The Gun Part 4

"Stay with me tonight," Scott said again. "I have a place, here. It'll be nice."
Brent couldn't quite believe what he was hearing. He felt the desire to stay surge within him. His stepfather would be home by now, probably standing in the brightly lit entryway, aiming his pistol at the window of the front door, just waiting for Brent to stroll in.
"I want to, really. I mean... God," Brent looked up, as if he would find the answer somewhere above him. "Scott..." He broke off, unable to finish his thought.
"I understand, well, then, I'll just take you home then. Maybe we can do this again sometime." Scott looked doubtful.
"No, you don't understand! You would NEVER understand. I wish you did. It would make it so much easier to be with you! Scott, when I'm with you, I feel different. I feel like I'm a better person. But, you will never understand me." He couldn't believe how upset he was.
"Tell me then," Scott challenged. "Make me understand."
"If I tell you, you won't believe me, so I'll just save myself the trouble."
"Try me."

So many years had passed since he had tried telling anyone what was really happening at home.
Brent closed his eyes, wishing Scott would be gone when he opened them. When he opened his eyes again, he was looking into Scott's eyes. The words came pouring out of his mouth.
"You don't know what it's like to be me. You have no idea what I've been through. By the time I finish, you'll either think that I'm crazy, or you be terrified of me. I don't blame you now if you just pack me in your car and take me home." His voice caught. He felt he had to continue.
"My dad died when I was little. My mom met this guy Alan. He never liked the fact that my mother had had me before they met, and he hated the fact that my mother still had pictures of my father. He made her burn them."
Scott's chin dropped. "He made her burn them?"
"Every last one of them. She fought him on it. I pretended I was asleep that night. I heard him yelling at her, and her yelling back. He stormed out. I snuck down to her door after he was gone, and peeked in. She was bleeding, and bruised, crying on her bed. She never did get a picture of my dad. I don't think she even really cared. I had to steal the only picture of my parents' wedding! To this day, she thinks that it was burned with all the rest."
The words continued coming, though they were harder and harder to say. Brent was beginning to feel a lump starting in his throat. Before much longer, the tears would come.
"He used to hit me. I thought it was normal. I would go to school with a black eye, and an excuse. As I got older, he hit me harder. The bruises got bigger. The absences from school got longer, and the excuses more elaborate."
Scott watched as a single tear formed, then rolled down Brent's cheek. Reaching up, Brent wiped the tear away.
"I told someone once. His name was Benji. We were friends. He got mad at me because I could never come to his house, and my stepfather wouldn't let him come to mine. He wanted to know why not. I told him. I never should have. He stopped talking to me after that. My only friend despised me after I told him the truth. Of course, word got back, and I got hell for it.
"Finally, a few years ago, he bought a gun. He used to just take it out and look at it. A little while ago, he started aiming it at things. Usually, me. You have no idea how many times that gun's been aimed at my head."
Brent stopped.
"I wish sometimes that he would shoot me. I would rather be dead, than keep living my life with him and my mother. He's always seen my father in me, and that's why he hates me so much. He wants to see me dead, because then, he'll have rid my mother of the one link to her first and only true love. What's really bad, is that I WANT him to kill me. I will him, some days, to put his finger on the trigger, and pull it." Brent was sobbing steadily now. "Some days, I want to grab the gun from him, and shoot myself..." Breaking off, he put his head in his hands.
Scott moved closer to Brent, pulling Brent into an embrace. Brent leaned into Scott's shoulder, crying.
"It'll be okay."
Brent sat up. "No, it won't! That's what I'm telling you, Scott! It won't be okay. It will never be okay. I will never be okay. I'll NEVER be okay."

Brent couldn't stop trembling as Scott drove him home. Scott kept glancing at him. Brent didn't say a word on the trip back.
When Brent arrived on the front step, the outdoor light had been shut off. There was only one light on in the entire house, and that was the light in the front hall. Just as Brent had expected, his stepfather was waiting for him. By now, Brent's stepfather with any luck, would be passed out on the floor.
Brent made his way around the house, to the window that opened into his bedroom. He peeked in. It was his lucky night, nobody was waiting in his room for him. He pushed the window open, trying hard to keep it from making any noise.
Brent slipped in through the open window. Just as he passed his hips through, his foot hit the bottom of the window. Seconds later, the window came crashing down. Brent undressed quickly, throwing his clothes under his bed, and climbing in under the covers.
"What in hell?" His stepfather crashed into the wall, looking for the light switch. He flicked the light on, making his way to Brent's bedroom. He grabbed his pistol from the waistband of his pajamas. Kicking open Brent's door, he pointed the pistol toward the window.
Brent lay on the bed, with the covers nearly over his head. He was watching with one eye, pretending to sleep. The lump in his throat still hadn't disappeared completely. Trying hard to swallow, and suppress a cough, Brent almost choked.
Brent's stepfather reoriented his pistol.
"So, you finally decided to come home, did you, you little faggot? I should shoot you right now!You didn't think I'd know if you snuck in through the window? You've never been smart, have you?"
He sat on the side of the bed. He pressed the nose of the pistol into Brent's temple.
"What's wrong? Cat got your tongue?"

Brent woke up the next morning with a pounding in his temple. He gingerly touched the spot that hurt worst. There was a huge bump, and what felt like dried blood. Looking at the pillow, he saw the drying spots of blood. His stepfather had been on the bed, holding the gun to his head, then, just before Brent blacked out, he had been hit with the butt of the gun.

The house was silent now. His stepfather had gone out early that morning. His mother had left a note saying she had gone to pick up some groceries.
Brent jumped into his clothes. He had to find the pistol. His stepfather wouldn't take it with him to work. It had to be somewhere in the house. Digging through the drawers in his stepfather's dresser, he never imagined it would be in the first drawer he opened.
Well, that was easy.
Just to be sure, he checked for ammunition. The chamber was full. He wouldn't need a full gun. All he would need would be one bullet.

He took the gun back to his room. He shoved it in a drawer. He took a piece of paper out of the drawer, and grabbed a pen from the mug full on the corner of the desk.
Dear Scott, he wrote, I can't go on anymore. I just can't. I've spent too long pretending. My life has become totally unbearable. Scott, I'm better off dead. I have no reason to live. I have nothing to live for. I wanted you to know, now that I'm gone, that I always wanted you. From the first time you smiled at me, after a soccer practice, I longed for you to spend time with me. When you kissed me after the big game, I thought that maybe my luck was changing. I thought you would be the one to make all my problems go away. I never should have gone with you last night. I enjoyed spending the time with you. I will never forget you, and hope that one day, you will be able to understand why I had to do this. Scott, I love you more than you will ever know.
By the time he finished writing, tears were rolling down his cheeks, causing the ink to bleed in spots. He wrote his mother a similar note, before folding the papers up, and writing their names on them. In the note to his mother, he placed the picture of his parents' wedding.
Then, after placing them where they were sure to be found, he reached into the drawer, and pulled out the pistol. His hand shaking, he raised the gun to his head. Placing it on his temple, he closed his eyes. Knowing the pistol would fire, but unsure what would happen to him next, he pulled the trigger.