Chapter 1
Rami's POV
Idab at the cut on my lip with the back of my hand, checking for evidence to make sure I’m no longer bleeding. The torn T-shirt with bloodstains is already going to be a pain in the ass to explain away; blood on my clothes is proof I didn’t follow her precious rules. Though I’ve given up trying to explain myself to her; she doesn’t listen to me.
No one listens to me.
I shove my hands so far into the pockets of my jeans that they tug on my hip bones. The weight of the world rests on my shoulders, and they slump forward with the pressure. As I trudge down the road, I kick a few rocks with the toe of my high-tops. They bounce ahead of me until I kick another and watch them race while I try to forget about the assholes I just ran into. This is schoolyard bullshit, despite us being in our early twenties.
Why did she have to make me move here?
That one night fucked everything else up and brought me to this town filled with small-minded, simple motherfuckers. It’s been nearly two years since I was forced to move here, and it’s only gotten worse.
I’m just the little gay boy in their otherwise perfect town. Most avoid me like the plague, whispering about my preferences as if my presence offends them. It’s not like I’ve flaunted my choices in their faces or even hit on a single person in this town. I wouldn’t even describe me as flouncy or like any of the stereotypical queers they love to portray us as on TV. And yet, somehow, they all know. If that fun little tidbit isn’t enough for them, my generalfuck offvibe is enough to alienate me even further. I’ve been perfecting that demeanor since coming here, which I’m certain hasn’t won me any friends and only results in further disdain.
Not that I’m here to make friends. My only goal is to get as far away from here as I can. But she won’t let me.
I attempt to sneak in through the back door of our small ranch-style house. Avoiding the questions to begin with is a much easier solution than being scolded like I’m a child.
“Rami, where have you been?” Grandma Julia’s voice shakes only slightly due to her age. “Your dinner is getting cold,” she snaps, not bothering to wait for me to answer her original question.
“Can I shower first?” I keep my tone clipped, tired of having to explain myself. I at least manage to bite back the scoff I wanted to throw in there. But I know if I raise my voice even slightly or make any derisive noise, there’ll be hell to pay.
When you live under my roof, you’ll follow my rules. The words I’ve heard many, many,manytimes echo in my ears.
“No, sir. It’s already getting cold, and I will not wait any longer.” That biting tone is like nails on a chalkboard. Sometimes I wish she’d just start yelling, but it’s not her way.
“Eat without me. I’ll reheat it when I’m done.”
“You either eat with me, or you don’t eat at all tonight.”
I mull over the ultimatum: do I clean myself up and avoid a tongue-lashing, but no dinner; or do I risk her ire for my disheveled state in order to fill my belly?
I take a deep breath and run my fingers through my shoulder-length blonde hair. The length is another one of my little bits of rebellion, despite the numerous reminders to get my hair cut.
My stomach chooses that inopportune time to grumble, forcing the decision for me.
Turning on my heel, I brace myself for the lecture I’m about to receive.
I watch those cold blue eyes, so similar to my own, rake over the disaster that I’m currently in. My shirt that’s been torn to shreds and covered in blood and dirt. Top that with the holes and grass stains on my favorite pair of skinny jeans. Thankfully, my beloved high-tops only got a little scuff across the toe.
“Have you been fighting again?”
No, ‘are you okay’or ‘what happened?’ Nope. Immediately assuming that I did something wrong. Because I’m the fuck up who’s disturbing the peace of her quaint little town. It couldn’t possibly be one of those assholes who likes to beat the shit out of me for no reason.
Well, okay, they have a reason, but it’s not a valid one in my book.
“Ididn’t do the fighting,” I snap.
I learnedthatthe hard way when I used to fight back. She never cared, even when I only fought back for self-defense. My punishment was always much worse back then. Now it’s just easier to take the beating and try to cover up the injuries. I’ve atleast learned some decent defensive moves to avoid the broken ribs again.
Thank you, internet gods!
“Don’t you dare take a tone with me, young man. If you live under my roof, you’ll follow my rules. And fighting isnotallowed.”
My eye roll is so big that I’m fairly certain I can see my brain. “Ididn’t do the fighting,” I remind her.
“You will clean yourself up, and then you will kneel and recite Job to repent for your transgressions.”
