My Boys (boyxboy, girlxboy)

Chapter seven

SAMUEL'S POV

(Present Day)

"You understand why your mother and I have to do this right son?" my father smiles down at me while I stand facing the wall

"Yes father" I whisper

I feel his hand run over my freshly marked back. I hiss and try to move away from him but I'm trapped between the wall and his tall figure.

"Do not move!" he yells and slaps his hand against my back making me cry out

"Please father" I whimper pathetically

"These are your pennants, for your sins son,  you know this"

Of course I know this, I've known this every week since I turned six. Granted in the beginning he wasn't this bad.

The day after my sixth birthday he had taken me into the room he shared with my mother and told me to stand in the corner.

I was confused but of course I stood there. My father was this huge figure both in character and physique. His hands were,  and still are bigger than my face.

He held a lot of esteem in our community thirty minutes from Philly city. A very faithful Christian he made it that our family attended church three times every week. The pastor and fellow members of the congregation looked up to my father.

He was never happier then when he was preaching God's word.

He was never unhappier then when I didn't preach the same thoughts.

Apparently I was a rebellious child. That was why I need to repent.

Standing in the corner turned to kneeling for hours in prayer and that eventually turned to his belt on my back. Corporal punishment was his favourite way to teach me gods words.

I think god knew I was gay before I did, then he whispered it to my dad and made him hate me. I didn't even know what it meant the first time he said it. God must have told him that I held hands with Jonny next door that night he got scared of the dark and we didn't have a night light.

When I was younger he was kinder about my condition. He told me that there was a solution and that if I prayed hard enough everything would be fine.

I prayed as well! Like I really, really prayed. Dear god, please make it so that I don't watch every boy change in the gym locker room. Dear god, please make it so that I'm more team Bella than team Edward.

Dear god, make it so that I don't have to see how my father looks at me. 

It got to its worse point sometime last year when he actually starting hitting me. First with his hands and then his belt. I vaguely remember a time where my back wasn't red with angry welts.

Now at 17 years old he only speaks to me once a day. Which brings us right back here?

"We're done for the day. Tell me have you been having any of those sinful thoughts again?"

"No" I lied. I learnt that telling the truth wasn't helping, it never did. He wasn't understanding and caring like they thought he was. He was mean.

My mom stood her back to me folding laundry. She hummed the same gospel tune she always did when he hit me.

I don't know why she even stays. I watched a movie once in English class and in a scene a little boy gets pushed to the ground by his father. All of sudden his mother rushes to the child's side. She curses the father and slaps him away before smothering her child in a hug.

She was mad her child was hurt. Why was my mom never mad?

I don't like to see my body anymore. I'm too short and skinny. I look closer to 14 than 17. I don't see my back ever completely healing. I asked my dad about this once and he said that having a permanent reminder was important. Said that's why he had done it.