Page 29 of Pippin & Nacho

For two years, we had nothing other than a couple of sleeping bags, a tent, and backpacks crammed with some old, worn clothes. Now we had a roof over our heads, thanks to Alpha and his help setting us on the right path. Still, living on the streets had been better than being beaten in foster care or suffering in conversion therapy because I had Nate with me, making it less scary.

I didn’t think I could’ve done it alone or would’ve wanted to. Hell, I wouldn’t have been here at all if Nate hadn’t been in my life. I’d already been close to leaving this world. One more smack or choke would’ve pushed me over the edge had he not arrived on that fateful date.

When I returned home from conversion therapy, I pretended they’d ‘cured’ me. I was normal. I wasn’t gay. Hide, hide, hide. It was hard because I forgot so much. My mind was in a perpetual fog, making it hard to navigate through. Bits and pieces of my past life remained, but were fractured and mingled with my present. My memories after therapy were shattered shards of glass. You could see them, but you couldn’t tell what shape they used to hold. Broken pieces like me. Those people broke me, never to be whole again. Nate became my Super Glue.

My parents still hated me, or at least my brain told me that when they said the therapy hadn’t taken a good enough hold. They wanted to send me to another place. A better place. My parents explained it was more military-style based therapy.

So I ran.

I ran and ran until I couldn’t run anymore, with nothing other than the clothes on my back and the shoes on my feet. Eventually, the police picked me up and threw me into the system, believing I’d been left all alone. I never told them who my parents were, and I would rather have died than go back.

Did they ever look for me? Report me as missing? If so, social services or the police would’ve found my parents, right?

“Why are you failing physical education? Of all your classes, this should be an easy ‘A’ for you, Sampson. The rest of your grades are slipping down into ‘Cs.’ And you have a ‘D’ in language arts.” Dad’s voice is stern and angry. Always angry. I never made him happy. I sink deep within myself, saying nothing. “Your P.E. teacher said you just stand there half the time.”

I couldn’t remember what the teacher had wanted me to do or what he said. The fear was too strong. I hadn’t wanted to ask. The kids would laugh, and the teacher would be annoyed. If I just stood still and quiet, maybe he’d forget I even existed. I needed to make myself small. So very small. No one could see me and hurt me.

“Sampson!” I jump out of my skin when Dad slams his fist on the kitchen table. “No son of mine is going to be some fucking pansy. Your mother and I set you up for football camp to shape you up this summer.”

No football. Football hurt, and the boys are mean. The eighth-grade football players bully me all the time. I don’t want to go.

“How does that sound, Sampson?” Mom says, taking on a calmer tone. When I was younger, I used to lean into her softness, trusting her. No more. No more trust. It’s all gone. Only fear and being broken remained. My parents broke me. It’s why I’m failing school. That place broke my brain. I know this, but they don’t understand.

“Answer your mother,” Dad snaps.

My body jumps again, and my heart punches through my chest. Still, I say nothing. I’m too scared. No words are the right ones as they swirl in my head. I’m wrong—all wrong—always wrong.

Wrong, wrong, wrong.

Dad sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose before looking at Mom. “Maybe the program we sent him to wasn’t enough. Doug from church recommended another program he’d heard about. It instills a military-type regime. Lord knows Sampson could use more structure.”

No, no, no… Don’t send me to another program. Please, no. I’d rather die. Instead of voicing my fears, I whimper like the broken, weak boy Dad believes me to be. I am. So weak. So small. So wrong.

“What’s that?” he says to me. “Speak up and use your words.”

“No.” My voice is too soft, but as the fear consumes me, so does my determination to run.

Run, run, run… Don’t let them take you away again. You’ll surely die.

“No!” I say again, louder.

“No? I think you’ll do as you’re told, young man.”

“No! You can’t make me go back… I hate you. I hate you. I hate you!”

I stand from my chair and bolt to the front door of our house before they can stop me and just run out into the summer night.

“Sampson! Get back here!” Mom yells after me.

No. Never again. I’d rather die. There are worse things than death.

I opened my eyes to the gentle hand on my cheek, finding Nate sitting across from me, concern filling his eyes. I removed my earbuds. “What’s up?”

“Where’d you go? I’ve been asking you about dinner.”

From now on, I wouldn’t be keeping it all in. I could lean on Nate. “I got lost in memories of when I left home… and all that fear.”

“What brought that on?”

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