"Hey, honey," my mom says as she scrambles around the kitchen, tucking a piece of curly blonde hair behind her ear, "how was school?"

I take off my rain-soaked jacket and set it on a hook. It started pouring shortly after Griffin escorted me from school.

I turn toward my mom, opening my mouth to answer her question but I never get the chance to speak.

"That's great," she whirls around to a pot of boiling water, probably not realizing I haven't said a word yet. I stand there, drenched, completely invisible to her. Just like I am to everyone.

"Where's dad?" I ask, already knowing the answer.

She points her thumb towards the door leading to the basement and my heart sinks. I plop my backpack down on the couch and head towards the stairs. Something makes me stop as a loud clap of thunder follows a flashing light. I turn towards the door, the forbidden door that leads to the forbidden room my father hides in. My mom glances over once more and points to the scrape on my face, leftovers from Rodrick's "fun time". He calls it a souvenir of my wimpiness. He also said that of the trash clinging to me after he threw me into the garbage ("right where you belong!"). He's just so sweet.

"Where'd you get that cut?"

My heart begins beating faster, ears heating up as I scramble to find a good lie. "Play rehearsal!" I finally say, "they, uh, have me doing some intense dances and I tripped."

"Is that how you cut your shirt?" her eyes search my face, looking for something I can't possibly imagine.

I furrow my brows and tug at the thin fabric, noticing the little tears, revealing scabbing wounds. Leftovers from Griffin. I close my eyes and nod at my mom, picturing Griffin shoving me against the wall again, the hard bricks rubbing against my back. Thunder booms as my imaginary self kisses Griffin. I shudder, forcing myself into reality before I fall further into the dark memories.

My mom turns back to her food, chopping tomatoes a little too quickly. A little too aggressively. "Can you tell your father dinner is ready?"

I nod but she doesn't look at me. The door shadowed by the storm clouds, blocking the light coming from the large window over the living room makes me shake a little as o walk to it. A strange tingle runs down my spine as I open the door and carefully walk into the basement. If this was a horror movie, I'd be eaten alive just about now.

I can't really blame my father. He locks himself in the basement like I lock myself upstairs. He hides down there forces the pain away the way I hide it away.

My fists clench as I open the door and step onto the carpeted staircase, half expecting lightning to flash in my face, revealing a badly animated monster at the bottom of the steps. No monster awaits me, however, but something entirely different.

The color scheme is drastically darker. Upstairs has soft tones and light colors, the basement feels dark, even though I switched on the lights.

This used to be our Family Room. I can remember curling up on this couch and playing video games with Ben when we were younger, my dad's office door open as he watches us play. Until he left, office empty for four years. Ben still came over and we still played games, but my dad wasn't there to watch us anymore, we were alone.

My sister was alone in her room all that time. I never even thought about her once during those days, too lost in myself.

This room hasn't held a family, a whole and complete family, in years. Even after my dad came back. It took her death for him to notice his family again.

I run to his door, squeezing my eyes shut as I knock, clenching my teeth. Thunder rolls above me, louder than ever.

"Helena?" he calls, voice unnaturally quiet.

"It's me," I say, suddenly queasy.

I used to knock on his door after she died. After a while of him saying "go away," I gave up. I didn't want to know what went on in there anymore. The door doesn't open, but my dad calls out from the depths. "What do you want?"

I just stand there, struggling to come up with something to say. I hear a click and my dad opens the door, scruffy black beard in my face. He narrows his eyes at me and folds his arms. "Why are you here?"

I can see past him, his office perfectly in order. Immaculate. The book cases are full of volumes, all in order by height and color, the wooden desk in the corner perfectly organized, his stacks of accounting stuff for his clients all aligned.

I begin fidgeting with the hem of my ripped shirt, overwhelmed by the cleanliness. "Dinner is ready."

He nods, motioning for me to back away, I scramble backwards, farther than necessary.

He nods and works his way up the steps, leaving me behind. I lean against his office door, listening to the rain pour overhead, struggling to catch my breath.

I force myself up the stairs. One leg after the other. A hole opens up inside me, like a crack in my skin, outpouring a darkness I can't escape.

My mom has set a salad and vegan sausages on the table. She serves vegan sausage with almost every meal we share together, which is a rarity. Usually both of my parents make an excuse to work around this time.

I take my seat and bite my lip, tugging at a piece of my hair as my parents sit at opposite ends of the table. As far as they can possibly get from each other. My dad looks between us, "Let's pray."

They both close their eyes and bow their heads, but I can't bring myself to do the same, staring at the dark sky outside instead. God probably hates me, being gay and unclean or whatever. He probably sits back in his cosmic throne and shakes his head at my suffering, holding his bag full of blessings and tossing them out to every person that ever wronged me. Good job, you put the little gay sinner in his place.

"...Amen," my dad raises his head and digs in, silence settling over the table.

Silence.

Silence can be louder than words sometimes, more tense, more still, more angry. I stare at my food, unable to eat. My stomach churns with the thought of consuming the salad. My throat closes up; even if I wanted to eat, I can't. I never can. I don't deserve to.

"Why aren't you eating?" my mom asks as if reading my thoughts.

I look up at her, hearing the tightness in her voice, sounding so close to breaking. So close to the edge.

"I'm not really hungry," I whisper, not wanting to disturb the broken silence anymore.

That's what I've been telling myself. Every lunch, squeezed between Griffin and his best friend Rodrick (yay me, stuck between my boyfriend and exclusive bully who whispers threats in one ear right when Griffin whispers dirty words in the other ), I say I'm not hungry. Sometimes I want to touch the limp sandwich I packed or the fries Griffin offers me, but my stomach rejects it if my throat didn't already decide it can no longer swallow. Or let air in my lungs. Lately I've done more throwing up than I have shoving food down.

"You should eat," my father's voice makes me jump, "you're getting too skinny."

I nod miserably, hand reaching up to tug at a curl on the top of my head. He's trying to sound like a "bro" or something. Like with Rodrick, I have to sit and take the punches. Maybe I can with this too, just eat one bite. All it takes is one bite, I try to convince myself. "How was school?" my mom's hand tightens on her form, knuckles turning white.

I shrug.

"That's not an answer. I pay good money for that school you better be doing good. Better than good," my dad growls.

"I am," I whisper, "have a musical in two months if you, uhm, want to see me..."

He shakes his head, "It makes you look like a pansy when you do those stupid shows. I don't want people thinking my son's a fag."

I shrink back, glancing at my mom whose eyes have glazed over. I mentally slap myself over and over. "It's good practice..."

And Roran Mancini, openly gay extraordinaire, did them before moving to opera.

He sighs, glancing up at my mom. "Helena, say something."

She blinks, eyes focusing on my dad. Her frown makes me shrink backwards, "What do you want me to do?" she snaps, "why don't you do something?"

Why don't you try parenting your child so I don't have to.

He groans, "We've been over this."

My stomach suddenly surges in my stomach and I swallow hard, lowering my fork to the plate slowly and carefully, trying to remain unnoticed. It doesn't matter, they never see me anyway. My father has shoved his plate away. My mother never touched hers in the first place, always searching the room, avoiding anyone's eyes.

She finally slams down her fork, the fork that never touched her food. She glares at my dad who runs a hand through his gelled back hair. She stands, fingers gripping the edge of the table, making my heart race even more. "We haven't been over this, actually. You're never there to go over it with!"

"I'm doing the best I can," my father raises his voice, shattering what is left of the peace.

I keep my eyes shut, running my finger up the shaved part of my hair until I reach a substantial curl, pulling hard. Breathe. Suddenly, Griffin hovers over me, laughing before kissing me, as if that will somehow make it all stop. Then Rodrick pulls me away, Look, I can make you disappear into this dumpster! he grabs me from the alley floor, sending his goons away, And I'll do it all myself. You're so puny I barely have to flex a muscle. Do you even have nuts underneath all that faggy clothing?

Then I fall. He throws me down into the plastic bags full of rotting shit and garbage but I keep on falling past the trash and into blackness. The never ending blackness. It swallows me, wolves made of shadow gnashing their teeth and sinking their fangs into my flesh as they tear me apart limb by limb. But I keep falling into nothingness, past the wolves and the stench and substantial matter until all that's left is a distance scream.

My parents keep talking - yelling - but I barely hear their words, everything falling past me into a place full of every painful emotion that swallows me whole. Leaves all glimpse of light and possibility behind.

"What about our son? Our son. If not for me do it for him," my mom's voice rings through the darkness, ripping into reality. Twisted, disgusting reality. "You can't hide away forever!"

My eyes snap open, chest rising and falling, hands clutching at my hair, numb with an unnatural cold. What is she talking about? I slide off my chair, watching my father rise from his. Trying to scramble away from the monsters, I end up with my back pressed against the kitchen counter adjacent to the dining room, trapped in the endless sea of words, words, words.

"What about him? He's fine!" my dad retaliates, voice loud enough to make my world shake. He's fine. The rest of his words went unsaid, I'll make him fine. He has to be fine. I don't know what I'll do if he's not fine, fine, fine!

"He didn't talk for a month, Ray, a month!"

"We all have our own ways of dealing with it, just give him space – hell give me space – you keep suffocating everyone."

"Suffocating? You think I'm suffocating you?" her voice breaks. The little thread holding her together snaps. The wolves get to her too, like sharks smelling blood in the water, they can smell her pain. "You're the one suffocating us, not me!"

A gust of wind and roll of thunder echo through the house, breaking my last piece of sanity. "JUST STOP!" I scream, squeezing my stomach and clutching at my head, "JUST FUCKING STOP!"

My legs collapse beneath me but my hands have found a grip on the counter and I hold on for dear life, begging they don't come near me. I'm frozen in place, I can't breathe or think. All that's left is one word. Stop. Stop, stop, stop.

I need to breathe. Because breathing will make it all okay, right? Why isn't it okay? Why can't I make it okay?

My parents barely miss a beat. I knew it wouldn't help. Nothing ever does.

I watch in horror as my mom marches towards the foyer, face red, curls flying in every direction. "Look at what you're doing to your son! Look at what you've done to this family! And I'm the one suffocating you?"

Breathe.

In.

Out.

I try to focus on the mundane sense of air moving through my body. But the noise becomes faster and faster, blending in with the wind raging on outside and the storm raging all around me. My knees to my chest, head in my thighs, I watch as my mother takes a stand by the front door. "I'm done waiting for you to get your act together. I'm done 'suffocating' you. You're more important to you then anything or anyone else-"

"What does that even mean?" his hands splay out in exasperation and he glances back at me for just a second, making my entire body freeze.

"It doesn't matter! You never get it! You never have. I'm tired of this. I'm tired of living here. I can't look at you, or Justin, I, I just need some time. And space. Because you're suffocating me, Ray, not the other way around. And you can't just keep avoiding what we all know happened. We can't keep going on like this!"

Except they can. And willl.

Because my parents love the arguing more than anything else.

They love fighting more than me.

Because if they did love me, they'd stop. They'd stop this madness and fight to be happy for once.

And with that my mom turns her back on my father, on me, not evening grabbing a jacket as she steps out into the rain. I watch my dad slam his head against the door, standing there for a few minutes before he turns back to me, probably hearing the sound of my rapid breath. One might call it hyperventilating, but in the moment, with his eyes on mine and all my sanity flying away, my breath is the one sign that I'm still alive. Yet it all disappears when he starts walking towards me. A primal urge surges through my system and I leap into the air, scrambling away from the monster. "Get away from me!" I scream without meaning to, charging up the stairs only to fall before reaching the top.

I can't bring myself to get up.

Not a sound echoes through the halls except the rain, pattering around us. My breath doesn't register in my ears, maybe because I've stopped breathing, weighed down by the silence. Can't just keep avoiding what we all know happened...

Shaking, I curl up into a ball, hugging myself, begging all the demons around me to go away. "Please," I whisper to no one, wishing someone, anyone, could hear me. Find me. Save me.

I pull out my phone, standing and walking slowly to my room, feet dragging against the hard floor. My trembling thumb hovers over Ben's contact, but I can't bring myself to call him, not after what happened.

Wiping a tear from my eye, I press on Griffin's name, pressing the call button. I need to face Ben eventually, but not now.

That's what we Ivanovs do, we are experts at deflecting topics and avoiding questions. After all, the best way to solve a problem is to pretend you don't have a problem to solve.