ELI
The moment I walked back through the door, the air in the house shifted. Not just thick with tension,thick with knowing. Dad wasn't in the living room when I entered, but I could feel his presence. Heavy. Pacing. Listening. Breathing. Judging.
The weight of guilt dragged behind me like chains. I closed the door softly, not wanting to disturb anything, as if tiptoeing would undo what I had done. My shoes scraped lightly against the tiles as I stepped out of them, heart knocking against my ribs.
I didn't even have to see him to know.
He knew.
Not from my clothes. Not from any call or message. No. My father had this way, this horrible, parental sixth sense. He knew when I lied. He knew when I strayed. And right now, the silence pouring from the hallway was louder than any accusation.
I turned, slowly, and he was there, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. His eyes pinned me in place like nails. The kind of look that carved shame into bone.
"You went to him," he said. No inflection. Just fact.
I swallowed, lips trembling. "I just… I needed to talk to him."
His jaw clenched so tight I thought it might crack. "After everything," he breathed. "You still went back."
"I didn't go to beg or crawl. I went to get clarity. To….to feel human again. You wouldn't understand."
"Oh, I understand plenty." He stepped forward, his voice cold and slow, the kind of tone a man uses when trying not to scream. "I understand that you threw yourself at a man who was like a brother to me. That you went behind my back after everything exploded. You still saw him."
"You don't get it!" I snapped, more from panic than bravery. "It's not like that. He didn't lure me or trick me! I love him! I chose him."
My father's voice cracked. "You don't even know what love is, Eli."
"Then teach me!" I cried. "Be the kind of father who teaches instead of punishing! God, I'm so sick of walking around this house like I'm something to be ashamed of!"
He turned sharply away from me. "Dinner. Tomorrow night. He comes here."
I froze. "What…?"
He turned back, this time his face unreadable. "You heard me. If you two have nothing to hide, then let's put it all on the table. I want to hear it. Everything."
The Next Evening
I spent the whole day preparing. Not the food though I helped with that too but myself. My nerves. My excuses. My reasons. I kept replaying conversations in my head, imagining how Damir would sit, what Dad would say, whether someone would flip the table or if we'd just combust on the spot.
When Damir knocked on the door, my stomach clenched so tight I nearly threw up.
I opened it before Dad could.
He looked… tired. Tired in the way grief ages a person. His shirt was black, sleeves rolled, and his eyes flicked nervously past me before settling with a soft, "Hi."
I stepped aside and he entered.
My father stood at the end of the hall like a prison warden. Cold. Sharp.
"Have a seat," he said.
We all sat.
The table was set. Too nicely. Napkins folded. Water poured. Like a peace offering that nobody wanted.
For a long time, no one spoke.
Dad just stared at Damir. Damir stared at the food. I stared at both of them, heart thundering. I wanted to crawl under the table, hide in the silverware drawer…anything to escape the thick tension.
Finally, Dad leaned forward, voice sharp.
"When?"
Damir looked up. "What?"
"When did it start?"
He hesitated. "Months ago. I…"
"Be specific."
I jumped in. "Dad, it wasn't like that…"
He slammed his palm on the table and we all flinched. "I asked him!"
Damir swallowed. "It wasn't physical until he turned eighteen. I promise you that. I never touched him before then."
"And before that?" Dad asked, voice dangerously soft.
Damir was quiet.
"I never saw him as anything other than your son. But Eli… he….he came to me. Confided in me. Needed comfort. I didn't intend for any of this to happen."
Dad laughed. It was the kind of laugh people let out when they're one breath from breaking. "So it's his fault?"
"No!" I stood. "It's my choice! You think I'm some innocent doll that someone played with and ruined? I wanted him! I still want him!"
My father's hands curled into fists.
"Do you even hear yourself?" he hissed. "You're a boy. A child. You don't know what this will cost you!"
"I know it's costing me you!" I cried. "Because no matter what I say, you've already decided I'm disgusting."
"Don't twist this!" he snapped, standing as well. "I raised you better than this. I…I gave you everything! And you repay me by crawling into his bed?"
"It wasn't like that…." Damir started.
My father turned on him. "And you. You bastard. You come into my home. Sit at my table. Act like family….then fuck my son the moment I blink?"
Damir went pale. "Juseon…."
"I should kill you," my father growled, low and brutal. "I should kill you."
"Stop!" I screamed.
"Would that make you happy?" I shouted, suddenly breathless. "If I was gone? Would I finally be clean in your memory if I slit my wrists open like a good little disgrace?"
The room froze.
Damir's chair scraped the floor as he stood. "Eli, no…."
I was already sprinting. Into the kitchen. Yanked open the drawer. My fingers fumbled against steel until I gripped the handle of the largest knife we owned.
Behind me, the sound of feet. Shouts.
I turned and raised the knife to my throat.
"ssi-bal aishhh!!!…..jot ga ta..Don't fucking come closer! Argghhhh!!!"I screamed.
Damir froze mid-step. My father stood at the archway, his face white, lips trembling.
"I'm done!" I sobbed. "I'm done pretending I'm okay! You don't love me. You love the idea of me. The son you wanted! The normal boy who plays soccer and dates girls and hides his feelings so you don't get uncomfortable."
"Eli…" my father whispered.
I pressed the blade harder, a thin line of warmth trailing down my skin.
"Would you mourn me more than you mourn your pride?!"
"PUT IT DOWN!" he screamed.
"I WON'T!" I screamed back. "You killed me already. Every time you looked at me with disgust. Every time you flinched when I touched you. Every time you whispered 'what did I do wrong?' under your breath when you thought I couldn't hear!"
Damir was crying now. "Baby, don't….please."
"I hate both of you," I sobbed. "I hate this house. I hate this shame. I didn't ask for this life!"
My legs buckled.
Damir caught me before I could fall, wrapping me in his arms, whispering over and over, "I've got you, I've got you, I've got you…"
My father, my strong, cruel, unreachable father sank to his knees across from us. His hand trembled as he reached out. Not to take the knife. But to touch me.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I didn't know… I didn't know you were in this much pain."
I couldn't answer.
Everything went black.