AUTHOR'S NOTE: Something may have been misunderstood in my last note, even by the Archivist, so I'll start with that. While I mentioned some of the characters in the first chapter are very loosely based off a couple real people, all the names are as fictional as the personalities. Most names I borrowed from a newspaper or the phonebook, or anything else close at hand that had an appropriate-sounding name in it. Basically, what I meant was that I had occasionally recalled a couple memories and then used my creative side to shake them up. There's some people in the memories but, unlike the physical places, they were totally altered by my imagination. Does that make sense? I'm not sure. To break it down: don't go looking for these people in real life, because they don't live there. :-)
Anyway, to get far away from that tangent....Chapter two came along much faster than I expected, and somewhat shorter. It just felt right to end it when I did. I'll try to get the next chapter out within a week or so, but it could easily be shorter or longer.
I also want to thank everybody who wrote and gave me encouragement from the first chapter. I was seriously considering whether or not I should just request that the story be deleted, but I suppose I'll keep at it for a bit longer. To reach me for comments (either positive or constructively negative, I do read both) my e-mail address is still
robert_b9968 hotmail.com (@ removed for spam-protection purposes, add it in to e-mail me. Many thanks to the archivist who noticed this last time.)
Chapter II ==========
I began to leave the room, but on the way something slipped underfoot. After regaining my balance, I quickly scanned the floor for what had almost tripped me. I immediately noticed an old bone-handled hunting knife, with a slightly curved blade measuring more than five inches long. It was durable enough to be stepped on -- I had done much worse to it, over the years - but the safely folded blade was sharpened to a razor's edge Much wiser to keep it with me than to step on it again, I thought, so I put it into my pocket and idly tried to decide where to leave it later tonight.
Dinner, both the food and the atmosphere, was boring and uneventful. Dad rambled on incessantly about his latest woes at his work and Mom complained about various problems around the house -- she did have a job too, but the house problems apparently took priority. This annoyed my father greatly, as she held him responsible for every dripping faucet or squeaking hinge. If the roof was suddenly blown into the backyard, I mused, she would probably send him outside with a hammer and not let him back in until he had fixed it.
I said little throughout the meal, and only picked at the dry meatloaf. I was busy scrambling for the words that would have to come soon. I hadn't slept the entire night before, trying to decide what I would say, but I was still at a complete loss. The food was finished, the table cleared, and I began on the dishes. 'What should I say? What should I say?' My mind chanted. The clean dishes were put away, and the dirty ones were in the dishwasher. Now dinner was over. It was time. I'd just have to improvise.
I walked into the family room, where my mother and father sat on the couch watching CNN. I pulled up a folding computer chair and straddled it, resting my arms on the seatback. I was facing them, but I looked away as I mumbled, "Um, mom, dad, can I talk to you about something important?"
"Of course, sweetie." My mother chimed as she shut off the television. My father, miraculously not hidden behind a wall of paperwork, seemed generally more affable now after his third glass of scotch. They both looked at me, unknowingly waiting for the bomb to drop, and appeared totally supportive and caring. These were my parents; I knew they loved me. They had to understand. My heart was beating dangerously fast, and my head swam somewhat from it, but I had to go through with it. 'Enough of the lies.' I thought resignedly, 'Time for it all to end.'
I breathed in deeply, and as I let the air forcefully come back out the words sailed along with it. "I'm sorry that I'm not a better son. I'm sorry for lying to you all these years, and most of all, I'm sorry for never being able to be who you want me to be. I...." Suddenly it felt like my brain had forcefully closed my throat in a last ditch effort for silence, but I broke through and said the words that can never be taken back. "I'm gay."
For half a minute, there was silence. I wanted to look at the floor, but I was compelled to watch my parents' faces as they took in what I had just said. Their thoughts were obvious as they slowly realized I wasn't joking and tried to decide just how they felt. Finally, my mother seemed to reach an idea that comforted her, and nervously forced a motherly laugh.
"Oh, honey, it's just a phase you're going through. You'll grow out of it," she cooed.
"No, mom, it's more than that. If it were just a phase, I would have grown out of it a long time ago."
"Bullshit!" My father finally erupted. "No son of mine is gay. They say being that way is genetic, and no way in hell did you get that from me. What do you want my colleagues to think? That I'm some kind of pansy just because my son is? You get over this, right now!"
"I can't just get over it, dad. It's more than just making a choice. Like you say, it's genetic, it's in my blood. It would be easier for me to rewrite the dictionary with my left hand!"
"Now, honey," My mom interrupted, on the verge of sounding panicky, "You can go to a special kind of therapist. I just read about them in the newspaper the other day. It's difficult, but if you try hard enough, they promise they can make you normal again."
"Normal?" I repeated, quickly becoming angry. In the back of my mind, I noticed that anger made this type of thing much easier for me. "Who the hell is some shrink to say what's normal or not? You want me to go and bury who I am, and deny the nature that made me that way, just so I can blend in.
How is that being normal, exactly?"
"Listen here," my father continued belligerently. "I will not allow this sort of behavior in my house. You will go to this therapy -- which I suppose we'll have to pay for -- and you'll forget that you ever wanted to be this way. Your mother and I love you, son, and we always will, but we will not condone our only son being a faggot!"
The last word felt like a punch in the stomach, and a curtain of silence suddenly draped over the conversation. I gradually stood from the chair and faced them, blinking back hot tears. I would be stronger than that; I would not be so weak as to cry in front of my father, on top of everything else.
"I don't expect your approval, or even your understanding. That might come in time, or it might not. All I want is for you to see me as who I really am. The person in front of you is your son, not the boy of lies I've been parading around for all these years. If you can't accept that, maybe I should just leave."
"Maybe you should," my father said coldly. I stared at him and my jaw dropped slightly, nothing compared to the wide-eyed shock my mother was giving us both. "We do love you, son. I meant that. But unless you realize what's best, I think you might be better off on your own."
"George, you can't mean that." My mother moaned desperately. "Give him another chance. I'm sure --"
"Hold on, Darlene!" My father barked, silencing my mother as surely as covering her mouth would have. "So what's it going to be, Jason? Will you stay here with your parents, and try to change your ways? If not, you do know where the door is." His eyes held a smug satisfaction as he said this.
He knew he had won the argument.
For nearly a solid minute, nobody spoke. I stood still, looking around my home, taking in all the memories from younger days. Few pleasant memories came to mind. I stared at my parents, letting their image be pressed into my mind. I don't know who was the most surprised by what finally came next.
"Goodbye," I said softly, and started for the door. A single tear worked its way down my cheek, but my back was to my father, so I allowed it.
"Jason!" My parents called after me -- my mother in a panic, my father enraged. But it was too late. I opened the door, shut it gently behind me, and ran.