Time and Time Again

TW: cursing, starvation, mentions of suicide, murder, mentions of abuse, physical violence/gore, abuse, medication overdose mentioned

No one understood anything. No one knew shit. Specifically, my father.

It was by his law that lying about emotion was as illegal as first degree murder.

But when you lived in a society where you were forced to tell people “I’m sad” or “I actually really hate you and you need to get the fuck out of my life” or “I think I want to kill myself”, everyone hated the dumb ‘blue marble oasis’ and dumb Heath City and really dumb me.

Being the gay child of an evil dictator who actually has the worst name possible is about the worst thing you can be on this plane of existence, and my fathers rule of always being perfectly honest has led to people calling me absolutely awful nicknames and me starving myself on and off for a good 3 years, thinking daily of how much I hate everyone and whether or not its worth it to live.

I chucked my phone at the TV, screaming as my sharp-jawed, red-headed, horrible person of a ‘father’ said “Being honest is the best pathway to a good society. If everyone is positive, we can all live happy, perfect lives.”

“SHUT THE HELL UP ALREADY.” I shouted at the TV screen and at my dumb ass father (even though my father in question was a good 102 miles away) as my phone pierced the screen and sent a shower of sparks through the room.

I had seen showers of sparks like that before.

When my father threw a knife at my face when I was three. I dodged it and it crashed into the TV.

My whole body shook with the triggering thoughts and the angered adrenaline pulsing through my veins; my hands clawed at my short, pink hair, and for a second I felt like I was dying.

Maybe dying wouldn’t be so bad after all.

. . .

My father came home exactly 2 days, 13 hours, and 59 minutes later, looking as greasy and smug as ever.

I watched as his white limousine pulled into our driveway with a look of such intense hatred that I could probably burn a hole into his stupid head. I could picture his dumb mouth twisting into a grin as he said “You dyed your hair, did you?” in a sneaky tone of voice like he was plotting to murder me.

Actually, he probably was, somewhere in that head full of dumb thoughts such as “EVERYONE BE HONEST ABOUT YOUR FEELINGS OR YOU DIE”, plotting to murder me.

I stared down at my father from my window on the 3rd floor, listening to his heavy footsteps and the country music that wasn’t actually playing through his earbuds, so loud that everyone down the half mile trail to our mansion could probably hear it. The door opened and he said loudly,

“Ahhh! It’s good to be home.”

Ahhh! I really wished he wasn’t.

I ran down the marble staircase, my bare feet slapping the cold stone. I plastered a fake smile to my face, breaking the law with every broken word I said,

“Hello, dad. How was your work trip?”

My father did exactly what I had predicted, staring down my freshly pink hair. “You dyed your hair, did you?” He sneered. As he walked past me, he ruffled my hair annoyingly, shoving his suitcase into a corner near the staircase. I watched him as he toddled towards the kitchen, most likely to take his meds (which I had stolen a couple of on occasion).

“Turnout was great.” He said; I had forgotten I ever asked him how his trip was. “A good 5,000.”

“That’s great?” I responded, not trying to point out that it was really not great of a turnout. He laughed one weird, loud ‘HA!’.

“Compared to how many people watch it at home on the news, yes.” He swallowed a pill dry and I could tell he was suppressing a cough. His arm slammed down onto my shoulder and he shook my body with the weight.

“Maybe next time I’ll bring you, son.” He smiled at me. I wanted to slap him in the face and tell him it was really stupid idea and that most people hate me enough already, but instead I pressed out,

“Yeah… okay…”

But, unfortunately, he noticed my off tone. “Son, you know you can tell me anything you need, am I right?”

No.

“Yes, dad.”

“So… is there anything you need to tell me?” He asked, leaning against the counter top. When I stayed silent, he added in a joking tone, “You know, it is against the law to lie.”

It wasn’t a joke.

I nearly screamed as something inside me snapped.

“You know what? I do have something to say. You have been a shitty human being and a shitty father since the day you threw a knife at my head when I was three. THREE. You’re just a homophobic, misogynistic dickhead who can’t even run his own life without 5 people helping him and a massive, showy mansion that you don’t even go into half of. You’re so selfish and ignorant and dumb, oh god, you’re so dumb that you made a law stating that people have to be honest about every feeling or thought they think or they deserve to die. Well guess what? Sometimes white lies are okay. Truth hurts, doesn’t it?”

My father stared at me with a blank expression that hardened into a glare. “Do you not know everything I’ve done to keep you safe, to keep you happy?” He shouted, coming closer to me. I backed away. “Everything I’ve ever done is for you.”

“Why did you make everyone miserable for me? That isn’t what I want; if you wanted to make me happy you would get rid of that law!” I shot back. My father lunged at me and I ducked as he slammed into the counter with a loud moan. I dashed up the stairs to my bedroom and locked every single typically useless lock on the door.

I heard the noise of a knife being taken out of the knife block all the way downstairs.

I began to barricade the door with anything I could find- my dresser, my box of old stuffed animals, my weirdly heavy beanbag chairs. I didn’t expect my father to be fast up the far too many stairs, but all of a sudden he was banging on the door with such force that the hinges creaked.

I tore across the room to the window, opened them and punched out the screen, perching on the edge of the windowsill. The door burst open.

I jumped as the knife stabbed through my back.