Sorry, We’re Closed

One

Sawyer

I can’t sleep again.

My day has been no different to any other; my alarm blaring at the crack of dawn and reminding me of my day long shift in the family café, returning to this home where I follow my mother’s trail cleaning every bottle she leaves behind while once again pleading and begging for her forgiveness for my actions years ago, and then returning to my duvet cocoon at the earliest time which society deems it acceptable.

Yet somehow, I still can’t sleep.

I know why I can’t sleep, but I refuse to admit that for seven years today, since that thirteen-year-old boy decided to speak out, I have been fighting a losing battle at every moment I have, in the hopes of regaining any form of love and appreciation from my mother.

Every time my eyes try to finally soothe me to sleep, that dreaded day comes flooding back to me in the form of beaded sweat across my body and my lungs growing shallow.

I sit up at the dining table, the paint flaking chairs creaking their wooden bones with every movement of my body, waiting for the perfect moment to become kindling.

The mid-morning sun blesses a golden glow over our family home as my mother's distant yet sweet singing floats from the kitchen.

She’s preparing her Sunday roast, which was always my favourite time of the week.

The smell of her succulent cooking, especially her chicken, oh her chicken, was divine.

My mouth fills at the thought that in just a few hours’ time, as soon as we come back through our front door from church, I will help my mother serve what feels like a banquet of potatoes; vegetables, stuffing, Yorkshire puddings, gravy, that amazing chicken and we will sit around the table as a family.

She will sit on the left of my father, and I will sit on his right, and we will enjoy our family dinner.

We will talk about school, work, my want for something fluffy walking around this home of ours which continuously gets met with "we'll think about it", how enthused everyone was at today's service, anything and everything.

"Darling, I'm going to check on your father. We need to leave soon.”

Mother dances by, her Sunday dress rippling baby blue waves of fabric, the waves cascading at her sides as a hand is placed so delicately on my shoulder and a kiss planted on my head.

She always looks beautiful, but particularly on Sundays because she always wore this dress, which I loved.

It hugged her waist yet opened into what I always thought looked like an upside-down flower, with its pleats as petals and her legs like a lily's stamens.

A fitted bodice which met her chest and a slim silver chain which my father gifted to her last Christmas, laying gently around her neck.

Her auburn hair met the lining of the bodice perfectly, but sometimes she'd pull it into a tight bun which would sit on the top of her head, or a flowing ponytail filled with curls and waves trailing down her back.

She would rarely wear makeup, but as she would always say, on this special day of the week she would treat herself to some mascara which drew your attention completely to her deep blue eyes, and some rose-tinted lip gloss which glistened as soon as it was graced by any light.

This was the staple Tracey Sombre which everyone recognised at our church, with her arm linked through my father's and her hand holding mine.

We’re the picturesque family and soon, everyone in Tetherton, not just the Church goers, would know of the Sombre-Boser household as my parents celebrate the buying of their own business.

Every night since, they celebrated and cheered about how they finally did it, the champagne popping until they noticed the neighbourly stares paired with the friendly smiles and thought to reign it in slightly.

They are happy, and they want me to be a part of it, to join them at sixteen, to learn the business, thrive in it, take it over with a woman that I would one day love when they were too old to run it anymore.

That's what they wanted.

Two pairs of footsteps descend the stairs alongside the harmony of laughing and humming, until my parents then appear and our muted grey walls suddenly shine brighter.

My father’s arms wrap around Mother’s waist before dipping her close to the hardwood floor, kissing her from her forehead to her lips.

He pulls her back to her feet, a smile forever growing over both of their faces as she waltzes her way back into the kitchen to make sure everything is roasting slowly and steady, ready for us when we return home.

"Come here, let me get a look at you, then! Yes, that’s my boy in his brand-new suit!"

I immediately rise to my feet and embrace my father.

I’m only up to his chest, but we always say that one day, I'll be up there with him.

He pats between my shoulder blades twice before pulling away and resting both his hands on my petite shoulders.

He leans back on his heels, his eyes gazing down to my first pair of suit shoes, untied, up to my suit shirt, untucked, and then back to meet my eyes.

"Oh, I'm just so proud of you, son! I'll teach you how to tie those later."

My suit is far too big for me, but I wanted to look just like my father.

I begged and pleaded for my parents to take me shopping and when they finally did, I made sure that I found that exact bronze suit with the golden buttons, because I only ever wanted to be like him.

I stroked my fingers across every lapel from top to bottom, I rolled my shoulders back and forth in every jacket I tried, I stared in the mirror and attempted the same dashing smile he did whenever he put his suit on because he knew that Mother would beam her beautiful, full smile up at him before planting a kiss on his cheek.

He would feel confident and proud of himself, of her, of me, of his family.

I wanted to be just like him.

“Come on you two, we're going to be running late if we don't leave soon.

I'll go start the car and I want you both out there in five minutes.”

She snaps her purse back together and walks past us both, blowing a kiss to my father and winking at me.

“Son! We cannot anger the lady of the manor, otherwise we'll be thrown in the stables with the horses tonight! Quick, sit yourself down!”

He claps his hands and kneels by my feet as I sit myself back at the dining table. He pulls my foot onto his knee and begins twisting, looping and pulling my laces.

“Your mother really is something special.”

“She is. She looks so pretty today.”

Father’s gaze leaves my shoes and meets my eyes. A smile grows across his face as he pats my shoulder twice. His hand doesn’t leave my shoulder.

“She loves you very much. More and more every day, we love you. We are so proud of how far you've come.”

A tear rolls down his face before he ducks his head into his chest as he pulls at his sleeve to wipe it away.

He continues, “And one day, you will have this. You will have what your mother and I have. You will settle with an amazing, beautiful woman and you two will take over the business when we grow old, and you'll have a family of your own. Huh, here I am rambling on.”

He chuckles to himself as he begins on my second shoe.

“Um? What if there's a chance…”

My voice trails off.

“A chance of what, son?”

“I love what you and Mother have.”

I pause as I feel my mouth begin to dry and my throat tighten, but if anyone would understand me, it would be the man who raised me. “What if, instead of a beautiful woman like her, I wanted a handsome man like you?”

I didn't know what to expect, but I don’t expect what happens next. My parents had never expressed their feelings towards queer people in any way, shape or form. I always believed that they were the perfect pairing, and all they ever wanted for me was to be happy.

As my school years continued, I found something that made me happy. Boys. Not only did I find boys, but boys who can like other boys, boys who can kiss other boys, boys who watch other boys playing sports while reading in the library, and this made my stomach flutter more than the thought of any girl ever did. If they only ever wanted me to be happy, then this should be something that we celebrate together, as a family.

Yet every part of my father detached himself from me in that moment. His face, his body, the air surrounding us, everything went still. I had never felt such a disconnect from my own father in that minute of silence before something moved the stagnant air surrounding us. He rose to his feet, his hands clenching and unclenching, wiping the peppered stubble he had over and over, exhaling with such force through his nose.

His eyes never looked at me as he spoke, “Sawyer, men, real men, don’t like other men, it’s not right.”

His words are pointed, sharp. Each one piercing, ripping through the tapestry of our picturesque family, slowly revealing a reality behind the yarn that would eventually come to light. As my words catch in my throat about how these boys made me happy, he jabs at me one last time.

“We won't talk about this again.”

I had never seen my father’s demeanour vanish in an instant. He turns his back to me, it seems emotionally as well as physically, and with that, he powers his way out of the front door, leaving it swinging with the morning breeze.

I feel numb. I never expected to be shut out just for being who I want to be. I feel cooling rivers cascade down my cheeks as I peer down at my shoes, the one my father had done so beautifully next the one he never finished.

Trying to control my sobbing, my fingers tangle themselves around the laces, I create knots that aren’t meant to be there, I just can't do it like he does. More and more, I see how distant my father and I have been and will always be it seems. I am not the man he wants me to be in this family.

I tuck the laces into my shoes, feeling the ropes under my foot and making it uncomfortable to walk before stumbling out of the front door. My suit sleeve wasn't a very good way of hiding the tears.

I had never stayed up this late before. I wasn’t sure of the exact time, but the black curtain over the sky told me it was the early hours of the morning. Still in my suit, my back pressed to my bedroom door while my knees were hugged tightly to my chest.

Ever since I got in that car, the family had been silent. I don't know what he must have told Mother when he got to the car before me, but he refused to look at me. Mother's ocean eyes had glanced at me only a few times throughout the day, with a half-hearted smile which read “I tried to talk to him, I really did”.

The entire service was filled with love and a community who all cherished each other, except within our family. We were divided because of me. If I had kept quiet, then my father would've tied my laces on both of my shoes, and we would've trotted to the car teasing each other, and we would've walked into the service as we always do, but I couldn't keep my mouth shut. I couldn't keep my damn mouth shut.

My stomach burned since the Sunday dinner was abandoned. I didn't help Mother to fill our table, but instead I hid away and allowed my mother to take the brunt of my actions. For hours, I listened to them argue. They argued over me. Words were spat, hissed and thrown out and around our family home about me and about how I cannot be accepted. I was hearing a side of my father that had never been brought to light, hearing him bellow.

“I will not have a faggot in my house. Sombres and Bosers don't raise gayboys like him.”

Mother tried to protect me, she tried to defend me, she pleaded, “Frankie please, it's probably just a phase, he'll grow—”

He continuously interrupted her. “Tracey! Those goddamn words have left his mouth. It doesn't matter if you want to call it a phase, he has thought it. He has thought those fucking thoughts about men, about boys, and I will never accept him, ever!”

There were periods of silence, which felt even worse than the screaming ringing through these once shining walls. That silence never felt like the end of this night, the night that I caused. We could've been stuffing our faces, laughing, being filled with joy solely from being around each other, but I caused this instead.

“Frankie darling, please. Let's go to bed, it's late. We can come back to this tomorrow with Sawyer, we can talk about this like a family. He is your son, he's my son, he's our son.”

Mother's words rattle as they leave her lips, the words spilling out at a rapid rate until my entire body jolts forward. I had never seen any glimpse of this in my father before, but the sound of his hand striking her ricochets against the walls.

Her begging and pleading turns into sobbing and wailing, but her noise was left to drown out as he spat the words, “That boy is no son of mine. You are no wife of mine. This family is not mine. I cannot be associated with some cock sucking faggot and his mother, who cannot put a firm foot down to this disgusting behaviour. Bosers raise men, not whatever Sawyer says he is.”

“Frank! He is thirteen! Frankie!”

The intrusive volume of mother’s wailing combats the blood rushing through my ears. The wailing grows closer and closer, my eyes begin to sting as I tried to stop the tears from cascading down my cheeks. I hear his suitcase being dragged out from the top of their wardrobe and drawers, doors, cupboards were slammed into their frames.

She begs, I had never heard my mother submit like this before, but he had nothing to say to her anymore. He had shut her off, shut me off, and we were nothing to him anymore. How can someone's entire persona shift solely because of what I have thought about? Why, all because I have thought about a life with another boy, must you change?

This entire night feels like a lifetime, but the front door slamming shut quakes the house. This was the first time my legs move all night, and they couldn't have moved faster. I run, stumbling over the pins and needles spreading through my legs, to my bedroom window when the suitcase wheels rumble against the cobbled path. Father's hand locks around the suitcase handle, and I wonder if anyone would have the sheer strength to rip his grip free.

The car puts a spotlight on the house as the engine purrs. I hope and pray that seeing the house so bright and so clear, that maybe he would regret what he said because he would see what he’s leaving behind.

This was the last time I locked eyes with my father, his entire image blurred as my eyes fill with tears once more. I can't forget his face; I can't forget him. I rip my suit sleeve up to my face to wipe the tears, still not a good way to hide my tears, panic flooding over my body because I won’t accept this being the last time. My vision completely clears, but that one ray of light that was left of my father begins to dim as he leaves us behind.

Once again, my legs process everything going on so much faster than my head or heart as I find myself practically tearing my bedroom door from its hinges and throwing myself down the stairs, kidding myself into thinking that if I chase down the car which is already long gone down the town road, that maybe I can convince my father to stay and that I was only joking.

My identity can forever be a joke within our family if it means I actually have a family. My legs refuse to stop, even when I make it to the front door. Finding myself thrown into the wood panel, I fumble over myself, my hands clamming up and refusing to just grab the silver door handle.

“Sawyer, don't bother.”

A tone I didn't recognise, but I knew full well who it came from, croaks from the living room.

The living room was dark with only the TV glaring throughout, but the sound has been muted. I watch her hand grasping and pushing every button on the side of the TV before it turns off, the room falling into the same darkness which plasters the night sky.

The sound of Mother dragging her feet and stumbling into the door frame echoes across the house. While I can't see her face, which is probably for the best with what I have caused tonight, I just know it would be filled with the tears from Father leaving, regret for never having taken a firm stance with me when growing up, and for allowing me to feel this way.

I could make out her figure as she struggles to pull herself to the front door, locking it after fumbling with the keys the same way she did with the TV. I wonder why she was struggling so much until I heard the clicking and ringing of glass on every wall she passes. Father's whiskey. Something he only treats—treated himself to on special occasions, but this bottle was nearly finished.

“Sawyer.”

Barely being able to make out where her face is, but I could tell by the smell, she slurs, “Why you did what you did, I'll never know, but this will be discussed when I am ready.”

My mouth dries, and my eyes begin to fill again with the salted waters which had been with me all night, but I could not argue. I could not try to explain myself, and only a few words could spill past my lips. “Yes Mother, goodnight.”

I was left on my own for the rest of the night. Mother hesitantly drags her legs up the stairs, each one followed with a hiccup of some form, until their—her bedroom door is shut, and her sobbing fills the house once more. I follow her, dragging myself back to the room which I had confined myself to that whole night, and as soon as my body hits the bed, everything and anything that had happened that night, the emotional weight of everything I had caused, fell on top of me.

As the memory continues to play, the realisation begins to settle in my mind that tomorrow’s shift is going to be a tiring one.