Life Imitates Art

Part 35 - Try Saying No

She doesn't hang up, even if she has every right to. I rush over to my bed and hide my face under the duvet. Not even the air needs to see the shameful piece of sh*t I've become.

"You know, angels need to be treated better."

Her sass would likely set me off, but her way of delivering the line forces a slight inner smile.

"I know. I'm sorry. As I said...stuff's been happening."

All focus on my own situation disappears when I see the article in my mind's eye again - "Gender-Confused Grafton Girl Almost Killed Over Identity Fallout".

"Yeah. I've been there, for sure. Doesn't make what you did right, but I've been in your shoes. Not literally - you're lucky yours are still a touch smaller!"

"At least you sound better after that incident, eh?"

A longer pause than expected. Whoops.

"Sorry, is it too soon?"

"What? No, no. I just...can't really work out what you mean."

"The thing in the paper, you know? The "Gender-Confused" girl who was almost murdered? Your face was on the front."

"I'm not in any papers or on any news sites. Well, I'm not supposed to be now. Whatever you've read is either old or fake. I've honestly been thriving since I left school behind."

"So you weren't victim to some brutal thing?"

"Not recently, no. Not this calendar year, anyways. I guess November is kind of recent in the grand scheme of things."

"So Mum was lying..."

"What? Max, you aren't making much sense."

"There was an article! Your face is on it! Mum showed it because she's trying to brainwash me back into being a boy!"

"Whoa. Slow down... breathe... are you in a tunnel?"

I "look" around at the darkness shrouding me on all sides.

"Of sorts."

"OK, I won't ask that again. So, your mum is trying to what again? Brainwash?"

"Yes!" I recover some kind of spoken competence. "She's getting me the therapy that undoes it. She thinks it's a curse."

"...and what did you say?"

"I can't say anything. It doesn't matter what I say. I'm a child. I'm a little boy. Mum tells me what to do."

"...have you thought about just saying no? She can't... make you go to the appointment, right? You could just say no. And she can't... stop you wearing girly clothing. And she can't even stop you calling yourself Maxine. All the power she has over you is implied at this point. She's working off history. Try saying no."

"...I can't."

"OK, my family accepted me in the kind of way that is the sad exception in this world. So to be honest, I don't know if you can say no. But try it, please. Try saying no."

Our conversation ends. There's nothing more to say. I'm against a wall. I know that refusal just prolongs the pain.

I take my phone and scroll through the secret folder of photos of all the different outfits and makeup looks Tessa has designed on me over these last few weeks. Some look utterly ridiculous on reflection, but a few do still look cute. And I do look happy. It'll be nice to remember all of this when the girl within me is gone forever.

The lack of locked door means Mum can enter uninvited.

"I told you we have therapy. I wasn't kidding. The meeting is at 5, so stop being lazy and mopey. Get ready like a boy does and meet me in the car. If you are wearing even one girly item, you'll be sorry. I'll be taking your PC from you."

This is why there's no point. She can just take my PC. Without that, I have no drawing access really. I can use paper, but she'd just take my sketchbook as well. She already confiscated that when I showed up to dinner in a skirt a few days ago. She has all the power, despite what Molly or Tess or anyone else says.

I go in the shower like a boy does. I get ready 'like a boy does.' It's just t-shirt, jeans and hoodie 'like boys wear.' No makeup. Mum's son doesn't wear makeup. Flat trainers. A real boy would never have to clarify that his shoes are flat. Heels are for girls. I am not a girl.

I head out to the car and Mum's enraged leering subsides into the smile of a woman I used to admire.

"This is for the best, son. You look really handsome like this. Much better than any of that rubbish Tess has been forcing you into. Isn't this better."

Emotionless. Cold.

"Yes, Mum. It is."

No joy. There's no happiness in these clothes. No joy, no bounce, no flair. Just things to cover a nude body. That's all my clothes have to be. That's a good boy's attitude.

As it is therapy, I expect to reach a doctor's or hospital or clinic. I don't expect us to stop in the drive of a large Edinburgh town house. Three cars are already in the drive, and Mum's makes four with still more than enough room. There is no need for so much space to be taken up by this.

Mum rings the doorbell, clutching my hand tightly.

"Stand up and smile. Be polite. Do not embarrass me."

A woman answers the door in an apron.

"The 5 o'clock, right? Come on in, and let me take your coats. Dr Martin will be down momentarily."

Brown is the only notable colour in this reception/waiting room/vestibule of sorts. The walls are a warmer shade of brown like a chocolate mousse, while the furniture is almost black in contrast. They clearly just went with whatever was trending at the time of building, because this room looks and smells and feels old.

"Max? I will see you and your mother now."