Fandom: My Chemical Romance or Original Fic, I'm not quite sure.
Warnings: Swearing, Self-mutilation, Homosexuality (but no sex)
Summary: Hate your dad, blame the world, hurt yourself.
Perspective: Second Person
Do you remember that day this fall when you walked into my room when I was on the phone? I slammed the phone down. I could explain the hang up to Ray later, and I couldn’t risk you hearing anything he said. I yelled at you for coming in without knocking, butting in on my conversation, invading my life.
I sure got an earful then. You yelled right back at me, all of your bullshit about respecting parents. You yelled and you lectured, just like you had all my life. You said kids need their parents to look over them, to make sure they don’t make stupid mistakes, to make sure they don’t wreck their life. How would you know how I should live my life? You’re not a fucking saint yourself, dad.
Then you wanted to know who had been on the phone. I should have lied. I should have said it was a different friend, or a girl, or anybody but Ray. But I was too stupid, too tired, to make anything up. “I was just talking to Ray,” I said.
“Why do you still talk to that guy? Can’t you tell he’s gay?”
I almost came out to you right then. I was so mad, and embarrassed, and tired of all the lies. I almost didn’t care what you would do, how much everything would change. I almost just blurted, Well, I’m gay too, so why the hell should Ray bother me? What would you have done if I had yelled that, huh, dad? What if I had screamed it for the whole neighborhood to hear? That’d be the end of your wonderful reputation as a perfect Christian parent. It would have made everything so much easier, really. I wish I could go back. I would tell you the truth; I’d let you hate me. Maybe that way, everything would be so much less complicated now.
Instead, I lied. “He’s just weird, not gay. His whole family is like that, and he has a girlfriend. You just don’t know him very well.” You just raised your eyebrows and muttered to yourself as you walked out of my room. I know you didn’t believe me. I just hoped you thought I believed what I had said.
That was the first time I told myself that I hated you. I blamed everything on you. You were the cause of all of my problems and pain. I was a liar only because you would never accept the truth. I was guilty because you had taught me to feel guilt for everything you thought was wrong. I had to hide a huge part of my life because you were a homophobe. I wanted your approval, and you would never give it to me. I hated you, and I felt guilty even for that.
I showed the world my pain with the first line across my arm. I knew it was wrong, and dumb, but it felt so good. I didn’t know what else to do. And I got a sick kind of pleasure from it, to dig into my arm, wipe off the blood, and cover up a new secret. I felt alive, awake. I felt accomplished. I knew that I could get through my life again. That cut helped me more than you ever could.
But really, especially as I was already guilty, cutting didn’t help at all. As soon as I thought about what I had done, I curled up on my bed and cried until the tears wouldn’t fall anymore. I am going to hell. I was sure of it. And at the same time, all the little sharp things in my room were singing to me to use them, to decorate my body with more beautiful bloody lines.
I hated who I was. And I blamed it all on you.