David was swinging on the monkey bars from his knees, hanging upside down with all his blood rushing to his head, just like his father warned him not to do. The young boy spotted his father from across the park, talking to another dad. His father looked up and spotted Dave in this compromising position. David panicked as he saw an angry scowl cloud his father's face. He tried to flip gracefully off the bars in an attempt to impress his father, but instead, he caught his foot on one of the brightly colored bars halfway into the flip. He fell quickly onto the tightly packed woodchips with his right arm stuck beneath him. David heard a loud snap and a surge of pain. He howled as the sting of broken bone shot through him. His father's face swam into view.
"Da-ad" David choked out, his voice soaked in pain and guilt.
"Davey, shit, are you okay? I think you broke your arm, kiddo, see if you can move it." Paul Karofsky was frantic, trying hard not to cause his son any more pain than he was already in.
"I'm s-sorry, dad," David whispered to his father, who was hovering over him.
"I wouldn't've go-gotten hurt if I'd've l-listened to you, d-daddy," The small boy spluttered. Paul looked down at his son, who looked pitiful with tears leaking out of his eyes and small whimperings escaping his lips. Paul leaned down and pulled the boy into his arms and walked him slowly to his truck so that he could take him to the emergency room.
"Don't be sorry for something you can't help, Davey. I love you, remember that."
Dave did remember. But ten years later, mindless babbling to a seven year old didn't mean much. Dave was thinking hard again, about how he had to make up yet another excuse. He checked off the more extravagant lies, bar fight, falling down a flight of stairs, freak accident with the neighborhood cat. He was sick of lying to Azimio and Strando. His black eyes, slight limp, cuts and bruises weren't from freak accidents; they were by-products of his father's anger issues. He hit his son constantly, with his fists, his collection of belts, anything he could get his hands on. Dave was allowed to live in his house only if he was beaten daily. Dave couldn't live like that anymore.
"Dad?" Dave whispers, unable to utter the word that physically pains him to hear in anything over a mutter.
"What do you want?" The addressed snaps.
"I need to tell you s-something." Dave's voice cracked on the last word and caused his father's head to snap up. The younger boy cursed himself for the slip up, but continued, trying to be as confident as possible.
"Do you remember when I was seven and we were at the park? I fell and broke my arm. Do you remember what you said to me? Do you?" Dave's face was heating up and his fists were clenched as he stared his father down.
"How'm I supposed to remember? That was ten years ago." Paul replied, turning back to his work, shuffling papers absentmindedly.
"You said you loved me," Dave uttered shakily, "That was the last fucking time you told your only god damn son that you loved him, Dad. You told me that I should never be sorry for something I can't control. You told me that you loved me. You don't fucking love me. This isn't love." Hot, angry tears were spilling onto Dave's cheeks and he had stepped as close to his father as he dared. Paul Karofsky had yet to look up at his son.
"I'm gay, Dad." Dave whispered, and left the room. He stepped into his room as quickly as possible and sat down hard, burying his face in his hands. He jumped as his door burst open to reveal his father wielding a baseball bat. His normally pale face was flushed in anger and his eyes had a mad glint to them. Dave barely flinched as he started towards him. His father pulled him to his feet by his collar. The first blow was surprising. Harder than usual, he thought. There was a crack as the bat collided with Dave's kneecap, forcing him to the ground. He pulled himself into the fetal position and took the beating.
"NO—SON—OF—MINE—IS—GAY!" Paul screeched between each blow to his son's curled body. Dave skit blood onto the once white carpet and tried hard not to lose consciousness, waiting painfully for his father to tire himself out and leave him in peace.
The larger man was breathing heavy and screaming insults at his only child. After 15 minutes of nonstop threats and swinging of the bat, Paul backed off of Dave to access the damage. He had broken most of Dave's ribs, caused his knee to come out of socket from the first blow, and his head, stomach, and legs were bleeding profusely. Dave was blacking out, but couldn't take his eyes off of his father.
"Get out of my house, you disgraceful faggot," he spit at Dave. He tried to pull himself off of the ground, but black dots danced across his vision, making him fall back to the ground, with a soft thud.
"You heard me. Get off of my floor and get your butt fucking ass out of here." Paul said in a controlled whisper, trying hard not to send all his rage into one more kick or one more swing of the bat. Dave shifted into a kneeling position and held his head still until the black dots faded, he got to his feet and nearly fell again. His knee popped grotesquely as he hobbled out of the house. He walked slowly down the road, praying silently that he didn't faint anywhere near his childhood home. He made it nearly three blocks away before he gave in and let the black that ebbed his peripherals to take over. Blissful blackness swallowed him and there was no pain. He could be gay in the dark. His feelings made since. He didn't have an abusive father. But you can't live in darkness, but this wasn't exactly living.
Dave woke up in a hospital room that was blaringly white. He looked around and found himself alone, yet again. He tugged on the tubes in his chest, but the pain in his stomach made him stop. He shuffled in his bed and gave a guttural moan. A man in a long coat walked in with a chart.
"We nearly lost you today, boy. I'm glad someone found you in those bushes. Can I have your name please?" The doctor looked at Dave and he squirmed.
"And how'd you get like this, Dave?"
"I told my father I was gay, sir." Dave replied quickly. Not even bothering to feel subconscious. The man gaped at him over his clear-rimmed glasses.
"Your father did this to you, son?"
"Because you are gay?"
"He wasn't a very good father then, was he?" The older man whispered to Dave, who nodded, unable to respond because a lump had formed in his throat.
"Not very good at all." The man added, closing his chart with a snap and left the room to tell the nurses about Dave's situation. That's when Dave let the first tear fall.
A/N: I am a sick bastard. Uhm. This explains a lot about why Karofsky is such a bully. Thank you for reading.