D.T.M (Dead to Me)

Everything in the room seemed so off. Grating. Fucking annoying. It was too quiet, while at the same time every once in a while he could catch the ticking of the clock in the living room and every tick tick tick was like a bomb going off. He tried not to watch the clock. Every time he looked at it, it was like no time had passed and it made him more antsy and agitated. He'd finally worked up the damn nerve to say something about himself and now was the time his mom chose to dilly-dally on coming home? The door opened, his mom saying her usual line to alert the house of her presence. She caught sight of Clint, giving a worried smile seeing the grim expression on his face.
"Mom," his voice cracked lightly. He'd blame that one on puberty and not nerves.
"I'm gay."
The silence that filled the room was deafening. Barney had paused his game and was looking over at Clint. His Mother wore a shocked expression. Worried but shocked. It was his Father's reaction that scared him the most. His face was pure anger.
"You're what?"
His confidence dropped. He swallowed hard. He could hear my voice shaking as he spoke, hell, he could feel it shaking.
"I-I'm gay. I like men."
His Father stood up with such speed, Clint didn't have time to register it, only the slap against his cheek, the stinging pain that burned on his skin. His eyes widened as he looked up at his father, visibly shaking as he took a step back.
"No son of mine is a fucking faggot."
"Dad leave him alone... It's probably just a phase-"
"SHUT YOUR MOUTH. Clint get to your room."
Clint swallowed hard and headed upstairs, falling heavily onto his bed, letting out a small sob, eventually crying himself to sleep.

...

Clint woke with a start, yelling as pain exploded in his scalp. He looked up at his Father, holding his hair tightly. A small whimper escaped Clint's lips as he got slammed to the floor.
"Right then, you faggot. Let's get this disease out of you."
Clint scrambled backwards as his Father cracked his knuckles, merely standing there, watching his son move as far away as he could. There was no movement as Clint's back hit the wall. A whimper escaped the small boy's lips as his Father stormed towards him. A fist met his face and Clint let out a panicked yell. A foot to his stomach caused Clint to curl up and sob. More kicks came; the sound of bones snapping echoed around the room. More punches were given; bruises began to form. And so it continued. For nearly an hour. Clint choked on blood sitting in his throat as his Father left, sobbing. He was just a faggot. A disease. He dragged himself to his bed; unable to stand, and pulled the duvet down on top of him. He curled up, sobbing himself to sleep.

Notes