Author's note: Contains mention of suicide and severe bullying.

~*~*~

I had not expected to ever come back. Even though it was the place where I had grown up, it was still a small backwater town full of gossiping, judgmental people. People born and raised in big cities never knew how terrible life could be when everybody was obsessed with even the smallest mistakes you made.

Out of some semblance of respect, I took flowers to my parents' graves, although I had not visited them during their last years at all. It wasn't that I had hated them or anything like that. We had spoken on the phone regularly. But I hadn't wanted to return, no matter how many times they had asked. Not after I had run away to the "big city".

The actual reason for coming here lay in the forest behind the old sawmill, which was even more broken-down than it had been when I had been in high school. Parents had always warned their kids not to go there, so it had been a perfect place to meet in secret.

We had thought it would be safe. A sanctuary away from the prying eyes of peers who would only mock us and adults who preached how homosexuality was a grave sin that would land us in hell. But it hadn't been. One of the teachers had seen us kissing passionately, and within a week everyone in town had known.

No, I couldn't really say that they had known anything. I was white. He was black. In those days there had been no question that if there was a "nigger" even remotely involved, all the fault lay in them. And I had done nothing to deny the rumors that he had tried to force himself on me.

I had been such a stupid kid, happy to perpetuate a story that let me keep my own reputation as a real man and get away unscathed. The priest had even pitied me and offered me all the spiritual support he could give after such a "traumatizing event".

He had not been so lucky. White boys had beat him up for overstepping his boundaries and told him that if he as much as looked at their sisters, he would be dead. Black boys had done the same for him being a faggot.

"I'm glad to see you again," a familiar voice from distant past spoke.

I opened my eyes and let them rest on the body I had never been quite able to forget, despite all my guilt-ridden attempts to erase it all from my memory. Before we had gotten to know each other – and a bit after that too – I had been jealous of how muscular and simply masculine he was. The dark ebony of his skin had made me want to keep my distance and not even speak with him, but in the end I had been completely drawn to him.

I swallowed the lump forming in my throat. "I'm sorry. I was a coward."

He laughed just the way I used to love hearing. "Don't worry about it. To tell you the truth, I wanted to pretend it never happened too. That I was straight and would hook up with a nice girl soon."

That was what I had done. After I had moved, I had soon gotten married, saved money for a house, had two kids, all the usual stuff. All the big lie that those who felt attracted to the other guys kept living. If you keep it a secret and share the bed with your wife, it's not real.

"It's not worth it," I said wryly. "You can be a perfect dad, a perfect husband, go to church every Sunday, coach your kid's football team and earn the food on the table every day, and still the woman will notice something is wrong and nag your ears off how you're not being committed enough."

That was exaggerating and I knew it. Although my wife had stated how betrayed she felt when I had finally told her that I had never really been attracted to women, we'd had a peaceful divorce and would still meet during family dinners at Christmas and Thanksgiving. But it made him laugh more.

"The world has changed a lot, you know. And I guess I have too. Although it took walking my baby girl to the altar when she exchanged vows with another woman to see that...you know, maybe it's okay not to lie to yourself. And I wanted to say that I'm really sorry."

"I wish..." he started. "I wish that you had found the courage to make that decision back then. But better late than never."

My heart ached at the memory. He had sneaked to my bedroom window and begged me to run away with him. Even in a world where blacks and whites were not supposed to be even friends and where homosexuality was a crime, he had been certain there would be some place we could have made our own. I had refused, told him that it had been just an experiment. A joke.

A few days later he had been found dead here, where we used to meet. He had cut his own wrists.

A ghostly whisper of a kiss touched my lips, soft and lingering.

"I want you to find happiness for the both of us. And I pray that your children and grandchildren will know freedom we never had."