The incident, finally revealed! Thanks for all of your reviews, be sure to check out some of my other stories. I'm still open to requests.

Love you all, sorry it has been a month.

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Alec wakes up to warmth and the steadily beating rhythm of a heart next to his. He sits up, grabbing some clothes from his dresser and stepping into the bathroom, putting them on. Its Sunday... No school. Just thoughts to swirl around in his head all day, vacant... Wonderful. Alec sighs, walking out into the room, whn he realizes he's walking a bit funny.

It doesn't really hurt, besides a little soreness in his backside... How odd. He twists a bit, only to recieve a little jolt of pain from his lower back. He pokes it, only to hiss as it throbs back in response. What the fuck happened?

Alec glances around the room, looking to the bed he just got out of, only for an unexpected image to met his eyes. His roommate, his boyfriend, king of the school, whatever you want to call him, half covered by a pale sheet but seemingly naked otherwise.

His eyes widen. He... He had sex. And he didn't even break properly.

His remaining sanity cracks apart as he finds the object nearest to him and smashes it apart as he throws it at the wall.

Magnus wakes to the crash of somthing breaking, and his eyes snap open to take in the sight of his roommate breaking everything his hands can get, his eyes mad. It's a bad sign, he knows. He grabs the nearest pair of pants he can find, and they're not even his, making a B line for the door, right to campus security.

Expelled. He was going back to the worst Hell of all tomorrow. There were no goodbyes, not to Magnus, or anyone. The school was suing for the damamges. He's scared. Terrified, actually. His anger has faded, replaced by the horror, by bitterness, by hate for himself. He's so fucking useless.

I can remember that day perfectly. I can still see it when I close my eyes, I can still hear the nervousness in my voice, I can still smell the man I had to call father's coffee from across the room. It's my worst memory, and I've never really had anyone to help me forget it. I've never told it to anyone.

But now that I've taken a sort of revenge, and I'm being prosecuted, I suppose it wouldn't hurt to tell you why I'm so twisted now. Why I can't feel sorry about what I've done.

I was so nervous, that day. I'd asked my father, stuttering, if I could talk to him. I was biting at my lip, my eyes not settling down in one place, and my cheeks were flushed with the nerves of it all. My figure was hunched over itself, my palms clammy and my mind was nearly twitching. I knew there would be a bad reaction to what I was going to say. I didn't expect it to go beyond the usual, though.

"Stuttering is unattractive and useless. Stop doing it, and that ridiculous blush is insulting to your family name," my father said, gazing over his newspaper at me for a moment. His eyes were cold, empty and riddled with hidden anger, often repressed hate and aggression that was often funneled off onto me.

"I-I'm sorry…" I stuttered, mentally cursing myself for making the same mistake twice in succession. But I just couldn't help but stutter when I looked at my father, as I prepared for the torture I'd be up against in the hours that would follow my words. I was always on edge when I talked to my father. He was a horrible man, prejudiced, stuck in ways that should have changed years ago.

I should have known better, I really should have. I had a stupid little hope that my father would, for once, understand. I knew better, but maybe I just wanted to flare out in the rebellion that had made me friends. Honest rebellion, this admittance would be, because I was being rebellious on accident, but telling him on purpose. I was being stupid. I was playing with fire, and I got a hell of a burn.

The head of my family looked at me like I was crippled by an overwhelming stupidity. "Don't apologize. Fix it."

"Yes, father," I'd complied, nodding quickly, somehow hoping that would erase my previous blunders. I was being silly, but I still did it.

My father's eyes were cold when he told me to stop wasting his time and say my intended speech, same as always. I was so nervous.

I stuttered when I said it. I'm actually surprised I managed to get the entire sentence out. That I actually managed to force the words through my lips. That I actually, somehow, managed to tell my father that I'm gay.

I can remember the silence that followed like a ghost would remember its eulogy.

Then, my father uttered the words that I was afraid of.

"Basement," He said a lie of calmness washing over him as he grit his teeth together.

"Father, please don't, I'm so-"

I began to beg, but he cut me off, and screamed at me, my heart being shot up by the bullets of hope I'd allowed myself to create. I was so stupid.

"BASEMENT!" My father roared, and he knocked his chair back as he rushed to stand, walking over to me with heavy footfalls.

I took a step backwards, away from the monster, but of course he caught up with my stupid self. He grabbed me by the hair, forcefully shoving my terrified body to the basement, a hidden part of our house that was never spoken of.

Only the two so greatly involved, my father and I, would know, could be afforded to know. It was a secret place for a secret purpose, for punishment and undeserved beatings. For rage and hate to all be let free on an undeserving child. It wasn't my fault something happened to my father to make him so incredibly twisted, and I don't know what it was but it must have been awful.

It was what it was, and I knew better than to protest being dragged into Hell. If I'd known then what I know now, I would have struggled. I would have screamed for help, I would have cried for Aline or Jace, I would have searched for someone to save me.

I apologized as he pulled me down with him, and as my hair slid a bit from his grip he let go and smacked across my face, leaving what I didn't doubt was a blushing red mark as blood flowed to the tender skin of my cheeks, not the only part of me that would probably be in need of ending by the end of the night.

I was surprised, though. i can remember that very well. It was such a… visible place for him to hit me. He never did that. But paranoia didn't sprout like it should have, not to the extent that it now lives inside me.

"I'm sorry," I know I whispered. It wasn't even my fault.

My father scoffed, dismissing me as an idiot. "I don't care if you're sorry or not."

And I knew then, as well as I know it now, that he meant it.

The way I don't care about what you think about me for killing this monster.

My father pulled me back a bit, then threw me forward, forcing me to topple rather uncomfortably down the flight of cement stairs. I heard the click of the deadbolt over my own pain and I knew to be afraid as my father took his time to smell the metaphorical roses as he descended the stairs.

I realized, with a scared shock, that I had been stupid enough to release the worst of punishments upon myself. This was much worse than when I'd gotten my lip pierced (in the girl's bathroom, no less), or when I'd quit all of the sports that made him hate me just that much less. That made me normal enough. That kept us a family of gods.

No, I was sure this had taken the cake. And there would be no sweets testing.

My father sneered at me when he saw my pathetically sprawled body on the cold floor, gasping for the breath the tumble had forced out of his bruise-sporting chest. I had just begun to think that maybe my wounds were going away, too.

It wasn't going to be a good night, I knew that much. I just didn't expect the extent of it, I can tell you that.

My father was doing this to me. The man who kept the roof over my head. My father, who'd had a tint of pride when I was helped our team win the football game. My father, who I'd become used to being used as a personal punching bag for over the years. This was my father, who wanted me to be the golden boy that I would never be.

I was terrified. I coughed, I think, and my efforts were rewarded with a particularly painful kick. I yelped, and got another kick. I stuttered out yet another meaningless apology, and a foot to my ribs was the consequence. When I learned the game, remained noiseless, the abuse became less and less. But the pain was a reminder, I knew, that I could never walk in the sun the way my father wanted me to. That I'd never be like my brother and best friend, the one who was perfect without any effort. Perhaps that made him less perfect, not having to try.

"You're gay, son. Get used to it." My father scolded at my hurt reactions to being kicked repeatedly. My vision had begun to blur, and there was a slight buzzing in my ears but I could detect all the hate being pumped my way. The very intensity made me whimper, and I was hit with a shoe again. Then he gave me a moment to breathe as he crouched in front of me, a burning look of disgust digging their impressions into my weak conscious.

He spat on me.

"I knew it, you know. I always knew you were a fag, ever since you started to be…"

"Myself?" I hissed around the copper taste in my mouth, pulling up any last hints of rejection to him. Maybe if I hadn't said that, things wouldn't have gone the way that they did.

"Uncooperative with the way things work around here." My father scowled, then so gracefully threw me across the cement floor, my freshly bruised bosy rolling unpleasantly with a muffled smacking sound. I got another glob of spit my way.

"I'm going to teach you not to interrupt. I'm going to teach you not to be a homosexual and I'm going to teach you how to be a carbon copy of everyone else."

I groaned, my attempt at a response, but my body was aching. I'd been shoved against a wall when my father threw me, and I knew there was no escaping. No one ever came to the secluded basement, and no one would see the blood-stains that blended in.

I didn't think that anyone would ever find my spilt blood, and of course no one could hear the screams that were trapped in this Hell of mine. My screams just echoed through my father's empty heart, and this forever-empty house.

My father needed to take his anger out on someone, make it a tradition for when rage runs free, a punishment when a glass breaks.

I was punched and kicked into the wall, my insides being crushed and I knew my father well enough to cease commentary. He kept telling me how pathetic I was, how stupid and useless. I was a waste of space. I wasn't worth the love my family gave me. I had to wonder if my father considered this violence love, because if so it was all I got as of late. My inner wonderings weren't answered, of course, as my father's insults carried on without a hitch.

"I'm going to teach you what it means to be homosexual."

I'll never forget those words, because they mark when the real nightmare began. They are the reminder that love isn't possible for me anymore.

We both lacked a bit of air in our lungs as the next, and final, act began, and I had no idea as to what was happening. I had no clue.

I didn't get a chance to ask, though, as I was pulled up and thrown onto my back, completely winded. My sight was torn from me for a minute, and my father was on top of me when I could see again. I watched, not at all comprehensive, as my father's garments were all removed. His dick wasn't fully hard, but as I saw it I realized it was dangerous enough. I knew what was going to be happening.

But I naively thought that I might be wrong. My father would never do something like this. He wouldn't. He couldn't. Could he?

I'd always known my father was awful, evil, vile… but this? He'd never considered it a possibility.

I screamed in an intense pain as my body threatened to tear apart as my father pushed all the way into me, and I knew that I'd take a hundred hits and kicks to this.

My mind sort of went blank as I screamed for mercy, as my heartbeat roared so hard inside my chest I thought it might break free and start its own rampage. It let up, then, for a second, but then the hurt came back with twice the intensity, pressing into the wounds made the first time, ripping them further and creating new tears.

I screamed and I screamed, desperate for clemency, and could hear my father talking as a particularly harsh thrust shut off my screams and broke my will to resist.

Through his moans my father was talking, though his face was somewhat scrunched in the pleasure his blood-stained penis was being stimulated with.

"Think about this anytime one of your little boyfriends wants to get close, think about this pain and think about how much it hurt to lose your virginity. Think about another man doing this to you, pounding deep into you, and then think about the first person ever to have done it, think about that this is what it means to be a sinner and that you will repent as such. Think about how this feels, think about how much you never want another man to touch you because you're filthy, drowning in your own stink and pain. Every time, come back to this and know you can never love anyone because you've ruined yourself. You're useless, stupid and can't even pretend to be normal. You're an abomination, you're what everyone hates and no one's love for you will ever go deeper than what I'm pushing into you."

I don't think I'll ever be able to forget that short monologue directed at me, and me alone. I adopted silence towards my father after that. Any thoughts would remain my own. I wasn't being raped any more, I was watching it happen as though I was disconnected, which I was. I was like a bystander, and I could see every thing, al the dirt and disgust.

The man doing this horrible thing to this boy wasn't worth living, he was a terrible person.

I watched as a single tear fell from the empty body, and his eyes died even more as his father finally came inside of him, the cum seeping into his wounds and stinging at wounds the son didn't feel anymore. The father clothed himself and left, saying simply that the mother would bring food and a change of clothes after dinner, and that in a week's time the son would be going to a school across the country.

I wasn't, apparently, worthy of being my father's son any longer.

When my mother came down what seemed like hours later, she didn't even have the decency to look like she cared. Hatred started brewing in me, a need for love and a simultaneous hate for it.

They gave me a reason to burn the sun. But what sun, exactly, did I have left?

I suppose that explains exactly why my mind became as twisted as it did. It doesn't, however, explain exactly why I killed my father.

I got expelled from the school he sent to me. I freaked out after having sex with my roommate, and broke one too many things. I was sent back home, and I was determined to keep up my silence with the people who'd raised me.

I think it only took three days for me to snap. It would have been longer, but he said something that shortened the time of his life considerably.

"How's your brother? I hope he's not turning out like you, or I'll have to treat him as such."

He was dead ten minutes later, and I was waiting for the arrest when the police finally got to our house, my mother having lost her wits and screaming about on the floor like a lunatic. She was absolutely hysterical.

I love my little brother, I do. He grounded me, or put me as close to the earth as I could get. That's why I had to kill my father.

A life for a life, and I wasn't going to be selfish and let him be the one who lost. I lost my life to my father, and I couldnt let him tip the scales even further. It's strange, though, how I'm still not sure.

Am I a killer, or am I just insane?

Fin.