My mum’s hand flew over her mouth before I’d even finished speaking his name. Seconds later she stood up, her hand never leaving her face as she doubled over. I wrapped my fingers around each other in an effort to stem the trembling and then my mum dashed to my dad’s spirit cabinet behind her, grabbing a bottle of whiskey and taking a shot straight from the bottle.
“It was never supposed to go that far,” she muttered around the rim of the glass bottle in her hands. “He said it wouldn’t go that far.”
“W-what are you talking about?”
My mum kept swigging the whiskey like it was water, which even without her jumbled words scared the living shit out of me. My mum never drank, at least not that I ever saw.
“Mum, I said what the fuck are you talking about?” I roared, practically pole-vaulting from the couch.
“Baby, I’m so sorry,” she barely whispered, closing her eyes and refusing to look at me.
“For what?” I asked, feeling sick to the pit of my stomach. A downpour of tears washed over her cheeks as she just stood there, furiously shaking her head from side to side. “For what?” I yelled, grabbing her shoulders and trying to jolt some kind of response from her.
“Get your hands off her!”
My neck jerked towards the door, and there stood my father, dressed the same as in all my memories of him in a sharp, black suit and holding a briefcase.
“Malcolm, it’s okay,” my mum said with a shaky breath. I’d let go of her shoulders the second I caught eyes with my dad, yet still she clung to my side, rubbing ferociously at the sleeve of my jacket.
“What is he doing here?” my dad asked, blanking my presence entirely. “Drug money? Aids announcement? Or maybe he just wants to embarrass us one last time.”
“Mal, stop it. This is serious. W-we need to t-talk,” Mum stammered, placing the whiskey bottle back in the cabinet.
“I’ve got nothing to say to him.”
“It’s…I mean…Fra-”
“Stop,” I ordered, cutting her off. “I think it’s best if I leave.”
“No, no, no!” she cried, still holding onto my arm. “Malcolm it’s, I mean it was Frank. He attacked him! He attacked Ryder!”
“I said stop it,” I growled. This wasn’t part of my plan, not what I came here for. I hadn’t planned on telling my mum about the rape and I regretted it instantly, but my dad? No way in hell did I want to give him the satisfaction of knowing that. I knew before I came here rebuilding any kind of relationship with him would be difficult at best, but as soon as he looked at me, when his eyes turned to ice and his nose wrinkled up as if he’d just smelt something vile…I knew in that moment it wouldn’t just be difficult – it would be impossible.
“Get out of my house,” he sneered, finally lowering himself enough to glance at me.
“Are you listening to me?” my mum sobbed. “Frank attacked our son! He…raped our little boy!”
“What did you think he was going to do, Carol? Tell him fairy tales?”
It felt like a knife had sliced straight through my lungs. I literally couldn’t breathe. Clutching my hand to my chest, I gasped, wheezing as I fought for air.
“Y-you…k-knew about this?” I muttered, my voice low, barely there, as I stumbled back a few steps, my legs feeling independent from my body.
“No!” my mum cried, reaching out to touch me but I batted her hand away. “No, no, no, we didn’t! I swear to you, Ryder. We didn’t know, did we Malcolm?”
“You wouldn’t listen to us,” my dad spat, repulsion causing his face to contort. “So we thought maybe someone should show you what choices you were making.”
“What are you saying?” my mum said, directing her gaze at my dad. “We didn’t think anything like that! You said he was going to talk to him, discourage him! You never said he would hurt him!”
“Being a dirty little queer does hurt. Better he found out sooner than later.”
“I need to get out of here,” I said, or at least I think I did. I couldn’t be sure because my mind was too focused trying to remember how to breathe.
“Ryder, wait! Please! I didn’t know any of this! Please, son, you have to believe me!” Mum called.
I skidded to a halt on the polished marble floor, turning sharply on my heels to face her. “Don’t call me that. I am not your fucking son.”
I didn’t give her a chance to respond before I bolted through the door, although I did hear her muffled sobs growing fainter with each step I took. My vision was blurry, clouded with tears. My heart pounded, thrashing against my ribs as if it were trying to break free, and my head throbbed – unable to cope with the pressure caused by too many thoughts, memories and nightmares being hurled around inside my mind.