Jonathan's Hope (3 page)

Jonathan relaxed just a little when he saw the door close, leaving him alone in the house. What have you done? It shot through his head again. He’s going to kill you, toss you out. You basically had your cock knocking on his ass’ door. How could you? Dan has been nothing but kind and helpful and sweet and, oh my god, no. I can’t let this happen. I can’t do this, not now.

The fear of rejection, the angst of having to face the forest again, homelessness, the scene of his parents leaving him behind, leaving him to fend for himself in the middle of nowhere because he was an abomination, because he was what he had just done to Dan, because he was gay, a faggot, not worth the oxygen he breathed, a loathsome creature. “Nothing I will spend another penny on,” as his father had put it...

Yet he held my hand, my arm, he thought, confused. Who knows, maybe there is hope? Maybe he won’t kick me out? Maybe, if I help, if I help...

Not really knowing how he could ingratiate himself with Dan,
silly word
, Jonathan quickly climbed out of bed, figuring that a perfect first step would be to fix coffee, maybe breakfast.

He walked over to the kitchen and started opening cabinet after cabinet, trying to find coffee and whatever else he’d thought he’d need in order to fix breakfast for Dan.
When’s he coming back? I don’t even know what he eats for breakfast
, his shoulders drooped, he felt resigned.
I’ll never be able to stay here.

When he found the coffee, his spirits climbed out of whatever gutter they had been in, and he quickly got it brewing. He also found a few eggs in the fridge, and some bacon. Eventually, he found all the ingredients for a perfect breakfast according to Jonathan. He tried to ignore the fact that he himself was starving. After all, he hadn’t even eaten the sandwiches Dan made him the night before. The sad proof still on a plate on the coffee table in the living room, he mused, as he turned around to look at them, only to notice that the plate was empty.
The dog!
Jonathan chuckled, smiling happily for the first time in weeks. It’d taken a bloody sandwich and a dog to make him smile. To have him show an emotion he thought he’d lost forever...

Looking out one of the windows, he noticed that Dan was on his way back, the dog running circles around his master. Dan seemed to be lost in thought, and Jonathan’s spirits dropped at the sight.
Is he going to throw me out now?

He had barely gotten to set the table, having learned where things were in the small but fully equipped kitchen, when the door opened. A whiff of cold air blew in, chilling Jonathan’s bones, followed by Rascal and Dan. Dan turned to him with a look that mirrored confusion, depression, and, something else. Something Jonathan couldn’t quite put his fingers on.

“I made you breakfast,” he blurted out, trying to break the ice, the silence. Trying desperately to avoid speaking of what had transpired in bed just a little while ago.

“I also made you coffee.” He smiled, offering Dan the coffee pot as a sort of peace offering.

“I don’t drink coffee.” Jonathan’s heart broke a little as he heard Dan’s dismissal. “That coffee was Sean’s. Must be at least a year old, most likely no good anymore...”

Confused, Jonathan put the coffee pot down, smelling the faint aroma. Still smelled good, but yeah, probably old. “Who’s Sean?” he asked, his mind racing again of how to possibly save the situation.

“Sean was my life partner, my boyfriend, my lover, take a pick,” Dan said, slightly defensive at being forced to come out like this. He’d been out long enough not to care about people’s reactions any more, but he wouldn’t take shit and he wouldn’t lie. If Jonathan had a problem with him fucking guys in the ass - or vice versa - they could just take a hike, he didn’t care.

Although any sane human being would’ve seen it as plain as day that Jonathan was gay too, the boner in Dan’s back being one piece of valuable intel, not to mention the arm wrapped around him as he’d woken up half an hour earlier, Dan had dismissed those signals. His gaydar was in desperate need of an overhaul. After all, all guys sported morning wood. If not, there was something wrong with them. And Jonathan might have just hugged him like he’d hug a girl, to snatch some body heat, some proximity, human touch.
Who knew what the kid had been through?

Dan didn’t see the obvious and Jonathan was too scared of the cold to risk being tossed out on his rear end. Instead, he offered the boy a straw to hold on to. “I drink tea,” he said, hanging up his coat, taking off his boots and trotting off into the bedroom.

Jonathan was confused, yet relieved that he could fix this so easily, putting a kettle of water on the stove to heat it. Pouring himself a cup of the “old” coffee, Jonathan wondered what the day would bring. Rascal was at his feet, but Jonathan was not getting the message from a dog who was clearly expecting to be fed.
How difficult can it be?
Rascal seemed to say, as he wagged his tail, looking up at the boy intently.

Luckily, Dan was more in tune with the dog’s needs, immediately pulling out a large sack of dry dog food and preparing Rascal’s morning meal, much to Rascal’s delight and Jonathan’s dismay.
Fuck! I should’ve known to feed the dog.

It’s difficult to understand the emotions raging within Jonathan. It’s difficult to understand what would go through the mind of a seventeen-year-old boy who’s been lost in a forest for almost two weeks. He’d had barely any food and was deserted by his parents. The parents he loved and respected. The parents who just didn’t want the abomination to live under their roof any longer.

JONATHAN DIDN'T SEE
it coming, but he should’ve known better. His father had never, not once, given him any indication that he considered homosexuality anything but the worst thing that could happen to a man. Whenever there would be talk of homosexuality on TV, in the paper or on the radio, he’d throw a fit, turn off said media, which led to the demise of more than one remote control, or rip the paper to threads, no matter whether his mother or Jonathan had a chance to read it.

Jonathan didn’t know why his father felt like that, whether it was due to his upbringing, childhood memories or whatever. His parents weren’t particularly religious, nor were his grandparents, but his dad’s parents seemed a lot less extreme in their views. They often glanced at their son worriedly when he threw one of his fits, increasingly so as it seemed there were gays everywhere these days.

Over the years, as Jonathan grew up, his dad often tried to teach him manly stuff. They tried everything from hunting, to fishing, to going to the gym. Although that had caused a bit of a hiccup when Jonathan’s dad discovered that
they
went to the gym, too!

Physical punishment was also frequently dished out through the years. Jonathan’s father believed that if it didn’t kill you, it’d make you stronger, manlier. So Jonathan suffered through regular beatings, by fists, belts or whatever else his father could get his hands on.

Jonathan was also expected to do well at sports (which he didn’t). He tried out for every sport there was. Jonathan took Judo, but gave up after he’d achieved his yellow belt. Then he tried soccer, where he was kicked off the team after two practices for having failed to hit the ball once. And eventually handball, volley ball, hockey, archery and another four or five things Jonathan had forgotten about. Or, more accurately, repressed.

Jonathan didn’t know that his youth was different from that of his peers. Mostly because he didn’t have many friends. His father threw a fit every single time he’d find his son alone in his room with a friend, beating Jonathan into submission right before his friend’s eyes, shouting so loud, being so menacing, that no boy would ever voluntarily offer to return. Eventually, there were no boys left for Jonathan to play with. He had a couple of girl friends. Stacy, for instance, was kind and a good friend, but her visits didn’t end a whole lot better as Jonathan’s father would beat him anyway for having seen how he’d looked at her, that he was a filthy pig. At least, those beatings took place after Stacy had left. She never noticed it, he never told her.

To keep his sanity, Jonathan kept seeing Stacy, and Mary, his other friend, although he tried hard to keep Mary away from his house. He’d only meet her in public or at her house, doors open, as Mary’s mom didn’t trust teenage boys.

Things weren’t much better with Jonathan’s mother. She was like a shadow in the house. She saw, she noticed, but she rarely spoke. She certainly never offered any opinions of her own. But she loved Jonathan, of that he was certain. She’d come into his room after the beatings, and hug him, kiss him lightly on his forehead, she’d dress any wounds her husband had caused on their only child’s body, but she’d do so quietly, no words spoken. When she was done, she’d leave.

Jonathan sometimes wondered if his dad beat her, too, but he never heard anything, never saw anything, never noticed anything. His parents were not very vocal. They spoke quietly, exchanged few words while Jonathan was around, probably fewer when he wasn’t.

This was how Jonathan grew up. That was normal to him. He thought all boys were brought up like that, beaten, abused. He couldn’t fathom that any father could be different. Couldn’t understand that any father could love his children, hug them instead of hitting them, teach them instead of punishing them, inspire them instead of scaring them.

This was Jonathan’s life, and even though he knew what would happen to him, could feel the consequences almost physically if his dad ever found out, Jonathan couldn’t help but be drawn to boys. He didn’t even remember when he’d first cast a fleeting glance at another boy. When he first felt the rush in his body at the sight of a boy’s chest, a naked male body in the shower or the rugged features of a man’s face.

Jonathan couldn’t remember when he knew he was gay. Couldn’t remember when he’d first been aroused by the male body, first jerked off... He’d always been gay, he knew that, and his father could never find out. Because if his dad ever did find out, Jonathan would most certainly be killed.

What Jonathan didn’t know was that his father really was going to kill him, just not the way he’d thought. It wasn’t even his fault that it happened. He’d been over to Mary’s house that day. Mary, the one friend who could never visit him. Mary, the girl his parents knew nothing about. Mary was Jonathan’s secret, his best friend, the one he needed to keep safe.

It was the day Mary was to find out that Jonathan was gay. Oh, she had known forever, you know the way girls just know? She couldn’t really put a date on it, she just knew. She suffered silently, her love for Jonathan never to be answered no matter how much she hoped.

When he’d come over after school, they’d do their homework, and drink coffee. Only one cup, with mostly milk, because Mary’s mother didn’t believe in children drinking coffee, despite the fact that Jonathan was almost eighteen and Mary only a couple of months younger.
Didn’t matter, kids aren’t supposed to drink coffee! That simple!

They’d take their coffee mugs to Mary’s room, carrying them like a coveted prize, this adult beverage, and they’d drop on Mary’s bed. The days were usually spent talking or browsing the Internet. Jonathan didn’t have access to the web from his house and at times it felt as if Mary’s house and her laptop were small portals into paradise.

The two youngsters were giggling with the laptop in front of them. Mary flipped from Facebook to her Instagram account, both of them laughing at images, silly comments and the odd joke online. The door to Mary’s room stood wide open, so that her mom could check in on them at any given time.
You can’t trust a teenage boy!

Flipping back to Facebook, Mary noticed an update by one of her idols, Lady Gaga, who had posted a photo from a recent concert. It was something about pride and being who you are. It was the photo that stood out to them. The Lady was flanked by two dancers, wearing literally nothing.

Jonathan could feel his throat go dry. There was this odd sensation running down his back, a shot of hot and cold, traveling directly to the area between his legs where his dick started to grow and there was nothing he could do to hide it. Nothing he wanted to do, truth be told...

Innocently, like only a best friend can do, Mary commented, “They’re hot, aren’t they?” Jonathan was dumbstruck, unable to say anything. Looking at his friend, his eyes must’ve spoken volumes though. Although, he could’ve sworn he simply looked like a fool, but apparently, Mary read something else. “I know you like boys, Jonathan. I’ve always known. Are they your type?” It must’ve been the matter-of-fact way she said it, or maybe the look she gave him, that
I know all about it and I love you anyway
expression on her face that allowed him to speak. Even though he knew better, he put his life on the line. “I think the guy on the left is cute. I like his dimples and his brown hair...” Jonathan trailed off, suddenly realizing that he’d said too much.

As the full brunt of what he’d just done hit him, he started to cry. Tears formed in his eyes, then burst like a broken dam down his cheeks. Mary wasn’t sure how to deal with this sudden outburst, but being who she was, she hugged her friend and told him it was okay. She didn’t care, and she’d always love him. Nothing had changed...

After a while, Jonathan relaxed, and came out with his real secret. That which would eventually be Jonathan’s demise. The secret which no sane human being, certainly not Mary, could cope with. After he’d shown her his latest bruises and scars, she literally flew into her bathroom to throw up.

Jonathan didn’t realize that Mary had no problem with him being gay, after all, she’d already known, her female intuition telling her as much, his words only making probable certain. But Jonathan had no idea that Mary had never once been hit. She’d never felt the sting of leather tearing her skin, or the brunt force of a chair impacting on her chest, breaking her ribs. She’d never been beaten senseless, hurt so badly she’d fainted. Her parents had never laid a hand on her.

She had no way of coping with that information, no idea how to handle her best friend’s suffering. What he’d gone through, was going through, still, every day was too much. Emptying the contents of her stomach didn’t take the knowledge away. She still knew, she still felt. And she hurt, badly. Jonathan realized the impact his revelations had on Mary and he immediately felt a sense of regret.

Maybe I should’ve just kept my mouth shut
, he thought. Not knowing how to comfort her, how to take back the words he had spoken, Jonathan panicked. He left her, left her to try and deal with this on her own terms. Jonathan felt that seeing him was too painful for her at this stage, so he left her room, ran down the stairs to the front door. He retreated into the fresh air of the approaching winter, away from her, unknowingly running into certain death.

Jonathan was crushed when he got back to his house. The shadow of his mother was cooking dinner, and his father hadn’t returned home yet. He retreated to his room where he finished the homework that he and Mary hadn’t gotten to yet. He tried to read a little for an upcoming test, but his mind wasn’t in it.

Meanwhile, a few blocks away, Mary unknowingly sealed Jonathan’s death warrant. Her mother had obviously noted the fight between the two, or what she had perceived as a fight. She worried about her daughter, who looked pale and sick, and smelled the part.

“Here, drink some water. It’ll make you feel better,” Mary’s mother said, offering her a glass of ice cold water. “What happened, honey? Did Jonathan do something to you? Did he hurt you?” You couldn’t really blame Mary’s mother for questions countless mothers have asked before, seeing their daughters in tears. What Mary’s mother didn’t know was that Mary had already cried herself dry two years earlier, when she realized that Jonathan would never be hers, would never touch her the way she wanted to be touched. She had cried herself to sleep countless times behind shut doors, so her mother and her father wouldn’t hear her.

What Mary’s mother didn’t know yet, was that Mary’s tears were from the sheer horror of seeing Jonathan’s battered body. The scars, the fresh wounds from his father’s latest attack, compliments of his leather belt, unleashed two days earlier when the national TV news had once again dared to speak of gay rights and the possibility of civil unions being discussed in parliament. It had left Jonathan’s father spinning with fury, eventually blaming it all on his son, and “don’t you dare go and become a faggot on me. I’ll teach you better than to ever even consider being a homosexual...” Jonathan had endured the treatment, his mother coming to his room afterwards, kissing his forehead, dressing the wounds gaping from his side where the belt had torn through the skin, into his flesh, twice. She’d taken the bloodstained jeans from his room to make sure to wash them before any stain would remain.

You can’t really accuse Mary of being naïve or stupid, she just couldn’t cope. She had no idea what the consequences would be if she told her mother about the beatings. How was Mary supposed to know that her mother would tell her husband? How was Mary supposed to know that her father would call Jonathan’s parents? That he’d threaten his father to call the police. That he’d try to convince him that being gay was no big deal, and certainly no reason to hit your child. Had Mary known, she wouldn’t have said anything. She’d have blamed it on her period. No, had Mary known that she was about to lose her best friend, she’d never have opened her mouth. But since she didn’t know that. She said, “Mom, Jonathan’s dad beats him. And I’m not talking about a slap. Mom, you should see the scars he has on his back, on his flank. His father beat him two days ago, and he’s got two huge wounds on his right flank. We have to stop it...” Mary was pleading, sobbing, showing her mom on her own body where she’d seen the scars. Where Jonathan’s latest wounds were, on his right flank, each at least three inches long.

Mary’s mom was stunned, listening to her daughter explain what she’d seen. It made no sense. She knew Jonathan’s parents. They were pleasant, kind, a bit reclusive maybe, staying largely outside the circles of friends she frequented in the neighborhood, but maybe that was due to the fact that his dad was a big shot attorney. Maybe he didn’t want to ‘work’ after hours. Mary’s mother knew that she’d seen her girlfriends flock around doctors and lawyers, asking them for free advice. She didn’t blame Jonathan’s dad if he didn’t want this after hours. But to beat his son? A respected lawyer wouldn’t do that, would he?

“But why?” Mary’s mother asked no one in particular, staring into the room, holding her daughter’s head as it rested in her lap. The girl was still weeping hours later. I guess that’s when Mary signed Jonathan’s death warrant. “He’s gay, Mom. Jonathan is gay.” That really wasn’t why Jonathan’s father beat his son, because it was supposed to be preventive, not curing. There’s a difference between preventive medicine and treatment. Had Jonathan’s dad known that his son was a chocolate packer, a poofter, a faggot, a fruitfly, a homosexual, Jonathan would already have been dead.

Mary’s mother was stunned. She had known Jonathan for years. Why hadn’t she ever noticed? Naturally,
now
she saw it, too. How could she not? The two women, mother and daughter, spent the next hour sitting quietly on the living room sofa, waiting for Mary’s father to return home. When he did, Mary got to retell her story, sending icy shivers down her father’s spine, strengthening his resolve to help Jonathan. Had he known what would happen, he might have acted differently, but how could he know?