Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t—

A heavy hand grips my neck, hot and sweaty. I smell the pungent scent of whiskey. He must have had a drink before coming up here. After the lady left.

“You will never talk to that boy again. You hear me?” he says in a low growl. “I won’t have no fucking faggot boy livin’ under my roof. Your momma didn’t die so you could be a little cocksucker. She’d be disgusted. Remember that next time you get any stupid ideas.”

I give a jerky nod. I whisper, “Y-yes, sir. I d-didn’t know. S-sorry—”

“Your little boyfriend,” he all but spits, “is the reason you almost got taken away today. I have half a mind to go over there and teach him a lesson myself.”

I whimper and his hand tightens.

“I don’t know what you told him—”

“N-nothing!” I rush out. “I told him it was B-Billy. I s-swear, Dad, I—”

“Enough,” he snaps.

I’m pretty sure there will be thumbprint-sized bruises on my neck come morning. I always bruise so easily because I’m so pale. So thin. I squeeze my eyes shut, bracing myself for more hurt.

Only it never comes.

His hand falls away and his steps retreat before pausing somewhere across the room. “Stop your sniveling, boy, and grow a fuckin’ set.”

The door slams shut, followed by the sound of the lock clicking into place.

A sob rips out of me as soon as the door shuts and I quickly slap my uncasted hand over my mouth. My knees buckle and my ribs ache something fierce as I heave for breaths.

Crawling into my bed, I curl up on my side facing away from the door and hug my cast, welcoming the pain radiating down to my fingertips. Anything is better than this horrible tightness balled up in my chest. The one that seems to grow with each passing day since my birthday.

I was happy. So happy. Happier than I think I’ve ever been.

“Will and Way. We’re a team. Always.”

Tears soak my cheeks and I have to bite down on the pillow so I don’t make a sound. Noise travels too easily in this house. It’s like the walls are made of paper. And the last thing I need right now is my dad hearing me cry like a little sissy.

A faggot.

A cocksucker.

I’m not, I’m not, I’m not—

Bile coats my throat, but I force it down. I’ll probably be locked in here until morning, and if I throw up, it will just make him more mad. At least I don’t have to use the bathroom. As long as I go to sleep now, I should make it until morning.

A glass shatters downstairs and I flinch. I try to make myself smaller, wishing not for the first time that magic was real—that I could grow wings and fly, fly away.

His earlier threat echoes in my head: “I have half a mind to go over there and teach him a lesson myself.”