[ SAN DIEGO, CA. SPRING OF 1980. ]

Billy Hargrove hates you. He hates the way you stared at him. He hates the way you gifted him things. He hates the way you were always so close to him. He hates the way you always touched him. He hates the way you always helped him. He hates how you did anything for him. He hates that you’re a boy. He hates how you smell. He hates you. He hates you because he likes all of those things.

And liking those things? Liking you? It was wrong. So wrong. He was a boy, a man. And so were you. You couldn’t like each other. After all, Neil didn’t raise a pussy for a son.

“Why can’t you just leave me the hell alone, huh? Just leave me alone, damnit!” Billy says through gritted teeth as his fist hits you once again, pronouncing his words. His chest heaving as he stands up and away from you, tears welling up in his icy blue eyes. Blood on his knuckles. Blood dripping from both of your nostrils. Your hair disheveled and dirt on your practice baseball jersey.