i wish you were a girl—wip
Flower remembers the shame he felt when his parents found him in bed with another guy. He was fifteen. It still feels like it happened yesterday, that hasn’t changed. It haunts him, the memory. His parents weren’t supposed to be home for hours, he thought. They’d went out on a date to some fancy restaurant and always stayed out late. The guy had ridden his bike there, leaned it against the front of the house, that’s how they knew. His mother escorted the boy out while his father’s eyes burned into him.
Flower remembers his mother’s face and his father’s voice as he yelled, he remembers how small he felt sat on the edge of his bed, he especially remembers the feeling of his father’s hand when he slapped him across the face. His father ripped his gold cross necklace off and threw it on the carpeted floor, it broke the clasp.
“T'ai-je élevé pour que tu sois une péde? Hein?” his father’s voice boomed. Tears rolled down his freckled cheeks one after the other.
Flower remembers how he clenched his fists at his sides, but it wasn’t out of anger. They were right, they hadn’t raised him to be that way, it was more so out of fear. That night when he was fifteen wasn’t the first time his father had hit him, and it definitely wasn’t the worst.
Once, when Flower was only about seven years old, he asked his mother if it was okay that he liked boys. He’d been taught from as early as he can remember that boys liking boys and girls liking girls was completely forbidden in the eyes of God. He thought to himself that surely they wouldn’t be mad at him, even if it was sinful, because he was their son and they loved him.
His mother looked at him with a scowl on her face but said nothing. The car was eerily quiet the rest of the ride home.
His father beat him when his mother told him what he’d said to her. He beat him so hard. Flower learned that day that even if his parents loved him, they wouldn’t accept having a queer son.