Whispers In The Dark

Reximus

Reximus

I eyed the round purple-blue tint on my stomach, and the fading red patch around one eye. I ran my fingers across the small pink scar that disappeared into my hairline.

A sob escaped my mouth and I quickly pressed my lips together to prevent another. I lowered my shirt, hiding away the bruises, and took deep breaths through my nose to calm my shaking shoulders, but only succeeded in filling my too-wide eyes with tears.

There were gentle knocks at the bathroom door. "Rex?" It was my mom. "Rex, baby, are you alright?"

Truthfully, I was far from alright, but I knew that that was not was she wanted to hear. "Yes, Mom." My voice trembled. "I'm fine."

"Okay," she responded doubtfully. "Well, dinner's ready, so come downstairs."

"Alright."

I opened the door, blinked the tears from my eyes, and followed my mother down the stairs. Just before we entered the kitchen, she turned to me, placed her hands on my shoulders and examined the reddened skin around my right eye.

"They were picking on you again," she said, voice soft.

I looked away from her face, not wanting to see the look of hurt and sadness and sympathy churning in her eyes.

"You really need to stand up to these kids, or at least stay away from them. I can talk with their mothers--"

I shook my head sadly and shrugged her hands away. I walked into the kitchen, only sparing my dad a short glance before taking a seat across from where my mother would sit.

My dad sat still and stoic at the head of the table, tensing as I sat. The majority of his black hair had grayed, and the deep lines etched into his face made him look much older than thirty-nine. It was obvious that he hadn't shaved in a while, for the bit of stubble he had harbored a few days prior had grown into the beginnings of a goatee. His eyes were full of admiration as he watched his wife of twelve years move carefully around the kitchen, cutting vegetables and tossing a salad, occasionally tucking a wild strand of curly brown hair behind her ear. Brown eyes met gray eyes and he smiled as she blushed.

"Hi, Dad," I murmured, looking to my lap.

I hadn't met to shatter the moment, but in the blink of an eye, my dad's face had hardened into someone I had only gotten to know those past few months and my mom's eyes were sad again. I looked down to my lap but didn't miss my dad's hiss of "faggot" and my mom's grimace, and once again I was reminded that I was his burden, not his son.

I was merely weight on his shoulders; weight that he couldn't wait to be rid of.