Page 18 of Before We Break Again
Earlier, I pretended to be asleep when my parents came to visit for the first time, because avoiding them was easier than listening to the inevitable disappointment.Don’t get me wrong—seeing Mom is always nice.She’s soft, gentle in a way that barely touches the edges of my bruised pride.But enduring Dad ...That was something else entirely.When they finally left to go back to the hotel, I felt the tightness in my chest ease for the first time in hours.
But then, minutes ago, Dad waltzed back into my room.Without Mom.And now, he’s rattling off a plan I don’t care to understand.He’s all white noise.His voice is this dull, static hum, a frequency I just can’t tune into anymore.
The beeping machines, the sterile hum of the room—it all blends together.I know I should listen, I really should.But I can’t bring myself to care.Not about the plan he’s pushing on me.Not about how he always seems so damn sure that he knows what’s “best” for me.
Not when everything else is falling apart.
“They’re going to release you in a week,” he says, his voice cold, calculated, like he’s talking about a business deal, not his own son’s health.“But you’re not going home.We’re sending you to El Paso.”
I don’t even look at him, or even acknowledge this whole:you’re coming with me.He says it as if I’m a five-year-old child who needs guidance from his loving and very concerned father.
“You’ll be checked into a rehabilitation center,” he continues, his tone as cold and detached as ever.“Top-notch therapists—psychological, of course.The doctor said that as long as you keep your leg elevated, it doesn’t matter when you start rehab.”
Psychological therapy.My jaw tightens, but I don’t look at him.There’s a pressure building at the base of my skull, a tension that keeps growing with every word he speaks.The room feels smaller, and I’m suddenly aware of how hard it is to breathe—like the air is too thick, weighing me down.I know what’s coming next.I always do.And no matter how many times I’ve heard it, it doesn’t get any easier.
“The therapist will help with the emotional stress the injury’s caused,” he says, his voice clinical, like he’s reading off a checklist.“The trauma, the loss of control.”He pauses, his eyes narrowing as if daring me to interrupt.“And while you’re there, you’ll attend the conversion therapy program as well.”
Those last words hit like a hammer.Conversion therapy.Again.
It’s like all the oxygen in the room has been sucked out, leaving me suffocating in the silence.My fingers dig into the bedsheets, knuckles turning white, but I stay frozen.Every word he says feels like a fist pummeling my stomach, but I don’t flinch.I’ve heard this all before.He already sent me away once, years ago, and this time ...it’s just as suffocating.
Then I see it—etched into his face, that unmistakable look of disappointment, the kind that digs into your soul and never leaves.His eyes are hard, cold, filled with shame from that day he found me with Dust.
God, I can still remember it.We weren’t just fooling around.I was straddling Dustin, my body pressed against his, flushed and breathless, our clothes half-torn off in the heat of the moment.He was kissing down my neck, his hands gripping my hips, pulling me closer.We were too far gone to even hear the door open.And then ...my father was standing there, his face twisted in horror.
The way he looked at me ...at us.Disgust radiated from him like poison seeping into the air, suffocating everything in the room.His eyes were now burning with something dark, something vicious.He stormed into the room, his voice low, simmering with danger, like a volcano about to erupt.Every word dripped with venom, his fists clenched as if holding back a violent explosion.
He didn’t just threaten us—he ripped into us, into me.“My son isn’t gay,” he spat, the words like acid.“You’re nothing but a filthy disease, and you infected him.”The insult cut deeper than any knife, the hatred in his voice twisting my insides.He looked at Dustin like he was something to be eradicated, like just breathing the same air as him was a crime.
And then he disappeared, but it wasn’t over.The sound of his heavy footsteps echoed through the house, each one like a countdown.Moments later, he was back, rifle in hand, his face twisted with rage.For a split second, I thought it was over.I thought he was going to kill Dustin right there in front of me.I saw it in his eyes—the sheer rage, the uncontrollable fury that nothing could extinguish.
My heart pounded in my ears as I froze, helpless, trapped between disbelief and terror.Dustin stood beside me, tense but unflinching, as if he’d already accepted whatever was coming next.
“I’m going to finish this.Finish you,”he growled, aiming the rifle straight at Dustin’s chest.The barrel gleamed under the dim light, a heartbeat away from pulling the trigger.
Mom burst in just in time, throwing herself between them, barely stopping him from firing.
She screamed his name, begged him to put it down, to think, to stop.And somehow, just barely, she pulled him back from the edge.But in that moment, I knew—nothing would ever be the same.He’d been seconds away from changing all our lives in one reckless, irreversible moment.
But that day, I lost something.Whatever fragile respect or love I still held for my father, it shattered.The look in his eyes, the way he spat those words at me, like I was the filth he needed to wash off his hands.I gained something too.His hate.He’ll never forget, and he’ll never forgive.
But someone should tell him—there’s nothing to forgive.Not me.Not Dustin.But it sure as hell isn’t going to be me who tells him that.
“It’s for your own good,” he says, that familiar, authoritative tone sliding over his words like a suffocating blanket.The same voice that has ruled every corner of my life, dictating my choices, my future.“You’ve lost your way, Santos.And now, with everything that’s happened, we need to focus on getting you back on track—physically and mentally.”
Back on track.As if I was ever on the right track in his eyes.
I feel the heat rise in my chest, my heart pounding as I fight to keep my composure.“I don’t need that kind of therapy,” I say, my voice quiet but steady, the defiance simmering just beneath the surface.“If you can’t get it through your thick skull that I’m bisexual, that’s your problem.Maybe you should be the one going to therapy.Something to fix your narrow-minded, bigoted, misogynistic head.”
His eyes darken, and in a split second, he’s stepping closer, looming over me like a storm ready to break.
“You don’t get to make that decision,” he growls, his voice low, dangerous, each word dripping with barely contained fury.
The room feels smaller, the walls closing in, as his anger pulses between us, sharp and heavy.His gaze pierces through me, as if daring me to push back further, to challenge the authority he’s held over me for as long as I can remember.
But this time, I don’t back down.Not anymore.
This is how it’s always been with him—control, dominance, bending me to his will, like I’m some puppet he’s been fine-tuning all my life.He built me, shaped me into the perfect hockey player.But he’s never seen me.Not who I really am beneath all that.
