Following my newfound interest in the “art” of hunting, my old man became the quasi-father that he always should have been. He took me to the shooting range and showed me how to clean it. He even lowered himself to take me along on his annual hunting trip (the worst time of my life filled with farting, sexual innuendoes, and a general lack of couth in all areas). But eventually he just couldn’t handle having a “pussy” for a son no matter how proud he was of my “skill” as a hunter. That’s when he started to beat my mother.
Once I found her lying unconscious, beaten within a breath of a coma. Days later, she was dead. The law determined it to be an accident.
Over the next couple of months, I cried appropriately. So when I finally picked up his gun and crept into his room, he never saw it coming.
“So how’s this for being a fag, dad?” I screamed as I pulled the trigger. I left and never looked back.
They had given me a gun, hoping to turn me into the son he had always wanted. But I had taken the world.