Finn (Kennedy Ink.)
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, products, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
This story is also set in a southern state (Georgia); please keep in mind that accents are different all over the world and I like to use them. It isn’t a typo or a lazy way of typing. It’s how it’s spoken. (Or at least the way I speak it, Y'all.) Although I do try to eliminate typo’s and misspellings, they do still happen. Nastiness and negativity do not affect them nor does it affect my love for writing. To everyone who chooses to comment or review, I appreciate you, more than you know!
Enjoy : )
Table of Contents
Jay
Jay
Finn
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Finn
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Jay
Madison, Georgia.
My hometown.
My Hell.
I never thought I’d come back here, never thought I’d have to. Now, here I was driving through the little community that haunted my past. Everything looked the same, yet everything felt so different. Still, it was familiar…home.
Five years ago….
The day I packed my bags and left, was the best and worst day of my life. It was the best because I was finally, finally getting away from my abusive, alcoholic, homophobic father. My mother died of breast cancer when I was seven, though I don’t remember her much at all. I used to have a picture of her that I found in an old jewelry box that my dad kept in his bedroom, but somehow over the years, I lost track of it. I say it was the worst day of my life because my abusive, alcoholic, homophobic father had committed a hate crime because of me and I’ve never stopped feeling guilty about it.
I’d hid the fact that I wasn’t attracted to girls, for many of my adolescent years. Once puberty hit and I started noticing boys instead, it scared the hell out of me. I’d heard my dad talk about “fags” and “homo’s” and “queers” my whole life. Not only was it wrong, but to him, it was disgusting and apparently punishable. I was clueless as to what to do about it and often wondered if I could change it. I started going to our local bookstore/library and found all types of information on “coming out” and what it meant. I knew I could never, ever come out to my father, so I started looking into those camps that people went to, to “cure” them. I figured if he ever found out, I could offer this as a solution so he wouldn’t take his anger and disgust out on me. He’d done that a lot over the years; taken his bad moods, hurt feelings or failures out on me. Sometimes he’d use his fists or whatever he had close enough to reach, and most of the times, he used words. When he had a few drinks, nothing was off limits.
Now, I lived in a relatively small town, everybody knew everybody, and everybody was always in other people’s business; so of course, I knew about the gay man in town; Conner Allen. I’m sure there were more, but Conner didn’t hide it. I’d heard my dad more than once talking about him, and I knew he owned the local bookstore/library. Our town was so little, we didn’t have an actual library, but his grandma or someone from his family had owned it and it was where everyone went if they needed computer access or books. Almost everyone had cell phones that came with the internet nowadays and it was no different when I was in Madison. However, I could never afford such luxuries and dad sure as hell wasn’t paying for more than rent and booze; thankfully our utilities were included in our state housing unit that he got because he was disabled…he and the state call it disabled, I call it alcohol-induced paranoia and social anxiety. Still, he got checks every month and subsidized housing, so who was I to say if he was or wasn’t.
For the sake of making a long story a little shorter, I’ll admit that one day at Conner’s had led to my unfortunate, coming out; something I never in a million years planned to do around my father. I was, of course, at Conner’s store, having been going there a lot lately to use the internet. He loaned out tablets that you could rent by the week, but you had to return them in working order and on time, or you had to pay for them. I can’t imagine they’d be cheap, but to me, they were amazing. I could look up things, read for hours and hours about everything and nothing; whatever I chose. Of course, I tried to look up other people like me, and I found that there were loads and loads of gay people. It wasn’t disgusting or punishable; hell, it was even legal! I’d never seen Conner from the bookstore with anyone, from the talks of it, no one had, so I wasn’t aware if he knew that or not. Still, I didn’t dare breathe a word of it, out loud.
I knew that dad would be mad if he found out that I was even going to the bookstore every couple of days, so I kept my head down and tried to be in and out without lingering around. When I’d borrowed a tablet that I couldn’t check out, because I didn’t have a Hideout card, I tried to sneak it out anyway. In hindsight, it was stupid; I knew that all the tablets were being accounted for, but I wasn’t going to steal it, I was going to bring it back. I just got caught up in a chat forum of other guys like me, and I wanted to talk to them. Unfortunately, I got caught trying to sneak it out and instead of admitting what I was doing and why, I panicked. This whole thing was going to get back to my dad so quick; I probably wouldn’t have time to make it home first to explain.
Because I panicked, I hit the bookstore owner, the one who was like me. I hurled the ugliest insults first, the ones that I’d heard dad throwing around for years. I was hoping, that like me, he’d shy away from them and let me go. He would have, but then he stepped forward; I didn’t even hear what he said, to be honest; I just reacted. That’s when I hit him. I’d never hit anybody before, I was usually on the end that got hit, it didn’t feel good on either end, and I felt terrible immediately. Still, I was terrified, and I ran. What I didn’t count on, was the guys from the tattoo shop across the street from the bookstore to see everything and take off after me. The big, gorgeous, mean looking one tackled me, and I felt his hand pop me in the mouth. He didn’t punch me, though it felt like it; I’m pretty sure it was just the way we landed.
I was heaving my breaths, and he was barely making a sound, but he hauled me up, and frog-walked me back to the store. When I saw the store owner on the ground, nose bloodied and him passed out, I panicked more. My mouth got away from me, and I was scared as all hell. What was going to happen? Was I going to jail? They were calling the sheriff; I knew they would. I wanted to apologize and cry and throw myself at the mercy of anyone who’d listen, but I just didn’t know how. Of course, by the time the sheriff came, it was too late….
Sheriff Lang was a fair guy; I’d mowed his lawn the summer I turned 13, as well as other people’s in our small neighborhood because I knew that I needed better fitting clothes for the upcoming school year. I started getting taller and none of my jeans fit anymore. He was nice, and his wife always made me a sandwich and brought me out a soda or a glass of water, especially when the days were hot. Their yard wasn’t that big, but I took my time on it and done a good job. That “great job, kid” that I was awarded when I finished as well as his wife paying that little bit of attention to me, was worth more than all the money in the world. Too many times, I’d wondered what it would be like if he were my dad instead of the one I was cursed with. I didn’t like to dwell much on that because I knew it would never be, and I had a lot of years left until I could leave this hell that I called home and never look back.
The sheriff tried to ask me what the fuck I’d been thinking, but I kept my mouth sh
ut. I was trying to work out how I was going to explain everything to my dad when he got home. Of course, him being called away from the hardware store where he worked “part time” at, I knew he was going to be pissed. I didn’t count on just how pissed he would be.
After the sheriff explained everything and let me off with some community service, we were left alone. My offense wouldn’t go on my record or anything because I didn’t have to go to court. Small towns like mine, Sheriff Lang would come haul my ass out of bed every Saturday if he had to, and it wasn’t like I was going anywhere. Dad blacked my eye and busted my already busted lip, causing one hell of a scar. He knew what I’d never tell him, or he thought he did. In this case, it happened to be true, but his conclusion was solely based on the fact that I was “hanging out” with a known homosexual. I’d went to the “homo’s” place of business, so that must mean I’m one too, right?
“Did he turn you?”
“Did you like it, you little queer?”
“What have I told you about people like that, Douglas? What did I say?”
Still, I didn’t expect him to blame the bookstore owner. I should’ve because I knew how his mind worked, but I figured after a night of beatings and verbal assaults, he’d get his rage out of his system and drink it off. He didn’t, though he didn’t take it out on me anymore, he was determined and had a new mission. I just didn’t know what it was. Not until Sheriff Lang came to me a week later and said that dad had gotten arrested for unlawful entry, attempted murder, and arson. He couldn’t tell me much else, like who it was or why, but I knew. Everyone in town knew, and they knew it was my fault.
I had to stay with the sheriff and his wife for the next two nights until they could reach my grandma, who lived in Michigan. I was worried that she wouldn’t want me to live with her and she was my only relative that I knew of. I hadn’t seen her in years. She was my mom’s, mom and I think it was just too hard to visit Madison and remember that her daughter was no longer here. She agreed to take me in, and came to get me, right away. Sitting in the living room with Sheriff Lang and his wife, my grandma asked me why I had a busted lip and a black eye, and if those guys who apprehended me had done it, she was going to “dot their eyes right back.” I couldn’t stop the giggle; she was all of five foot nothing and those guys were like brick walls with spiky hair and tattoos. Somehow I didn’t think she’d fear them though; she was pretty damn fierce herself.
“They didn’t do this, Grandma,” I told her softly. To be honest, she was the only one who’d ever asked. Showing up at school with a split lip or a cracked lip wasn’t unusual for me, and I think everyone thought I was just a bad kid. I was quiet and moody, withdrawn and stayed to myself a lot, not because I was mad at the world or hated everyone who looked at me, I was just scared. I was scared as hell that someone would see what I was hiding. Of course, everyone knew my dad to be an asshole, especially after mom died and he turned to the bottle, but I don’t think anyone ever suspected what kind of person he actually was. In a town like ours, I was surprised by that, but maybe they just looked the other way instead. I’m not sure.
“Then who did?” She demanded, loudly. I looked to the sheriff and his lovely wife and wondered again, why life was so damn complicated for people like me. I wondered if they’d have understood that I was born different and it wasn’t something I had any control of.
“Douglas, I asked you who did it?” She gave me another chance to come clean.
“Dad did,” I whispered. She didn’t blink.
“Why?” She asked immediately like she wasn’t surprised in the least by my answer, she just wanted to hear me say it.
“He was mad at me,” I told her honestly, any time he hit me it was because he was mad about something I done.
“What for?” She asked, not giving up but wanting to get to the bottom of it. I suspected then that she already knew.
“I stole-“ I tried
“Nope, try again.” She cut me off, not letting me explain.
“I took something from-“
“Nope.” She interrupted again, still not blinking. I was held captive in the fierceness of her gaze like she wouldn’t let me go until I said what she wanted me to.
“Grandma,” I whispered.
“Why was he mad at you?” She asked again. I felt like my chest wanted to explode with the truth that I’d never uttered out loud.
“Because I’m gay!” I didn’t whisper that time. It felt like it shot out of my mouth like a bullet. All of the sudden, I felt like I needed to scream it, so I did.
“I’m gay! I’m gay; I’m gay, I’m gay!” I shouted, earning big eyes and dropped jaws. I chanted it for at least a whole minute, finally saying what I knew to be true. It was freeing in a way; like the more I said it, the truer it became. I snarled it like my father could hear it. At that moment, I wish he could.
“Okay,” My grandmother said calmly. I was beyond being calm now; I was tired of being scared by it. I was tired of trying to ignore it in hopes that it would change or go away. I wanted to say it so I’d stop being scared of the word and it’s meaning.
I was panting, fighting for breath when I felt arms come around me from behind. I knew it was her because her cheek rested in the middle of my back, it’s as far as she could reach; and also, because the sheriff and his wife wouldn’t have hugged me. They were nice and all, to let me stay with them, but, they wouldn’t have hugged me. If I’m honest, I don’t remember the last time someone had hugged me. Perhaps the last time I saw grandma, which would’ve been a year or so after we lost mom. I wasn’t used to affection of any kind unless it hurt. I felt my body freeze, even the breath I was so desperately trying to catch. Even that had died in my throat. I heard her whimper behind me and she squeezed me tighter.
I looked up, just as the sheriff and his wife were walking out of the room, Mary, the wife, wiping her eyes with a tissue. She smiled a weak smile at me, and I hated the pity in her eyes. The magnitude of what I’d just said hit me.
“Grandma,” I tried to turn in her arms, but she wasn’t having it. I felt her tears wetting my shirt. “I’m sorry.” I shook my head back and forth, trying to piece together a logical explanation.
“No.” She ground out. “That is one thing you’ll never have to be, never sorry.” She sniffed, and I felt her loosen her hold. I turned and looked at her red-rimmed eyes, and she smiled the most genuine smile I’d ever seen, pointed at me.
“We are who we are, Douglas Jay; no if, and's, or buts. From here on out, no matter what, you be proud of who you are. Understand?” She asked. I didn’t; I didn’t understand at all. I nodded anyway.
“Now, we got that out of the way; we’ll get a fresh start in Grand Rapids.” She smiled at me, and I remember smiling back. It felt so foreign on my face; foreign, but amazing. I didn’t even mind the sting in my split lip.
Life in Grand Rapids was a lot different than Madison, Georgia. It was bigger, for one, and there so many more people. When I transferred from Madison High, my new school had me test in. Turns out, my test scores allowed me to test out of high school at just sixteen. I took a year of online, general studies courses while working at an old folk’s home where my grandma also worked. A few months after I turned seventeen, I enrolled in U of M, to get a nursing degree. I’d thought about going back to school to become a doctor, but, I didn’t want to spend the next million years in school, and I liked having free time. I had a couple of friends here in GR, but nobody I’d call a best friend. I still stayed to myself quite a bit, but I dated some when I had time. I also still lived with my grandma, who was still as fierce as she was when she picked me up five years ago. Life wasn’t bad for me; I’d certainly had much worse; still, I felt like something was missing.
Jay
Present day...
My phone vibrating in my pocket for the third time in the last half hour was distracting me from updating my charts. We weren’t allowed to have our phones out on the floor, but whoever this was, seemed urgent. Since I was sitting behind the nurse’s station, I figured I could answer.
“Hello?” I answered quietly. It was near on eight in the morning, and my shift was due to end in the next half hour.
“Good morning, I’m looking for a Mr. Douglas Perry.” The formal voice from the other end of the line said to me.
“Speaking.” It sounded like a question to my own ears, had something happened to grandma?
“Mr. Perry, my name is Dennis Markim and I’m calling on behalf of your father. Do you have a few minutes to speak with me?” He asked, giving nothing else away. My father? I hadn’t heard from or even thought much of my father since moving away from his town and all the bad memories it held for me.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Markim, I’m at work at the moment. Can you tell me what this is about?” I asked, politely. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know, to be honest, but I’d already answered, so I’d ask.
“Mr. Perry-“
“Please, call me, Jay.” I interrupted. Nobody called me Douglas anymore, it was a name my father had given me, and when I moved to GR, I started going by my middle name. Douglas Perry didn’t exist anymore; at least not for me.
“Excuse me, Jay,” He corrected. “I work on behalf of the state of Georgia. My job is to assess inmates on their disabilities or illnesses while in care of the state. Your father was denied the possibility of compassionate release due to his worsening liver disease.” He said, letting that sink in. “Because of the severity of disease, he’s required daily dialysis for the last four months and to be frank with you, Mr. – Jay, it’s costing the state more money to hospitalize him and keep him comfortable than it is to house him.” He explains, and I wonder what this has to do with me. I wasn’t even aware he was sick or whatever; I hated myself a little bit that I even cared.