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“It’s my mum’s name for me if I was ever born a girl. Or if I transitioned, I would assume.”
Something so casually said, a throwaway line. But it’s ever-present in his head, a possibility wriggling in the soil of his mind, turning over the earth, drinking it up, spitting it back out. Unkillable, just shrinkable. Chop it into pieces and it’ll live on, regrowing slowly, painfully, until it needs to be divided once more.
It barely used to make its presence known. For years, all it would be is an occasional day, weekend, where a pit grew in his chest and emptied him out, and the only thing he could do was lay on the floor and stare at the ceiling, wait for the storm to pass, wait for the dirt to turn over again. Wait until that thing was up at the surface so he could cleave it with a spade and leave a dead half to rot.
Then it was an occasional week. Then an occasional month. Then a more-than-occasional month.
He’s long since given up the effort of ignoring it, that thing. He lets it ache now, lets it permeate every cell of his body, every misplaced fat cell, every too-wide bone, every flat plane, every hair follicle, every bit of cartilage. Lets it have its way, confined to his head, confined to his body, no matter how uncomfortable it becomes.
That throwaway line. That was enough. He’d ended stream very quickly after that.
When the camera is off, when it’s just him, he sits back in his office chair and runs his hands down his face. And he groans with it, tired, in a voice that’s far too deep. He's very nearly fucked up, very nearly acknowledged that thing tilling the earth. He doesn’t need anybody to know, doesn’t want anybody to know. It’s only ever meant to be something to keep to himself, his own private burden. Atlas, hoisting the world on his shoulders.
Everyone has their own cross to bear, he heard someone say, once. This is his.
He’s got a suitcase stashed in a closet, one he’s been lugging around since college. It’s full now, but it used to be nearly empty—just a single dress given as a gag gift by a not-so-good friend and a couple little tins of drugstore makeup rattling around in that plastic shell covered in black canvas fabric.
Now, the zipper barely closes. Through Lewes to London to Montpelier to the house he now can call his own, he’s amassed practically a second wardrobe’s worth of clothes. Online orders and trips to charity shops and once, just once, before he was anyone, a frightened trip to an Ulta, where he’d left with an eyeshadow palette and a lingering sense of unease.
(The employee that found him stranded in the blush aisle had guided him to the eyeshadow, waxing poetic the whole way about how wonderful it is that men can wear makeup now, and how lovely it is that she got to meet someone so open-minded. He didn’t have the strength to protest.)
(It’s not like he can go back there now.)
He dreams of the day he can keep his pretty things out—blouses and dresses on hangers, tins of makeup on the bathroom counter, or maybe at a nice vanity table. An ornate one made of dark wood, with a mirror and lights, and a matching stool upholstered with something fancy, something comfortable, but luxurious. Velvet, or maybe chenille.
Instead, he keeps the suitcase in the closet of his bedroom, like he has since he started his collection at seventeen. He’s got no reason to hide it now—he doesn’t have a roommate anymore. He very well could keep it all hung up, keep it out. He very well could buy that vanity. It’s not like he’s hurting for money. It’s not like anyone would see it.
But that would feel too much like a concession, like letting it win. He’s not sure if he’ll ever be ready to face that.
He’s got a fantasy, one that he lets himself indulge in after at least a few drinks, after he lets some of his inhibitions go. A fantasy of a woman, tall, with wavy brown hair tumbling down her back, or tied up in a ponytail, or something pretty with plaits. She’s got his face, just rounded, softened. Brow less pronounced, cheeks a bit fuller. Glowing, happy.
(It’s a face he can almost get his own to look like—if he tilts his head up and smiles with his teeth. It’s an imperfect copy, but it’s close enough.)
She’s always wearing something from that suitcase, a flowy sundress or a floral blouse or one of his own sweaters atop a skirt. It’s always a very faint image; more like a series of concepts making up her form, the idea of softer curves, the impression of light fabric in the breeze.
And every time, he peels himself from wherever he’s sprawled himself and pulls that suitcase from its hiding spot, pulls open the zip with clumsy fingers, finds her outfit, lays it out on his bed.
Tonight, she’s wearing his newest acquisition—an almost-sleeveless blouse in textured olive-green cotton, with a rounded hem and a touch of ruffle at the collar. She’s wearing it half-tucked in a pair of loose-legged trousers, cream-coloured with grey-beige stripes running down the legs. He lays them across his bedsheets, duvet shoved to the side, and smooths each piece flat with shaky hands. He exhales a breath half made of vodka, and looks.
That thing turns the soil in his head, the woman he sees grins softly.
And, very carefully, without looking down, he pulls his shirt over his head, drops it to the floor. Unbuckles his belt, unzips his skinny jeans, peels them from his legs. Tugs off his socks. Leaves himself standing at the foot of his bed, just in his pants.
And then, even more carefully, he slides the cream trousers up, buttons them at his hips. Slips his arms through the blouse, lets it settle on him. Tucks the front into the trousers.
The tin of eyeshadow from Ulta sits atop the jostled piles of folded clothes in the suitcase, and he grabs that too. He’s a bit too drunk to do much more than brush a bit of dark brown across his eyelids and at the outer corner of his eyes, but it does the job. He tucks the brush back in the tin, closes the lid, puts it back in the suitcase.
There’s a full-length mirror in the corner, leant against the wall. It’s meant to be hung up, but he hasn’t had the time yet. He’s not sure if he’d even want to—he keeps it turned around most days anyway. Doesn’t want to accidentally see his own reflection, to see how thin he’s gotten, how wrong he looks.
On nights like this, though, he gently turns that mirror around, leans it against the wall propped on an old shoebox, and steps back until he can see his entire reflection.
He runs hands down his front, smooths the blouse a bit, then tucks his hands in his pockets. He might be able to get away with wearing this one out, he thinks through the fog in his head. It’s definitely feminine, but maybe with a pair of his regular jeans and his Docs, it could be a fun outfit for performing in. Some kind of statement on gender or masculinity or some shit. Plausible deniability.
But he really can’t let himself have this. He doesn’t need it. He’s fine being what the world expects from him. He’s fine just indulging himself tucked away in his room at night, dressed up for nobody but himself.
But in the morning, when he sobers, he builds back up the man he wants the world to see. Shoves that woman back into her suitcase, hidden in the back of his closet.
He’d looked it up, once, years ago. Had read document after document, guide after guide, scoured the NHS website non-stop for hours, until his eyes strained and the battery on his laptop had nearly run out. Every path he’d found led to the same destination: nothing. Fuckall.
That seven-year-long waiting list. It’d kill him, if he gave it the chance.
He’s smoking a cigarette in his back garden, leant against the brick of his house, blowing smoke into the air. The sky is cloudy, the whole world cast in grey.
It burns his lungs a bit, as it tends to. He doesn’t mind, anymore. Prefers it, really. It’s a nice reminder that he’s alive, that he exists. Breathe in fire, exhale smoke.
He knows he should quit. He knows he’s slowly killing himself, knows that he’s staining his fingers and charring his lungs and gradually fucking up his voice. He knows this and every other thing every anti-smoking PSA has been shoving down his throat since he could stare at a television, but he just…doesn’t give a shit. Apathetic. He doesn’t have the energy to care.
He takes another long drag, staring up into the starless light-pollution sky. Just barely is able to make out the lights of a plane flying overhead. There’s hundreds of people up there, he thinks, in that flying metal tube. Hundreds of people with their own full lives, their own struggles, their own strengths, their own crises. Their own crosses to bear.
And his fingers are burning. His hand jerks, burnt down cigarette dropping to the pavers below his feet. He shakes his now slightly charred hand in front of him. Shit. He really hopes that isn’t going to leave a mark.
It’s a bit cold out, a part of him thinks as he stamps out the fallen cigarette butt with his heel. Probably about ten degrees, give or take. He should’ve worn a coat.
But that makes him think of the elegant black knee-length wool coat with the tie closure he’s been considering ordering, and he stamps that out too.
He tries not to care that his beard’s growing in. He really does try. He looks in the mirror and tells himself that this is normal, that men grow beards. That he’s a man and should just get over himself. Let it happen.
He’s always hated shaving. He hates that he has to do it. He hates that when he shaves in the morning, by nightfall he can already see the shadow of stubble darkening the bottom half of his face.
Sometimes it’s too much. Sometimes he can’t even muster up the energy to do it. Sometimes he lets his stubble grow and grow until he looks in the mirror and sees far too much of his father reflected back at him. Those days, it’s like he can’t get his face clean-shaven fast enough.
Today is one of those days. It’s been a week, now. If he reaches up to brush his jaw, he’s not even prickly anymore. Just hairy, coated in coarse half-beard.
Barely wetting the blade, he scrubs it on his face, aggressive, rough, just to get it off off off. He scrubs and scrubs and nicks himself twice in his fervor, but, after a few minutes, he can reach a hand up and feel nothing but smooth skin.
He knows that it’s a temporary fix, that in a few minutes he’ll have razor burn and in a few hours, the hair will be wriggling its way back to the surface. But, for now, he relishes in how light he feels.
(He’s looked into laser hair removal. Then electrolysis. Got to the point of almost booking a consultation, until some part of himself made him close out of the tab on his laptop and shut the whole thing down for good measure.)
When he goes out to practice with his band an hour later, he’s got a bit of concealer patted over the razor burn along his jaw. He loves how giddy something so small makes him. He hates it in equal measure.
He knows this thing isn’t so taboo anymore. He doesn’t necessarily have to keep it so quiet, doesn’t have to confine himself to a suitcase in the closet. Especially not in Brighton, of all places. It’s probably the best place for him to be in the UK.
It’s not like he doesn’t know anyone like him. He has friends. Friends that stared this terrifying thing in the face and won, came out the other side triumphant and so very alive, but they’re not him. They’re stronger than him. They can see the world burning around them and step into the blaze anyway, while he keeps climbing to higher and higher ground, trying to dodge the flames while drenched in kerosene.
He’s sitting on his bed, acoustic guitar resting in his lap. He’s playing around with chords, seeing what sounds nice. He hums along, a ghost of a melody.
Melody is a name he’s always kind of liked. It’s pretty, a name that almost has to be sung, putting a lilt into a voice by virtue of speaking it. Maybe that’s another one for him to consider.
He moves his left hand on the fretboard, a G minor turning into an F, right hand changing strumming pattern to match. He is a folk guitarist, after all.
He never should’ve named that stupid egg Tallulah. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but now it’s like he’s given away a part of himself. He could never use the name for something serious now. It’ll forever be tainted by a pixel character in a Minecraft server.
He’s choosing to ignore the irony in Tallulah literally being an egg.
F into B flat. B flat into D. D back to G minor. Back around and around. He’s playing harder now, guitar almost loud enough to drown out his mind.
Almost, not quite.
Names are strange, conceptually, he thinks. It’s a series of sounds, syllables meant to encapsulate the whole of a person, meant to describe who they are or who they’re meant to be, based on some seemingly arbitrary designation of meaning. It’s another fucking way to be categorized. Twin or fond of horses or leaping water or resolute protector. It’s almost cruel to assign a baby something like this, crueler to expect them to keep it for the rest of their life.
Because what if, one day, it doesn’t fit anymore? What if one day that person wakes up and realises that they never could live up to the fate assigned to them at birth? What if resolute protector isn’t such a resolute protector anymore?
What if he never was to begin with?
G minor. F. B flat. D. D seventh. G minor. Lets his hand rest on the body of the guitar as the last strum rings out.
And he’s not sure how long he’s been playing “Unassimilated Normie.”
He performs with Crywank pretty soon after. Plays his acoustic guitar and shouts lyrics into a microphone and plays some of the songs off his solo album. The crowd loves it, he almost does too.
Afterward, when the rush and nerves that come from performing have worn off, when there’s no more crowd to please or songs to play, when he’s left in the complete silence of the lounge of his house, he lays down on the floor and stares at the ceiling.
For twenty-seven years, he’s survived like this.
For twenty-seven years he’s lived off of what feels like scraps, off stolen moments and rare nights that he barely lets himself remember, living on just enough to keep that thing fed, but not enough to keep it comfortable or happy.
He can’t let it die because it can’t die, and it’ll just swirl and swirl in the dirt in his head until it spills and he ends up crying on the tube because someone called him young man. He can’t let it be happy, because that would be letting it win, and he doesn’t want it to win. Can’t let himself be weak.
He’s clutching a clothes hanger so tight it might break in his fist. It’s laundry day, and he’s trying to be an actual person and put away his clothes before they sit crumpled in a hamper for another two weeks and end up wrinkled to shit. He’s hanging up his darks, although he didn’t put too much time into trying to separate colors. A move that has now throughly bitten him in the ass, because if he had, he would’ve realized earlier that the olive-green blouse had gotten mixed into the many piles of clothes scattered about his bedroom and had been added to his washing.
He holds it up with his other, shaking hand, fabric limp in front of him. Light, yet so, so heavy.
Maybe letting it win isn’t so bad. Maybe he doesn’t have to hold this shit inside his soul for the rest of his life. Because maybe, just maybe, this isn’t about winning or losing. Maybe he’s afraid of himself, of not self-sabotaging his every attempt at happiness.
Because he was happy once, with his girlfriend, the one he wrote songs about. The one he still kind of writes songs about. He thought he could marry her, back then.
The hanger snaps in two.
Maybe it didn’t work because he was trying so hard to be something he never can be, no matter how much he pretended. No matter how much he still pretends. He’s gotten very good at pretending, but he never could master it.
A facsimile of a man, that’s what he is.
And maybe someday, he’ll be brave enough to let that part of himself exist, he’ll be brave enough to face this thing that terrifies him and let it envelop him, let himself be consumed with the dirt and let himself emerge from the other side. Becoming someone new, but still the same.
But, for now, he slides an unbroken clothes hanger into the shoulders of the olive-green blouse and hangs it beside his button downs and sweaters.
Someday.