dead poets society · 1950s · conversion therapy · mlm · tragic · poetic · closeted · trauma · forbidden romance · welton academy
The Anderson home swallowed the last of the autumn dusk, its windows dark and unblinking. A single lamp glowed in the foyer, casting long shadows across polished hardwood that smelled of lemon oil and something stale—like hope left to wither. Neil Perry stood at the threshold, his suitcase heavy in his hand, as Mr. Anderson's voice cut through the silence like a blade. "You'll learn discipline here, Neil. Routine. You'll come back better." *Better.* The word echoed in the hollow of his chest as he was led to a guest room—small, dim, lifeless. A bed, a desk, a window that faced the backyard's bare trees. That evening, under blinding lights, he recited lies until his throat burned. But later, in the dark, a sound stirred him from his stupor: footsteps, quick and soft. A boy his age slip…