Page 13 of Troy

I made sure I left no trace of my former life when I emancipated myself from my bigoted, vicious father at seventeen—a few weeks before my eighteenth. If it hadn’t been for my mother’s aunt, I don’t know what would have happened to me. I arrived broken and bloodied on her doorstep, in the early hours of a dark, wet, Sunday morning.

My mind sinks back into the awful memory of that day, twelve years earlier. It started so pedestrian, but led on to a stilted dinner where my father held court and bossed everyone in his sight.

“Your grades are still good, Sawyer, aren’t they?” My father barked.

“Yes, Sir, I’m still on straight A’s and the team are happy with me, too.” I keep my eyes low, trying not to catch any more attention, but my brother sniggers next to me. I lash out with my leg and kick his ankle hard.

“What’s that, Corrigan? What’s so funny? Share the joke.” My father sneers, he hates not being in control of the conversation.

“Nothing, Sir.” Corrigan flushes and drops his head again. My brother is five years younger than I and the apple of my mother’s eye, which gives him immunity from my father’s beatings. The little one isn’t even in high school yet, but he’s such a little punk; he finds out everything.

“Nonsense, something made you laugh. Now, what was it? It’s rude to have a joke and not share it.”

The air in the room has suddenly turned to molasses as the tension builds. I can see my brother squirming, trying to think of something innocuous to say. He’s not quick enough, though.

“Corrigan! I asked you a question!” My father’s fist clunks down hard on the table, upsetting a glass of water.

“The team are always going to be happy with Sawyer; he gives them special privileges. Especially the quarterback.” Corrigan rushes through his words.

“What do you mean?” My father glares between the two of us. “What privileges? Sawyer, are you tutoring any of them?”

“No, Sir, I don’t know what Corrigan is on about.” I look my father straight in the eye but my brother has decided to be the little shit-stirrer he always is.

“Yeah right, I’m sure you can give a blow by blow account of your team mates, Sawyer. Blow. By. Blow,” the little shit finishes by shoving his tongue in his cheek in a lewd gesture.

“Right, Corrigan, out of here. Straight to your room. Sawyer, I will see you in my office.” My father turns to my mother as she stands and looks like she’s about to speak but, with one more glare from him, she quietly follows my brother out of the room.

My father’s office is a hideous, dark room that stinks of cigar smoke and brandy. A leather belt hangs on the wall behind his desk and normally the mere sight of it has my stomach in knots. But not tonight; tonight, I’ve had enough. I know who I am—and what I am—and I’m not ashamed.

“So, you little shit, what’s your brother talking about, eh?”

“I think he is insinuating that I have been sexually active with the members of my football squad.” I stand straight, I haven’t been offered a seat.

“Hmm, I thought that, too. And, have you? Have you been messing around with your friends?” His quiet voice is always the most dangerous.

“If you are asking if I’ve had sex with them, then no, Sir. At least, not all of them.” I can’t stop a small smile from breaking through.

“So, you’ve messed around a bit, that’s not unusual. But it stops now, Sawyer. You need to cut it all out. What would everyone say? Think of your family name and my reputation.”

I try to find the right words but he takes my silence as acquiescence and leans forward to grab a cigar from the box on his desk.

“I can’t do that, Sir. I’m gay and I’m not ashamed of it.” My back remains ramrod straight as his eyes snap up to mine, the lit match still in his hand.

“No, Sawyer, that is not happening. I won’t allow it. You are a Deschamps and don’t you forget it.” Suddenly he shrieks as the flame reaches his fingers and burns him. “Fuck! Look what you have made me do.”

His face darkens as he shakes his hand then launches himself at me. “Now, listen here: no son of mine is a faggot, no son of mine is a cock-sucking, ass-fucking queer.”

“Then I’m no son of yours, because those actions seem to be exactly what being gay normally means. I happen to like both of those actions.” I keep my eyes on his and I know this is going to go very badly for me in about ten second’s time.

“You little shit! You fucking stand there and speak to me like that.” His fist connects with my face and knocks me to the ground.

Blows and kicks rain down on me for God knows how long. Curled into a ball, my arms cover my head as he batters me with his fists and feet. Then I feel the belt buckle sear my skin as it rips my clothes and cuts open the flesh on my back and butt.

I hear screaming and bellows, then nothing. Everything goes quiet. Slowly, painfully unwrapping my arms, I glance around and find the room empty. Struggling to stand, I stagger to the door, holding on to furniture and the wall for support. My eyes are blurry and blood drips down my body but I manage to stay upright. When I peer out into the hallway, I see my rucksack placed against the front door, telling me everything I need to know.

Getting to it, I lean down to pick up what resembles my belongings but nausea takes over and I vomit violently over the marble-tiled floor. When I’ve purged my stomach, I gather up my bag and open the door; at least I’ve left them something to remember me by. Sensing movement, I scan the space one last time before glancing upstairs. My brother watches me; his eyes full of tears as he realizes what he has done.

Shit! I do not need this. I get out of bed and delve around in my jacket for my smokes. Funny how I haven’t wanted one all day. But those goddamn memories won’t allow me to sleep tonight. Boss looks up at me but doesn’t try to follow me.

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