What I Really Am

Chapter 5

ANGSTYNESS >:{D

Brendon's POV 

And the next few weeks went by something like this: I'd go to work, clock out, spend the day at Ryan's, and then either sleep at his cabin or sneak home late. Anything to see him and stay away from my parents' disapproving gazes. It was working pretty well, and it had been almost a month before I ran into trouble with this arrangement. My dad still hadn't gotten over the fact that I didn't want a girlfriend... when I was six. What made me think that he would get over this ANY sooner?

I got out the shower, just dressed, to find my dad waiting in the living room. Hair still damp, I looked questioningly at him. He isn't supposed to be home right now. He doesn't get off for another three hours. When I reached for the front door handle, he blocked my way. His face is red and I can tell there's no way I'm getting out of this. I've been skirting him for almost a month after he found out. He asks me angrily, "Son, tell me why you're a... dirty, fucking useless fag. I bring you up nice and good and all I get in return is the fact of knowing I'll never have grandchildren or anything because my SON is too busy getting it up his ASS?" My eyes are burning and I feel fists forming at my sides.

"You never gave me anything, you prick! All you ever fucking did for ME was hit me, so if anything, it's YOUR fault I'm such a fag!" I instantly regret my words. Not once had I stood up to my father. I'd seen my mother try once...

He didn't seem to like this very much, seeing as next thing I know, his fist smashes into my eye, leaving a pulsing bruise to form on the socket. I struggle to get around him, dodging the hits. But one blow lands right on my stomach, accompanied by one to the ribs, and I'm left winded on the floor. He kicks me and then smirks down at his work. He crouches down, alcohol lacing his breath. "Go run off to your fuckbuddy and see if he'll help you now... Oh, and about you liking to play with my lighters and "self-harm" as you pussies call it," he says in reference to my burning, "I think you're doing a damn good job of making me angry. Doing my work for me now." The fucking prick. He leaves me bruised to lie on the welcome mat, struggling for breath. As I suck in a ragged breath, I push myself up to rest my back against the wall. I rub my cheek to find blood smeared across the back of my hand. "Shit," I murmur, and wipe it off to the best of my ability on my dark, black jeans. Gathering up all my strength, I push myself up and cling to the front door so my knees don't buckle under the tremendous wave of pain that hits me momentarily. I unlock it, fingers fumbling desperately in an attempt to get out of here, it clicks unlocked. I open it and stumble out the door, not bothering to close it. The door hangs open as I make my way across town, ignoring the confused people around me asking if I "am in need of assistance". Fuck no, just get me to Ryan.

I make it there in record time for a bloody pulp.

Ryan looks up from his book smiling, ready for a hug. He looks at me and his eyes go blank, mouth hanging open; his book drops limply from his hand. He doesn't really seem to notice.

"I did this to you, it's my fault isn't it." Ryan's stare is making me feel sick. I really am a fag. I deserved this. This shit is all my fault, why can't I let Ryan be and just go fuck some girl? Because I'm a fucking fag. I'm berating myself mentally for a moment before replying.

"Yeah, I mean no. But no... It wasn't you. They don't know about you. They just know I'm gay, and they aren't too happy." He still stares at me with the same mix of emotions. I can see it in his eyes: pain, anger, and lots of other, deeper feelings... I see the glimmering hint of love somewhere.

"Who, Brendon? I'll fucking... you know..." he trails off. There's nothing he could do, and he knows it. His toothpick frame, while endearing, wouldn't stand up to much of my dad like he wants to think.

I don't want to answer. He'll go do something and get hurt, and I can't stand to see Ryan in pain.

We sit in silence before I break down. The tears slip out against my will, oblivious to my effort to hold the salty drops in for one more minute.

"My dad."

I look up in between ragged breaths to see him mutter a single phrase.

"Holy shit." Ryan's lanky frame makes his way towards me and wraps his arms around me. "Bren, I'm so sorry, I...I'm sorry."

He doesn't really need to be; Ryan didn't exactly do anything. But he repeats it like a mantra, convincing himself he's sorry for doing this to me, when in reality, he's sorry for letting it happen. But there was nothing he could do to stop it. Still, he repeats this phrase.

"I'm sorry.

I'm sorry,

I'msorry,

Imsorry,

imsorry,

imsorry," muttering it into me ear until it becomes an unintelligble mass being choked out from between his lips, so painful yet amazing to watch. Those three words reverberate in my head, buzzing around with no purpose but to further my pain. They buzz around like wasps, yet float around like delicate butterflies, because everything Ryan says is beautiful, yet so simple. The words he strain to say, the heartfelt words he repeats, are stuck in my mind; they're trapped with no escape. They're words everyone told me but never really meant until now. He chokes it out in a sob and finally stops saying it, but the words still float around in my head, repeating themselves, driving me up the walls yet soothing me at the same time.

I can tell he is crying too. We stay like that for what seems like an eternity before he holds my chin and looks at me. His thumb rubs a bruise and I flinch away from his touch.

"I came home and he was there, so I tried to get away but then he," I choke out a breath. I don't finish the sentence.

"Yeah."

We end up on the couch, my head on his chest as I calm down and really begin to feel the pain set in. The adrenaline is wearing off. I fall asleep to the hum of the words in my head-

"I'm sorry."