Elysian Fields (A Kyman Fanfiction)

Chapter 3: The Unraveling

I am still not a sexy girl. Whenever I go on stage, male customers are unhappy to see my lack of tits. Some are intrigued, probably only because there's a large population of men in the closet here. I swear I've seen many of my past teachers and government officials lurking in the back.

I'm still not talking to customers much, and no one has bought a private dance. I'm allowed in my own head, just to zone everything out. It's still an escape for now. Especially when Cartman isn't there, reminding me of my status as the inhouse transvestite.

I catch my reflection in my bedroom mirror. the stark, pale nakedness greets me, with raccoon smudges from makeup after returning to work. My eyes buried in deep dark bags is a reminder that sleep is overrated. There's traces of glitter trapped in my arm hair, the one area I hadn't decided to shave. Too much yet.

My grueling new workouts combined with my teenage hunger strike have left me a fraction of the boy. A human shaped bag of bones, but still too big. My clothes are hanging loose now. Luckily the Colorado mountain winters lasted year round and I could just layer on another shirt. None the wiser. the closer I get to weightlessness is the closer I get to truly flying.

127.8 pounds.

I jump on the slim glass scale for the third time. It creaks an answer of 127.4 pounds. Which is it you stupid piece of shit. Less food equals more money, more money means I'm leaving sooner.

I slide the scale back under my bed, my hand brushing the moss green comforter, and pull open the blinds. The sun had finally broken the horizon line; my family will be up soon.

After a quick shower, I mess up the bed to make it look slept in and hide my black duffle of dance wear, makeup and heels in the bottom of my closet before camouflaging it with other items. I yank down a simple mauve (Porsche had explained new colors to me, that there were in fact varying degrees of brown and purple) long sleeve shirt and pull it on, along with a dark wash of denim. I wear the same pants practically everyday because the others have become noticeably baggy.

I finger comb my wet mess of curls and wonder how much of a disappointment I'd be to Mom if she found out about my counting. Or my job. They'd probably try to have a Lifetime special moment around the dining room table, even inviting Stan. They'd have that talking pillow Mom obtained a few years back from marriage counseling with Dad, and pass it around, tearfully explaining things I already knew. Stan probably wouldn't say anything. Kenny would just laugh that I'm not as goody two shoes as he thought, but they didn't like his lack of showering, and didn't usually invite him over when they had a choice. Would they be that fickle when they thought my life was at stake? Mom cared about everyone else's business in the neighborhood.

Cartman wouldn't be invited. Mom and Dad haven't forgotten the time we went on vacation and he used the front of our house as a drive in movie theater for a week long showing of Passion of the Christ. Kenny told me he charged five bucks a head. We came back to find wheel tracks through our lawn and my room slept in, with a special biography on Hitler wrapped and placed on my pillow.

That stupid ass has made my life hell, everything from small pranks (having a bucket water fall on me when I enter class) to pure evil. he's the reason I have a lock on my bedroom door and window. Barely a day goes by without a threat or insult, my existence has become a daily necessity to torture, like breathing.

It seems once puberty took hold, he found more interest in fucking around with Kenny and drinking while I cared more about my grades. He consistently never did homework and skipped classes, while I used to stay behind at the school library and study, but now that I want money, it all seems less important. He would copy off Kenny, who was copying off me, until I realized Cartman was getting away scot free. That was when I cared too much about everything, it was simpler now.