My Beautiful Boy ✔️

32

My dad was on the couch when I walked back into my house. He stared at me as I walked past, and I gulped before making my way towards the stairs. But, the sound of his throat clearing forced me to freeze on the spot.

"Dawson." He begins, and I slowly turn around to face him. "Where were you?" He asked, raising his eyebrow. My face scrunches in confusion, and I lick my dry lips before answering.

"I... I was at work." I answer, clenching my jaw. My father carefully gets to his feet, rubbing his hands together. "Why? Is something wrong?" I ask, warily.

"All night?" He questions, and I frown. He knows something. "Dawson, don't forget that I raised you." He states, and I internally roll my eyes. You barely raised me, I think to myself. "I know when you lie." Shit. "So, tell me the truth. Where... were you?"

I nod my head, rubbing my palm over my mouth before resting my hand on my hips. "I was with Alayna." I tell him, staring right into his eyes. "Is that a problem?" I asked, and dad scoffed.

"I don't understand." He shakes his head. "Have I taught you nothing? Your whole life, I've told you not to engage with people like her, but you-" I cut him off with a curt laugh. Dad glares at me. "What's so funny?"

"You, thinking you're all high and mighty because of where you were born." I scoff, shaking my head. "You seriously need to educate yourself, dad, because you can't go around acting like being born here is the greatest thing that can happen to mankind, because it isn't."

"Tell me who's fucking country this is, Dawson. Tell me." He spits, glaring at me.

"It's hard to tell, isn't it? You know, with all the Asian doctors that sort you out when you wind up getting Cancer in a few years, and the African lawyers that'll keep you out of jail when you get arrested for possession of drugs, or, the foreign builders that built the roof on top of your head so that you could have a bigger house. You didn't even pay them what they deserved." I shake my head once more, so very angry. I was angry at him for believing that Alayna deserved less of my attention for her background. I was angry at him for always judging everyone who didn't look like him and the casual racism that he seems to thrive on.

"You're fucking insane, Dawson. These people forced their way into our country, and now they're taking over! We're the minority in our own damn country!" He yells, his South London accent is loud and clear and sharp.

"We're not the minority, dad." I sigh, running my hands through my hair. "We'll never be the minority." I told him. "You just... you wanna be oppressed really bad, don't you?" I take a step away from him.

"You're delusional." He mumbles, shaking his head. "She's fucking corrupting your head, that fucking disgusting, brown bitch. She's making you think that she deserves to be here, but she doesn't." Dad says, and my eyes are wide in anger. The words he's muttering... they don't make sense.

He's the delusional one. Anyone who thinks like him is fucking delusional. Anyone who hates people and judges someone is fucking delusional. But, dad is still talking. My eyes flitter to the ground and my brain turns to mush and I'm not thinking as I leap forward, curl my fist and collide with my dad's cheek.

He stumbles back, his hands on his face and he's staring at me with shock and disgust. Then, before I can think, his hands are curled around the collar of my shirt and he's throwing me against the wall. I'm winded from the impact. His fists clash repeatedly against my face and my stomach and I'm coughing and I can't breathe and I'm falling onto the ground in a heap.

***

I stare at my reflection in the mirror. A tear slips out of my eye and mixes with the blood dripping from my lip. My eyebrow was cut and I'm sure my stomach had bruises scattered all over them. I couldn't bear to look.

As soon as my dad was finished beating the shit out of me, he ran out of the house. I stayed on the ground for a few minutes, struggling to get up. Now, I'm in my room, trying to ignore the pain. Pain is just an illusion, I tell myself.

Carefully, I peel away my shirt from my sweaty body and pull it over my head. Along with the hickeys that Alayna planted onto my skin, a few bruises scattered my skin and I squeezed my eyes shut so that I wouldn't cry anymore. I breathe heavily as I grab the small cloth from my bed and dab at the cut under my eye, wincing when the pain skitters down my spine.

I bite my lip and scrunch my nose, wiping at the blood on my cheek and my lip. I grab the bruise cream that I recently purchased and swiped it over my cuts and the bruises on my stomach. I wipe away any escaping tears from underneath my eyes and pull down my joggers. I get my towel and make my way to the bathroom, turning on the shower. After fully stripping, I step into the scalding hot water and wash away any dry blood off of my skin. My hand rubs all over my body and through my hair and over my face and I've never hated my dad more than right now. I never thought he'd hurt me like he just has, but I guess there's always a part of someone that they keep quiet and hidden.

It's only taken my father eighteen years to reveal that he is incapable of loving and respecting someone and treating me like what I am; his son. I'm his son. The apple of his eye. His first child. The person he loves the most in the world.