Ethan And Life

Chapter 3

((TW for chapter: fairly graphic self-harm, gender dysphoria, and transphobia))

The next morning, Ethan found out that the whole school now knew that he was trans, because Mason had apparently taken it upon himself to tell everyone he knew about Ethan. And Mason apparently knew a lot of people.

People kept staring at him when he walked past. People would make comments like "That's a girl? That can't be true." Or, "Isn't that supposed to be a boy?"

He was starting to feel the familiar tenseness in his stomach, the familiar urge tugging at his mind. No. No. He was in school. There was no reason for him to panic yet. It doesn't mean anything. Just calm down. Just take it slow. Think about something else. Focus on school work. Ignore them. Ignore the urges. Everything is fine.

But he could not ignore the feeling. It kept nagging at him, pulling at his mind, whispering to him that something was going on, that something was wrong.

But Ethan didn't know what. He couldn't seem to think straight. His head felt fuzzy, like it was filled with cotton candy. He felt hot. His body felt tense and his mind kept wandering off to things he didn't want to think about.

Eventually, the last bell rang indicating dismissal. He collected his things and walked out of the building and headed toward his car. Suddenly, as he passed by some people on his left he felt eyes on him again . His eyes snapped down, desperate to avoid confrontation.

Someone laughed, and he couldn't tell if it was at him or not.

It seemed like it took forever although it only took a minute or so to cross the parking lot, but soon he was finally in his car.

He just sat there for a minute, hyperventilating, gripping the steering wheel. He took a few deep breaths and attempted to relax. Slowly, his breathing began to steady, but the tension wouldn't let up. It persisted throughout the entire drive home.

By the time he reached his house, he felt more than nervous, he felt completely terrified and sick to his stomach. He wanted to scream. But instead he swallowed hard before getting out of his car.

Slowly he made his way to the front door, taking in the familiar sight of his surroundings and slowly opening the door with shaky hands. As quietly as possible, he slipped inside and basically ran to his room, closing the door behind him. Once he did, he leaned against the door as tears welled in his eyes.

His hands trembled as he tried to pull out his phone, but his fingers refused to cooperate.
He slid to the floor and hugged his knees tightly.

He sat like that for a minute, trying to calm himself down. His fingers still itched for a razor blade, for something to take the edge off of his anxiety. But he didn't move because he simply didn't have the strength. He couldn't even find the energy to wipe his tears off of his cheeks with his shaking fingers.

A few minutes passed. Then a lot of minutes. Eventually he started to gain control over himself, enough to be able to get up. He still felt like shit.

He went to his dresser, pulled open the top drawer and rummaged around for the razor blades he kept there.

Then he went to the bathroom, took off his shirt, and stared at himself in the mirror. The sight of his chest made him start crying again, loud choking sobs. He hoped his mom couldn't hear him.

"You're just a delusional girl," he whispered to himself.

He held the razor blade to his arm, and, without thinking, he cut himself. He squeezed his eyes shut as the blood ran down his arm. It stung like hell, but the pain helped to distract him.  Distract him from the overwhelming sensation of dread growing within him, threatening to consume him.  Distracting him from the thoughts in his head.

When he finally stopped, he washed all of his cuts with cold water and put his shirt back on.

He wiped his tears away with the back of his hand then opened the bathroom cabinet underneath the sink. Reaching in, he grabbed some disinfectant and a small tube of antibiotic cream. He cleaned and bandaged his wounds.

Then he went back to his room and curled up on his bed. He was no longer crying. He felt wrung out, numb, like he had no tears left. His arm ached.

He sighed, closed his eyes and drifted off into sleep.