Breath Without Me

His breath mingles with mine as his body presses me into the mattress. My breath stutters when his lips come dangerously close to mine. 

I want to kiss him. I want to feel nothing between us. I want him, but does he want me? He's strong and incredibly handsome. 

I'm small and just a boy who likes other guys, and he's a man who likes women. There's no way he'd like me… Right? 

Then why is he looking at me like that? Why is he looking at me like I'm his everything? Why is he looking at me like he wants to devour me? Why do I feel his length growing between us? 

His lips are so close. His body is so warm, and feels so right pressing against me. 

It's now or never. I take a leap of faith and come up onto my toes to kiss him. 

                                                                      ~§~

My vision blurs as I grip my nose, trying to stop the bleeding as I run from my father. I can hear him getting closer; his steps don't falter as mine do. They're strong and steady, while I'm barely staying upright. 

My chest hurts; I'm sure there's at least one broken rib from the impact of his foot, or maybe it was his fist.

My lungs burn from taking in air much faster and longer than they're used to. The dried cornstalks snag at my clothes, tearing into my skin, but I keep running.

My father's footsteps get further away as I run deeper into the cornfield. I pass through row after row, trying to lose him. Just when I think I've lost him, I suddenly stumble out of the cornfield and into the school hall where my locker is. Pain radiates through my face as it connects with my locker. 

Richard's annoying voice is above me as I fall to the floor. His foot draws back, and I squeeze my eyes closed, bracing for the impact that always comes. 

I gasped as I bolted upright, sucking much-needed air into my lungs like I had been holding my breath for hours. My chest rises high with each deep lungful of air I gulp in, and my eyes dart around into the darkness that surrounds me. It takes a moment to realize my father isn’t here, and neither are the bullies from school. In fact, no one is here. I'm all alone, and I'm cold in the darkness of the cornfield where I sought shelter last night. 

I remember where I am. 

That was just a dream. 

He's not here.

I was reliving yesterday's nightmare, and it mixed with my daily hell at school, creating one hell of a nightmare.

I drag my hands down my face with a sigh of relief. However, my nightmare isn't over. The events of yesterday were just the beginning, and my nightmare is just getting started. 

I clench my teeth as I carefully pry myself from the bed of corn stalks I arranged last night. It wasn't exactly the most comfortable thing, but it was better than sleeping on dirt. I brush my hands down my clothes to straighten myself, and frown when I realize my clothes are wet from the dew.

Turns out the cornfield wasn't the smartest place to sleep. But I couldn't go far. I had nothing but the clothes on my back and nowhere to go. 

I had to wait for my father to go to sleep, and hope he didn't think to lock my bedroom window. 

With the first step, I felt every bruise and strained muscle ache. With the next step, I felt every wound from his fist scream in protest, and every cut from his knife burn. I'm exhausted, but I don't have time to wait. I have to get back before he wakes up…

My heart races as I slowly step out of the cornfield. I scan the back of the house. All the lights are off. Good.

As fast and quietly as I can, I run across the yard, ignoring the pain, and not stopping until I'm under my window and pressed up against the house. My heart races, blood rushes through my veins, and my heart pounds loudly in my ears like a drum.

While squatting beneath my window, I lean my head back against the house and close my eyes, trying to catch my breath. Once I'm ready, I stand and look into my window. 

I'm surprised to see my door closed. Maybe he couldn't stand looking into my room each time he walked past, because it only reminded him of me, the very thing he hated. 

I held my breath and pushed up against the window. I nearly cried when it opened. I was afraid he would have locked it. 

As soon as I push it open enough, I pull myself in and stand on shaky legs. 

The scent of my room fills my nose. It's a mix of old wood that refuses to dry, and the scent of Axe body spray that I've used way too liberally at times.

I look around and wish I had a larger bag. I'd like to take more with me, but I know I won't be able to. All I have is the army-green canvas backpack I used for school. It was bigger than a standard backpack, but not big enough for what I needed it for today.

I crossed the room to the old chair in the corner and pulled the backpack from it. I dumped everything onto the bed, then began pulling my clothes out of the dresser. 

I shove as much as I can into the bag as I fight back tears. I have no idea where I'll go. I just turned 17 only a few days ago. I don't have many options, especially when I don't have family besides my mother and father, and not a single friend; I haven't had one of those since I was a little boy.

I reach under the dresser and feel the small, old tin lunch box I was looking for. I open it to be sure the money is still there, and it is, along with pictures of my grandfather before he died. 

I often wonder if my grandfather would hate me for being gay, just like my father does. He died before he ever found out. Maybe it was best that way. At least I'm left with nothing but good memories of him.

I shove the box into my bag as I force back tears, then throw it over my shoulder. I press my ear against the door, hold my breath, and close my eyes, listening for the slightest sound. When I hear nothing, I slowly open the door, praying my father doesn't hear me. 

The damn door creaks, and my heart stops as I freeze, holding my breath. My heart pounds against my ribs as I wait to see if he heard. When a few seconds pass, and I hear no sound of my father stirring awake, I quietly exhale a breath of relief, then step into the hall. I look down toward my parents' door, and my chest tightens and aches painfully. I stare at it and wish things had been different…

I wish my father loved me and wasn't so cruel. I wish he had accepted me as I was, and didn't think of me as a disease. 

I wish my mother loved me harder, because maybe then she would have been able to save me from him. Maybe she could have saved both of us and gotten us the hell out of there before we were both too broken.

I stared at the door a moment longer, swallowing thickly as tears rolled down my cheeks. I swallowed again, burning the image of my parents' door into my memory for the times when I become too weak, and need to remember them…

My eyes constantly scanned the house as I moved through it. A part of me expects to find my father sitting in the living room, waiting for me. Or maybe he's in the kitchen at the table with a shotgun loaded, waiting to put a bullet between my eyes. 

I peek into the kitchen, and my shoulders slump in relief when I don't see him. I step forward and go straight for the pantry. 

I stuff my bag with food, canned goods, ramen noodles, and anything I can get my hands on, including emptying the remaining granola bars into my bag.

I open the drawer next to the sink, grab the can opener, and pause when I see the canisters where my mother keeps sugar and things of that sort. The smallest one holds tea bags, but my mother stopped drinking tea a while ago. Now there's something else in it, buried beneath tea bags. Something my father isn't aware of. 

I grab the canister, flip open the lid, and push the tea bags aside. My heart jumped when I saw the cash I was hoping to find. 

I look toward the hall, and for a moment, I feel guilty for even considering taking it. My mom has been putting money in this jar for a while. I don't know what she was saving it for. Perhaps she was saving it to get herself out of this hellhole one day herself, or maybe it was to buy herself something my father never would have.

I have never taken money from my parents, but I need it. I've only been 17 for a few days, and my father is kicking me out with nowhere to go. However, the guilt is still there, so I remind myself that she stopped sticking up for me a while ago, including when he kicked me out.

With that last thought, I stuffed my hand into the jar, pulled the money out, and shoved it into my pocket. 

I opened the fridge, grabbed a few bottles of water, and shoved them into my bag before walking toward the front door. 

I opened the door and paused. My chest tightened painfully. My chest ached in a way that felt like my heart was bleeding. It hurt because I knew this was it. I would never step foot in this house again once I step out this door. I turned and looked back, allowing my eyes one final look at the home I grew up in. 

My childhood flashed before my eyes. I see my mom sitting on the couch, watching me play on the floor with my GI Joes and the little farm animals. Instead of going off to war, they were wrangling up cows and sheep. 

My lip trembled, and my chest stuttered as hot tears rolled down my cheeks. I didn't want to go, but I couldn't stay. He would kill me if he found me in this house when he woke up. He had every intention of killing me last night, but I managed to escape.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and forced myself to do what my heart didn't want me to do. I turned, stepped outside, and pulled the door shut behind me. I didn't bother closing it quietly. I didn't care anymore. I have what I came for. I wasn't here to stay. The door of my childhood nightmare was closing, and a door to the unknown was opening. 

The old, wooden porch creaked under my feet with each step I took away from that door. My chest felt tighter, but at the same time, I somehow felt lighter, like something dark and heavy was lifting away.

My head snapped to the right when a light flicked on. My stomach dropped; it's the light to my parents' bedroom.

I took off as fast as my battered body would allow me. I heard my father's voice yelling my name just as I reached the cornfield and entered it. The dry stalks whipped past me, tearing at my skin. I nearly fell over when I heard the loud echo of my father's shotgun going off. 

I didn't stop, nor did I look back. I kept running until I couldn't run any further. I ran until my legs gave out, and my lungs felt like they were on fire…

That was the last time I set foot in that house. That was the last time I saw my parents. 

I was barely 17 years old. 

My father thought he beat me straight over the years, but he didn't. He discovered I was still gay when someone sent him photos of me and a boy from the next town over. A boy I had only been dating for a few months.

He was my second love. The second boy I'd ever kissed. But just like the first one, my father found out.

I often wonder what happened to Christopher. I often wonder how long he waited for me, and if he ever went looking for me. 

I pray he never went to my house. I pray he never crossed paths with my father. I'm not sure what my father would have done to him if he did.