Just Another Cide To The Issue

Just Another Cide To The Issue

“My dad is staying late to work, today,” I told Brian, my boyfriend. My name is Matt. Yes, I’m gay. And no, I’m not a stereotypical gay guy who dresses like a girl and talks with a fuckin’ lisp. I hate that. I hate the stereotype even worse.

“Okay, Matt,” He said to me.

“Okay, Brian,” I said.

“Matt…” he said, and chuckled. Most of the kids in our school know we’re gay, most of the teachers do too, but the kids that do know, don’t tell their parents or other kids, which is probably good, because my father would kill me. He’d been in jail until a few years ago, he was part of a group that went to a gay club to beat up gay men. He got out a few months before my mother had a heart attack. Great fuckin’ timing. I mean, he’s nice enough to me, but he’s a bigot, and I can’t stand bigots. I have to go along with it though, if I value living in a house. We walked home, talking mostly about banal things. The movie we’d seen last week or the song we heard in a game we thought was really good, what have you…the usual trite teenage conversation. We got into the house, and took off our coats. I turned up the heat; the winter air was deadly this time of year. I sat down on the couch, Brian next to me and we turned on the TV. I put my arm around him and held him close.

I kissed his cheek, and then kissed his lips. Then the door opened.

“Hey—WHAT THE FUCK?!?!” My dad yelled, as I pulled away from Matt.

“My kid’s a faggot?!” He yelled. He kept rambling on, for about a minute. And I was just thinking, I don’t care what he thinks.

“Yeah, your kid is a faggot. How perfect is this?” I said, laughing.

“You fucking ingrate! I give you housing and love, and this is how you repay me?!” He yelled.

“It really didn’t take long for you to make my sexual orientation about you, did it, Dad?” I asked. He charged me, and I jumped out of the way, he plowed his body in to the wall, and the shelves collapsed on him. He got up, spun around and swung. Brian grabbed his arm, and using his right elbow, hit my dad in the face. Then, unlocking his arm, let his fist smack him in the side of the head, letting go of his arm, and my dad fell to the floor. He got up, and walked quickly to the back of house.

“Holy…shit…” I said, breathing heavily.

“Yeah,” Brian responded. A minute later, my father came back, with his .45 in hand. He pointed it at Brian, and I pulled him down, and we both fell backwards to the ground. He walked around the couch, and I jumped at him, catching him in the stomach area, and I landed on top of him. I punched and punched him in the face. His face was beaten bloody, and I got up, and grabbed the shotgun, and he stood up, and charged me, and I fired into his chest, and he fell backward. I put the gun down, and sat in horror.

“Oh my god, oh my god.” I started shaking, and crying. Brian came over to me, and held me.

“I killed my father, I killed my father…” I cried.

“Don’t cry, you pansy, I sure won’t miss your faggot ass,” my father said, in a dying breath. In a renewed fit of anger, I stood up, picked up the shotgun. I smashed him in the face until his face was probably numb, his jaw was shivering, his whole face, and mouth covered in blood. Finally, his jaw stopped moving, open, and so were his eyes. All I saw in his eyes was a dead hatred.

“What do we do now?” Brian asked, terrified.