be a faggot. We can't condone this sinful behavior. You're a fucking disgrace," my dad yelled at me. He grabbed my shoulders and threw me against my wall. I sank to the ground, where he got above me and punched me repeatedly, in the stomach and in the face. He continued to hit me and called me, "faggot," or "queer," and "a fucking disgrace," while doing so. I opened my eyes during the beating, and looked at my mother. She couldn't hold my gaze, and looked away from me with her eyes closed.

My father got off of me and I opened my eyes. He was crying too. "Get the fuck out of my house, you faggot," he yelled at me with disgust. I slowly rose to my feet, my body was aching. I looked at my mother one last time before walking out, she still looked away. That was what hurt the most, the fact that my mother who bore me, could no longer stand to look at me.

I felt a strong hand on my arm and was pulled back into reality, where my father was hauling me out of the house. When we got to the front door, he threw me onto the concrete driveway, scraping my face and arm.

"Never fucking come back here, faggot," my mother said repulsively.

"You're not welcome here anymore," my father said.