The Gun Part 1

As he drove home from work, Brent Williams thought about the gun sitting at home locked in his desk drawer.
His stepfather, for years, had beaten him. From a very young age, Brent had learned from him that having a gun meant protection. Having a gun meant that nobody could get between you and your dreams. Having a gun meant that you were free.

Brent couldn't remember the last time that he felt free. He knew that things were much different before his father died. His mother and father had been madly in love. His mother had been a much happier, stronger willed woman.
Shortly before his mother met his step-father, Brent remembered looking at photo albums, with photos of his mother and father with him, beaming.
Those photos, however, no longer existed. When Brent's mom married his step-father, his step-father had ordered all proof of a life before him to be destroyed.
His mother had fought to save some of the pictures, arguing that Brent would eventually come to dispise her if she didn't. She had sent Brent to bed early. He was so angry with her, but knew better than to fight with her. Brent's step-father, had beaten her that night. From his room, Brent heard the yelling. He heard his step-father's fist connecting with his mother's face, over and over. He heard the door slam as his step-father stormed out of the house. Neither he, nor Brent ever knew that she had saved a family portrait that night.
Brent crept out of bed, down the hall toward his mother's bedroom. Her door was open just a crack. Brent peeked into the room. His mother was curled up on the bed, sobbing hysterically. Brent saw the blood running down the side of her face, from a cut on her forehead. Before she could turn and see him, Brent crept back to his bedroom.
The day that the pictures were to be destroyed, Brent had snuck into his mother's bedroom. Minutes before his mother came home from the grocery store, Brent found his parents' wedding photo. He heard his mother's key turning in the lock, and shoved the photo inside his t-shirt. He ran to his room, making sure to stow the picture under the matress.
Years later, his step-father still hadn't found the photo, which by now was starting to fade, and quite worn around the edges. He took it from its place under his mattress, to look at it. He longed to have his father with him. Longing for the unconditional love that his father had shown him, Brent wiped away a tear.
The beatings at this point were becoming much worse. Brent missed school to hide the bruises. Days later, when he went back, Brent would recite to the teacher whatever lie that his step-father had taught him.
As a freshman in high school, Brent pulled away from his mother. He would stay late at school, to avoid the inevitable fights that would occur when he got home.
He began to gain interest in playing soccer, and tennis. He also played football, as was expected of him. As the sports season went on, he slimmed down, and tanned up. He was beginning to look more and more like his father. He was bound and determined to excel in all three sports.
He got a part time job as a waiter. He showed up at every practice. He kept his grades at a straight A average. The coaches never knew how he managed it.
The night of the final football game of the season, something happened. As Brent was changing up for the big game, Scott Brandt stepped out of the shower. Brent had secretly been watching Scott for months at practices for all three sports. Occasionally, Brent would gaze at Scott, but would always break his gaze just before Scott turned.
Brent admired Scott's sculpted abs and pecs, catching himself quickly before Scott could notice.
"You ready for the big game, tiger?" Scott asked.
"Yeah. Can't wait. We're gonna beat the pants off those Bulldogs tonight."
"You got that right."
Scott, suddenly turned to Brent, and they locked lips. Brent's heart began to speed up. He felt a blush spreading down his face. Yet, he couldn't push Scott away. Finally giving in to his feelings, Brent pulled Scott in.
The thought that somebody could walk through the door at any minute, was frightening. Finally, to Brent's relief, Scott pulled away.
"We could have been caught..."
Scott smiled, and winked. "So..."
"I'll see you out on the field." Brent hurriedly pulled on his jersey, and made his way out of the locker room. He had so much that he wanted to say, but couldn't find the words.
Brent, Scott and the rest of the team played their best game ever. Brent made the winning touch-down.
The team finally began making their way out to go home. Scott and Brent were the last two left.
Brent showered and wrapped a towel around his waist. He began to change into his normal clothes.
"Would it have been so bad if we had been?" a voice asked.
"Huh?" Brent turned. Scott was standing there, over his shoulder.
"If we'd been caught, I mean. Would it have been so bad if we had been caught before?"
"Listen, Scott, I can't talk about this right now. I need time." Brent turned to leave. Scott grabbed Brent's arm. Scott leaned in for another kiss, but stopped inches away. Brent looked up into Scott's eyes. Brent leaned the rest of the way in, to complete the kiss. Time flew by. Minutes felt like hours, though it felt like that one moment lasted forever. As they came up for air, Brent glanced at his watch.
"I've got to go. Damn it, I'm late. I've got to get home."

All the lights were on in the house, as Brent walked up the steps to the front door. The house was very quiet. Through the sheer curtain over the front door's window, he could see the shape of a person. His stepfather was waiting for him when he got home. "You're late, you little faggot."
Brent knew what was coming next. Off the belt would come. Then came the blistering slaps of the thick leather belt. Brent refused to whimper, refused to cry, although it hurt almost more than he could bear. No matter how much his eyes watered, he willed the tears back. It would only be worse if any tears fell.
Finally, the whipping was over. Only this time, the end was different. Brent felt something cold and hard poking into his back. He tried to turn to see what it was, and his stepfather put him in a headlock, poking the gun into his side. He knew better than to struggle. Struggling could get him killed. His stepfather always kept one finger on the trigger. If he tried to wrench himself away, there was no way of knowing if his stepfather had enough self-control to keep from pulling the trigger.
"You won't be late again. Will you?" asked the step-father, moving the gun up Brent's side, toward his neck. "WILL YOU?"
"N-n-no..."
"NO what?"
"N-no Sir!"