Scotty gets a Mustang

I'm fifteen. It's summer and in July in Mississippi, it's hot as hell.

Things haven't been awesome at home for some time. Not since my asshole scoutmaster told my parents that homosexuals weren't welcome in scouting.

He threw that little bomb into our home and walked his self righteous ass away. I hated him. I really wanted to kill him because nothing was ever the same after.

My dad never hit me before. I was always afraid. They told me that you can't be a faggot and live in this house.

I didn't understand. I didn't know how to be anyone else. I wasn't really sure what a faggot was.

My best friend from diapers was the kid across the road. He was so cute I couldn't help but love him. He was little compared to me but I wouldn't let anybody pick on him. Kissing him was so wrong?

My dad would just hit me. My mom was worse in a way. She would go with the bible verses and that scared the shit out of me.

Things were so inconsistent it drove me crazy. Sometimes they were really strict and others, it was like they didn't give a damn. I got out of the house as much as I could. I never knew when dad would go off or mom would start with the bible shit.

For a long time I was forbidden to see Scotty- like that would ever work. We didn't see each other for a while and when we did we both cried like babies we were so happy to see each other. That wasn't the only reason.

For a long time we didn't understand why everybody was so mad at us for. Then, when they told us, we were shocked. We hadn't done any of that sex stuff yet. I had just kissed him. Then I thought it would be OK. I told them that and my dad yelled, liar and slapped me so hard I hit the floor and rolled.

I lived in fear. Fear that my parents would- I didn't even know.

I had always loved my Dad. He was a bone fide war-hero with medals and ribbons prove it. I was in awe of him. I wanted him to be proud of me and now it seemed like he hated me.

I knew where the guns were. I got my Dad's Colt out, worked the action and put the barrel under my chin.

It could all be over but I couldn't do it. There was someone else I wanted to live long enough to shoot. Maybe my hate for that bastard scoutmaster saved my life.

I hated myself even worse because I couldn't pull the trigger. That was OK. I knew where it was. If things got too bad, I knew I could always check out. That was always in the back of my mind.

Things went on like this for a couple of years. I was in hell at home and school wasn't much better. At least I could punch back there.

I put all of the anger and hate into football. I worked out with weights. I got in so many fights it was ridiculous.

The messed up thing about it was that my Dad sort of encouraged it. He loved the football part. The fighting didn't bother him.

I started getting a reputation as crazy because when I fought, I was all in. It was assholes and elbows and even if I didn't kick your ass, you would leave having had a completely miserable experience.

I started getting high when I was thirteen soon after the incident which ruined my family.

I could be at peace for a while. All the anger ebbed and I wasn't on edge all the time. What was really messed up was that my parents liked me better when I was high. They didn't know of course. When I was high I was more compliant and didn't fight with them.

Getting high soon turned into an every day thing. It's not like the nice kids wanted anything to do with me. It was a win-win. I wasn't angry and scared all the time and I didn't fight with my parents.

That didn't stop my dad from going off and hitting me if he saw something he didn't like.

Yes was one of my favorite music groups. I put a poster on the wall of my room. He saw it and went ape shit. He ripped it down and cussed me out.

What the fuck? Rush didn't seem to bother him.

Summer time was my great escape when my parents were at work. I could have some peace and not worry about getting hit or eternal damnation.

Out of the blue, Scotty drives up with an old Mustang! We were so excited. It needed some work so we had a project.

During the days we worked on that old car. We did everything we could to it: points, plugs, rebuilt the carb.

It was fun. We had a Chilton's for the 1970 Mustang Fastback and were having a ball playing with it.

Of course- I would always go home before the parents got home.

It was blazing hot and we were in gym shorts. We were both covered in grease. We were shirtless because who wants to ruin a shirt?

Dad comes home early from work, looks over, sees us and just explodes.

We didn't even notice he had arrived. He came up from behind, grabbed me by the hair (I HATE THAT). I fell on the concrete and he kicked me growling, "Get in the house faggot, I'm not going to have you out like this disgracing the family".

I would try to get up and he would kick me again. I was finally able to get up and run to the house.

Somebody called the cops and they showed up.

It was just the Colonel teaching his 15 year old faggot son to be a man.

They left without saying a word to me.

That's just a LITTLE sample of life with the Colonel. Great guy the Colonel. Killed more gooks than cancer but a little- uhh... lacking on the social graces.

Thank God he took the job with FEMA and went to Washington or we WOULD have killed each other. No one in his social circles would have ever believed that he hit his son- regularly and hard.