KarMel Scholarship 2008

Fictional Story

“Coming Out”

By Glenn Osborne

Desciption of Submission: “This is a fictional short story depicting a young man telling his parents for the first time that he is gay.” - Glenn

"Mom, Dad... I'm gay."

Our den had always been a comfortable place - overstuffed easy-chairs, warm fireplace, memories of playing while my dad read the paper and mom brought fresh cookies - but at that moment it was the last place I wanted to be. Apparently my Dad agreed, because he got up, turned sharply on his slippered heel, and walked out of the room.

"B-Ben, wait-" my Mom feebly called after him. It was no use. She was too shocked to even squeeze out a third syllable, let alone convince my conservative, old fashioned, retired general father to stand the presence of their only son. I admit I wasn't surprised, but I have this horrible habit of being unrealistically optimistic. I think it's a given that the conversation didn't go as well as I had hoped. At least Mom stayed.

And, of course, my Mom isn't exactly the thinker of the family. "Honey, sweetie," she began, gathering her wits as quickly as she could manage. "Tommy... are you sure?"

"Yes, mom," I managed to spit out to preempt my exasperated sigh. "I'm pretty sure that I am a homosexual, seeing as my boyfriend would be quite upset otherwise."

I have another bad habit: I get frustrated fairly easily, and I don't think about what I'm saying. "Y-your what now?"

Damn. Sometimes, I could just kick myself.

"Yeah," I groaned out. "Yeah, I actually have been in a relationship since just after I received my Bachelor's. His name if Rodney, and he is going to the same graduate school I transferred to last year."

"B-b--" My mom was losing what little composure she'd gathered quickly. I could tell I needed to slow down. "Why didn't you tell us? How long has this been going on? Was it something we did? Tommy--"

"Oh, Mom..." I crossed the den and sat next to her on the loveseat, pressing her head against my chest and stroking her hair. "Mom, it's okay. You guys didn't do anything wrong. This is nobody's fault, especially not yours or Dad's." Pulling her at arms length so that she could see my face, I said, "This is just the way I am, and there's nothing wrong with that."

"The hell there isn't."

My spine turned to ice. I hadn't heard my dad take that tone since I was a little kid. My dad would yell at me if he got angry or frustrated with things I did wrong, but when he was really mad, when I'd really messed up, his voice was cold, sharp, and terrifying. I turned slowly towards the sound, and saw my worst-case scenario come true: he had his pistol, and it was aimed at me.

"There's a good deal wrong with this, because you aren't a faggot. Now get away from your mother." He took a step, then another, cold metal leveled at me. I couldn't believe it. I glanced at my mom, but an expression of abject horror was all the help she offered. I slowly rose, sweat beading on my forehead. I couldn't help but think, Am I going to die?

"Dad, please, put the gu--"

"Quiet, boy." Like a command from the mouth of God. "Take it back."

Astonished at how absurd a concept as simply saying that I didn't mean it would be, I managed to stammer, "I can't change who I am, and even if I co--"

"No." He pulled back the hammer on the gun, and brought his other hand up to help steady the barrel right over my heart with razor precision. "I've known you all your life. You chased girls around the playground, you played varsity football in high school, and you got into college on that football scholarship. There has been nothing about you your whole life that has said you are a faggot, so take it back."

His eyes glinted in the firelight, mirroring the polished gun barrel. I thought I would die of fright long before he shot me. It was all I could do to stand, much less speak. Trembling, I stopped and tried to think, carefully choosing my words, "Dad, my best friend growing up was a girl; didn't it seem odd that we didn't date in high school? And there is nothing that says a homosexual can't play footb--"

The gun went off, and my heart stopped.

Everything was black, and I couldn't hear or feel anything. It took me a moment to realize that I could still feel the floor beneath my feet, and that my mother had shrieked. My ears were ringing, and blood was rushing to my head. Then I realized that I had shut my eyes tightly. Opening them, the smell of gunpowder added to the cacophony of returning senses, and the smoking hole in the floor next to my foot didn't give me any comfort except that he really was going to kill me.

"The word is 'faggot,' and you aren't one." My father said without a single drop of sarcasm. "Take. It. Back. Now."

Tears welled up in my eyes. I knew crying wouldn't help, but I couldn't help it; I was so frightened, and in that moment everything that I was giving up because of some stupid need to tell my parents the truth I've known since I was 10 hit me like a tidal wave. My career, my friends, and most importantly, Rodney, my love. I sent a short, silent prayer for forgiveness to everyone for throwing my life away, steeled myself, and spoke.

"I am who I am, and that is your son, no matter what else I may be."

He took a breath, let it out slowly, and his face seemed to take on a calmer demeanor. He closed his eyes. A short eternity passed before they opened again, and then he spoke.

"No son of mine is a faggot, so I have no son."

That time, he shot me.

It's been 17 years since then. I was told that the police arrived at the house mere seconds later. I was rushed to the hospital and barely lived; he had missed my heart by less than 1/2 an inch.

My dad died from complications of a heart attack last year, and my mom started a career as a retiree consultant (your guess is as good as mine). Rodney and I entered a domestic partnership and have adopted 2 beautiful children, Neal and Veronica. I completed my education and have been practicing as a Nutritionist and Heath Educator. In the end, it mostly worked out okay. I'd like to say that the "moral of the story" is that you don't have to have society's approval to be whomever you are inside, but it is still heartbreaking when your father, on his deathbed, won't acknowledge you as his son. My story is just my story, take it as you will.

I will say this, however: there is a cost for freedom, and it can't always be measured in lives lost in a war. Be prepared to pay considerably more than you think you should have to for something that seems you are entitled to. Take nothing for granted, and cherish everything you do have for as long as you have it.

Back