Men are the societal default

Because men came first, because

Eve came from Adam’s rib, because

Adam came first.

And so men must come first, because

Flat-chest short-hair

Is androgynous, because

“Tomboys” are praised for not being like other girls because

“Other girls” are shallow and we must

Never be like those girls because

Masculine is always better and

When even females aren’t allowed to be feminine,

What is feminine?

Tomboys are praised for being “unique” while the

Lucygirls of the world

The little boys in dresses

The men in makeup

The queens, out for the night at a bar, never made it home

They are beaten down

Beaten up

Told “you’re not enough,” told

“You’re too much”

Too much for this world to handle, this

Narrow-minded world that

We will never admit is

Narrow-minded.

And so the

Shallow girls look in the mirror and

Put on their lipstick and

Brave the world in their armor.

Put on blush like a sword put on

Eyeliner like a shield and

Protect yourself from ugliness don’t be

Not enough,

While the unique girls insist

“We are not like them” and

Put on their jeans.

Put on shirts-long-enough-to-cover-your-stomach like

A different kind of armor and

Protect yourself from being seen.

Don’t be too open don’t be

Too feminine don’t be

The horror story meant to teach don’t be

The example in the article titled What to Do to Avoid Rape don’t be

Too much.

Meanwhile the queens put on their makeup

Put on their clinking jewelry,

Their armor catches the enemy off-guard long enough to

Maybe-escape because

They weren’t expecting this.

Put on your dress like

Fight back stand out rebel by succeeding and

Don your wig like

You never saw this coming.

But

There is no armor that’s safe there is no

Shield that guards no

Sword that protects.

The only armor here is

Cis men in t-shirts and pants, they don’t need any

Armor.

You don’t need any armor.

There is an art to kissing people with glasses.

It requires practice - particularly if both parties wear glasses - and as such the first time I kiss someone I typically take my glasses off to make it easier. Even if there's no harm in bumping lenses there's still fog, awkward clicking, or the messy skewing of spectacles afterwards.

Since I always seem to initiate first kisses this subtle signal is also an easy way to gauge whether or not my partner is alright with me proceeding aside from straight up asking (have done that also / been asked also). I always wear my glasses, whether reading or otherwise, as I can't handle contact lenses. The only other times they come off is when I'm otherwise undressed anyway, so a kiss before that level of intimacy feels legit.

I've tried a few "blind" dates before where I skipped wearing my glasses in an attempt to come off less "geeky", but it became quickly apparent this tactic failed everytime. I'm geeky with or without the specs; and without the safety blanket of my Clark Kent disguise it's hard to gauge whether I feel fully committed or not. Will you like me when I'm a mild manner reporter, or only if I'm a superhero?

So while the first kiss may be sans specs the rest will require quickly learning how to navigate kissing someone with glasses. Because even if you're the only one who ever gazes into my unframed soul, you're not going to last if you can't figure out how to head tilt at just the right angle to insert yourself into my geekiness.

You hold your brother’s little hand

Don’t let go

He’s humming the song he knows drives you crazy and you tell him to stop

He slips his hand out, smiling

Calls your name as he runs away

Why aren’t you watching him?

One moment, his laughter

And the next

Silence

Do I wish I had a different face? Well, to be honest, I like my face as it is. It might be interesting to have a scar like the heroes and heroines often do in books and popular films, or green eyes as do plenty of characters in Clive Cussler's adventure stories. But it's alright; at the end of the day I appreciate my common, no nonsense brown eyes and cheeks bereft of mysterious knife marks.

My somewhat plain, straight nose has been a subject of teasing from my siblings, who declare that it's "Roman" when in fact they don't know what a Roman nose is. Though I have been told I look Italian, and that pleases me. My real name, which, sadly, I prefer not to reveal, is also Italian, and that pleases me even further. I also know the secret to Italian meatballs, and that pleases my palate. So I might very well pass as an Italian if I only knew the language.

Anyhow, my face is ordinary, neither very beautiful nor very ugly (at least, that's my opinion. It's quite possible the awful truth has been hidden from me and I'm the only one who believes this). It's familiar, which is good. I'm never very happy with the photos of myself, but none of us are, are we? Despite my plain features I have a smile, and smiles are sometimes our greatest weapons because they can do wonders for ourselves and those around us. So perhaps if you met me, you might like me. Perhaps. Then again, you may be drawn in by my pleasant smile and turned away when I either:

1. Cannot think of anything to say and am rendered speechless in your presence, as tends to happen when I'm in the company of people I like very much,

Or

2. Speak incessantly about everything I love and bore you to tears with facts about random unneccesary things such as the secret to Italian meatballs (but then it wouldn't be a secret anymore, would it?)

Or

3. Try with subtle messages to make you leave because I can't stand you and am not very keen on telling you that to your face.

The third, fortunately, is least likely. But the first is highly probable.

Original (16 words):

The therapist told me to talk about my feelings.

So I told her.

Now she quit.

100 or less (98 words):

She greeted me the same way everyone does. A nice smile. Eyes full of assumptions. She assumes that I, Indigo Waters, am just another troubled teen. Depression, maybe. Suicidal thoughts? Drugs, maybe? Whatever. It doesn't matter what she says. It won't be accurate. Nothing on earth can describe what I have

She asks how I'm doing, I tell her I'm not.

Pain, fear, remorse, happiness, all of it is out of reach.

It's not something that can be fixed with pills or hugs.

She doesn't know how to handle it. And so, like everyone else, she is gone.

200-600 (263 words):

I inspect my purple nails and refuse to meet her eyes. There is no reason for me to be here. Ms. Karper can't help me. It doesn't matter if she has a nice smile, or eighty fancy degrees lined up on a wall, or Disney posters with empowering messages. My problem isn't emotional. It can't be solved with meds.

"Hi Indigo. Welcome."

"Hi."

"So... what seems to be going on?"

"You can't help me."

"Lots of people say that. I'm sure it'll be okay. Let's start simple: how are you feeling?"

"I'm not."

"Not what?"

"Not feeling. Anything. At all. Not physically, or emotionally. I feel no pain. No happiness. Nothing."

"That can't be right."

"Oh come on. I've tried all the quickies. Nothing works. I don't feel anything. Ever. I don't sleep, but I'm never tired. I eat every once and a while, but I don't taste it. I don't get hungry. I don't feel anything. Period."

"When you say you've tried..."

"Do I need to spell it out? You've seen my record. I've been hospitalized six times, three of them for school fights, once for a suicide attempt, and twice for self-harm. All those times, I didn't feel anything. No pain. No fear. No relief. No nothing. Do you get it yet?"

"I..."

"What're you going to do? Drug me up? Diagnose me with some obscure illness? Try it. It doesn't matter."

And in response, Ms. Karper took her degrees, took her encouraging Disney posters, took her kind smile, and walked out the door.

And I still don't feel a thing.

800-1500 words (1442 words):

I didn't cry.

When I was born, I didn't cry. Amidst the chaos, the blood, the light, and the screams of my mother, I did not cry.

They used to brag about it. "My baby girl was so nice and quiet when she was born."

That was before they knew why.

In third grade, I got in a fight with a fifth grader. He nearly tore my ear off.

He got expelled. As for me, I didn't cry. In fact, I barely even noticed. I was suspended for a week. I guess they were so concerned about punishment and so confused by my apathy that they didn't notice my ear, either.

But when I got home, my parents flipped.

I didn't notice. I didn't regret beating up that kid. He was a jerk.

After that, they stopped bragging about how quiet I was.

My dad experimented. If I didn't feel my ear, what else couldn't I feel?

So he beat me. He cut me. He insulted me. And all of it was like floating in air. I couldn't feel any of it. I was just in the middle of my self-induced sensory deprivation tank.

I heal fast, too. It's as if, without pain, you can move on faster. Bruises healed. Cuts scabbed over and vanished. Insults just rolled off. The ear that almost got ripped off healed, with a few stitches, and in a few months, I could go back to hearing normally.

Eventually Dad gave up. He couldn't make me feel. He wanted a normal girl, he didn't get one.

So, he went to the store to buy milk.

Or something like that.

Mom tolerated it with silence. She was always silent. Sometimes I wondered if she was like me. Unable to feel. But of course, that's stupid. There's no one else like me. But even she had her doubts sometimes. Her fears. Her worries. Moms are like that, you know.

That's how I ended up in Ms. Karper's office.

With a name like "Karper," it's no wonder she ended up in therapy. When some whiny brat is complaining about how their dad won't get them the newest iPhone, she can just say "At least you don't have my last name."

I inspect my purple nails and refuse to meet her eyes. There is no reason for me to be here. Ms. Karper can't help me. It doesn't matter if she has a nice smile, or eighty fancy degrees lined up on a wall, or Disney posters with empowering messages. My problem isn't emotional. It can't be solved with meds.

"Hi Indigo. Welcome."

"Hi."

"So... what seems to be going on?"

"You can't help me."

"Lots of people say that. I'm sure it'll be okay. Let's start simple: how are you feeling?"

"I'm not."

"Not what?"

"Not feeling. Anything. At all. Not physically, or emotionally. I feel no pain. No happiness. Nothing."

"That can't be right."

"Oh come on. I've tried all the quickies. Nothing works. I don't feel anything. Ever. I don't sleep, but I'm never tired. I eat every once and a while, but I don't taste it. I don't get hungry. I don't feel anything. Period."

"When you say you've tried..."

"Do I need to spell it out? You've seen my record. I've been hospitalized six times, three of them for school fights, once for a suicide attempt, and twice for self-harm. All those times, I didn't feel anything. No pain. No fear. No relief. No nothing. Do you get it yet?"

"I..."

"What're you going to do? Drug me up? Diagnose me with some obscure illness? Try it. It doesn't matter."

And in response, Ms. Karper took her degrees, took her encouraging Disney posters, took her kind smile, and walked out the door.

And I still don't feel a thing.

Now, Mom's really lost her head. After therapy nosedived, she took me to this place. Some stage musician called "Leah Heart, Empath."

I don't care. Magic can't help me. Science can't help me. Touchy-feely crap can't help me, either.

I'm unfixable. And quite honestly, I don't care. Better to feel nothing than to feel all the pain. When I look back on it, my life is pretty bad. Any normal person would collapse. Child abuse, bullying, neglect. I'm like the poster child for messed up stuff. But it doesn't make any difference to me. I could be living in California in a million dollar mansion with two loving parents and blonde hair and trendy clothes and all the friends in the world, and it wouldn't change a thing.

I'm not broken, because that would imply I was once whole. I'm just defective.

To my surprise, Leah Heart isn't some old woman wearing bead jewelry and thready head scarves. It's a kid my age, a girl. She's wearing a Coldplay sweatshirt and short shorts. The only thing weird about her is that she's not wearing any shoes. Or socks. She's walking around barefoot.

She looks at me and sobs.

I look at my mom, and she nudges me, her message clear: don't be rude.

"Hi, Ms. Heart," Mom says, her voice tight. "We came to see if you can help my daughter."

Suddenly, Leah stands bolt upright and laughs.

Despite myself, I take a step back. One thing I've learned: whether you can feel pain or not, never get in the way of a nutcase.

But she stares at me, her wide blue eyes swimming with emotion.

"You don't feel anything," she says, clasping a dark hand around my wrist. "And I feel everything."

"Uh.. okay," I say, not sure what else to say. "Yeah."

"I think we can help each other," says Leah, straightening and looking at my mom. "But you must leave."

Now it's Mom's turn to look at me. I shrug. She wasn't there for most of my life, too wrapped up in her own shit to care about little old me. No reason for her to be here now. Just because you suddenly start caring doesn't mean you can make up for ignorance.

When she's gone, Leah looks at me and laughs.

I stare at her, and she stops.

"Sorry," she says. "I told you: I feel everything. And apparently a little girl down the street just watched a really funny clip of Mickey Mouse. But... all things aside... I think you can help me."

"How? Aren't you supposed to be helping me?"

"Well... let's say the helping will go both ways. Are you allergic to scented candles?"

"Uh... no?"

"Great. Then follow me."

I follow her into a room that seems much more "mystic" than she is. It's full of candles and runes and one of those bead curtains over the doorway.

In her sweatshirt and shorts, she looks so out of place.

She looks around the room and snorts.

"This is my mom's gig. She makes the place look wacky as heck. No magic in my curse. It just is."

Looking at her, I feel something. In the back of my mind, not quite there, but struggling to be realized.

She, like me, has a curse. Our curses are different. Opposites. But we have something in common, for sure.

And so, for the first time, I feel something resembling understanding.

She looks at me, her misty blue eyes meeting my hazel ones, and I get the feeling she understands me, too.

"Anyway, sit down." I sit down in the only place available— the floor, and she sits across from me.

"Grab my hands," she says. I do. I don't feel fear, or nervousness, or apprehension, so I just do it.

Her hands are cold and sweaty, and ever so often, they twitch. Ever so subtly.

And then, I black out.

We both do.

I don't remember what happened while I was blacked out. It wasn't like fainting, or passing out, it's more like... a gap in my memory. But when the blackout was over, I smiled.

Because I was feeling. Everything. Good and bad. Everything I had missed out on my entire life flooded into my head in one great wave.

And, I guess, all the extra stuff Leah was feeling was gone from her. Both of us were back to the way we were supposed to be.

As I smiled, tears leaked from my eyes, spilling onto the shag carpet below us. Leah was crying too, but it wasn't her hysterical sobbing.

We were both crying real tears. Because we are normal now.

I felt, and she felt, and neither of us said a word, because the silence of normalcy was beautiful. Even my bad feelings.

All of it was beautiful.

You drive the bus out of the depot and arrive at the first stop. 11 people get on.

At the next stop, four people get on.

Stop three: two people get off and 3 get on.

Next stop, two people get on and 2 get off.

At the sixth stop, nobody gets on.

What colour are the bus driver's eyes?

whisper touches on your skin,

slowly,

your becoming

into a breathtaking

brilliance

unfold,

uncurl

s p r e a d

those wings

and show

the whole world

a revolution

When I nodded off, pillows at my back, laptop propped on my knees and browsing BNHA fanart, the last thing I expected was to wake up with a stranger sitting at the foot of my bed. Dad worked nights, and the shape was much too masculine to be my mother or sister. At 12:34 AM there weren’t many possibilities that didn’t involve me being robbed, hurt, murdered or all of the above. The man was shrouded in darkness as he turned his head to look at me. I dared not scream. What if my mom or sister came running in and he hurt them too? No. This man I’d have to face alone.

Reluctantly, I reached over to my nightstand and clicked on a lamp. The cast caught the man’s features just right for me to see. I let a sigh of relief. It was only Hitler. I must’ve been dreaming.

Lucid dreams don’t typically run in my family, least of all with me. I’m usually a slave to the midnight machinations of my mind. So this was...definitely new.

“Hayyy,” I mumbled awkwardly. “Wattup, dawg?”

“How dare you call me a dog!” he barked, his accent heavy. “Is that how you address your Fuhrer?”

“Relax, dude. It’s just an expression. What, uh...what are you doing here? You realize you’re in the bedroom of a fifteen-year-old girl at midnight. It’s kinda’ weird. I’d kinda’ like an explanation for that, if it’s not too much trouble.”

“I’m as confused as you are. I’ve heard our dimension occasionally collides with yours, leaving us partially perceivable to the living. But it’s never happened to me before. This is amazing! I have finally found a means to communicate with your kind. The intersections are said to commonly last five, ten minutes. I...I have so many questions. I can’t waste time with this—young as you are, you’ll have to do!”

“This is a weird dream,” I mumbled. “Okay, Hannah, you can wake up any time now.”

“What is my legacy?” he asked, a nervousness in his eyes. “It almost pains me to know. History is never kind to those who lose. But I suppose ignorance would be twice the torture. I’ve marinaded in it for years.”

“Well. They made a few movies about you. Like, films, picture shows.”

“Dare I ask?”

“I didn’t watch it, but there’s this one American film from the ’40s, The Devil With Hitler. Cinema Snob reviewed it, pretty much play-by-play. They took a few creative liberties.”

“How creative?”

“You got shot in the butt with a missile and died.”

“Well, I’m glad they kept it dignified.”

“Pretty sure this was before your actual...yanno’. So maybe they were just hoping,” I shrugged. “Another one was called They Saved Hitler’s Brain. Didn’t watch it. Watched the Snob review. It looked...fairly terrible.”

“Did I get any good films?”

“Well, Tarantino made a good one in that it’s well made. But it still hates your guts.”

“Let me guess. Another missile?”

“Nah. You’re just machine-gunned to pulp and your bullet-ridden corpse gets blown up afterward.”

“Glad he had mercy.”

“But a lot of people die in that movie. It’s not just exclusive to you. Mercy in a Tarantino movie is like a needle in a haystack.”

“I see,” he glanced around at the sketches hung on my wall. “You are an artist?”

“Unofficially. I’m terrified to commit. Those art snobs can be vicious.”

“They know nothing!” he exploded (metaphorically, unlike in the Tarantino movie). “You could vomit on a canvas and they’d call it fine art. I applied for the Academy of Fine Arts in Vienna twice and they rejected me on both counts. My art had promise. Even as a foolish child I knew that. But they...they couldn’t see. I needed a hand up, and they smacked mine away.”

“Things would’ve been a lot better if you became an artist. That’s for sure.”

“Is that what passes for art nowadays?” he looked at the laptop screen, where I was now scrolling through images for kawaii.

“Pretty much. It ain’t bad.”

“Ain’t bad? These supposed people don’t even look like people. The proportion is all off. The eyes take up half the head. Like a terrifying beast pulled from the depths of a nightmare.”

“Oh, that’s just anime. They’re not meant to look realistic. That’s the design.”

“The beast, it stares into my soul...” he shuddered.

“Huh. Maybe I’m just desensitized.”

“What are you eating with?” his eyes found the salad on my nightstand, and the curious utensil resting up top.

“Oh, this? It’s only the greatest invention ever conceived by man. It’s called a spork.” I grabbed it and brandished it enthusiastically.

“Someone combined...a spoon and a fork? Do you Americans not consider this an abomination? You’re crossbreeding utensils!”

“Nah. We think it’s cool. Some think it’s pretty useless; but you have naysayers with everything.”

“Get it out of my sight,” he growled, receding into the corner with a strange hiss.

I pulled the nightstand drawer open, paused for dramatic effect, and dropped it in.

“The spork was invented by Germany,” I muttered under my breath.

“WHAT?!”

“Just kidding.”

“What is that!”

“Oh, sorry. Clicked the wrong link. We didn’t need to see that. DeviantArt has a lot of...deviancy.”

“Degenerate swine.” He pressed further into the corner. More strange hissing.

“I wouldn’t take it that far. Though that was pretty gross. Gotta’ be careful when browsing the interwebs.” I paused to think. “Hey I got a paper coming up. You think you could help me out? Though, I suppose it would be in poor taste to cheat like that...so...nevermind.”

“Indeed. If you rely on being given the answers to everything you become soft in the mind, and turn into a malleable imbecile.” He hesitated. “But...we’re losing focus. What became of Germany?”

“Well, they lost, as you probably figured. They’re still around though. It’s no horrible dystopia over there, to my knowledge.”

“But Germany...doesn’t rule the world?”

“No.”

“Not even Europe?”

“Nope.”

“And my birthday isn’t celebrated as an international holiday?”

“It’s 4-20, right?”

“Yes.”

“Then yesss. But don’t ask what for. It ain’t you.”

“Hannah, is everything alright in there?” I heard a voice outside my door.

“Yeah, it’s all good,” I called back. The footsteps slowly disappeared.

“Is that your mother?”

“Yeah,” I nodded. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. The voice was just familiar. For a moment it almost reminded me of my own mother. She died when I was just a few years older than you. Never was my sadness more unbearable than the day of her passing.”

“I’m sorry. I guess that was part of the reason you banked so much on art school. My mom and I are really close. I can’t imagine missing that acceptance in my life, looking for it somewhere else just to get shot down at every corner. I wish someone had been a little nicer to you back then. Maybe then you wouldn’t have had to try so hard.”

He slouched in defeat. “You are wise for someone of your age. Were you alive in my time, you would’ve set a good precedent to follow. A balance of knowledge and emotional maturity. It’s admirable—” A current of static rippled over him, and his already-transparent body began to fade. “The dimensions are starting to diverge again. I won’t be able to stay here much longer. I may have another minute at most...”

“Okay,” I said. “But there’s one thing you should probably know before you leave. Two things, really.”

“What?”

I shut my laptop, and gently planted a finger above my name, first and last. My parents had gotten it personalized for me for my birthday.

His expression changed a bit when he read it.

“That’s you?”

I nodded.

“You’re...you have to be joking.”

“And I’m autistic. Aspergers. So in your book I’d be owe for two.”

For a long time, it appeared he’d lost the ability to speak. I didn’t intend it as revenge; rather to show him the people he so vehemently hated were still just that. People.

He vanished before he could get any sound out, but his expression was quite memorable.

Nothing more to do, I reached over to my nightstand, got my salad, and continued eating with my spork.

*****

And just like that, I woke up. Totally called that one. I’m sure my therapist will love when I tell her Hitler made a cameo in my latest dream. First Epstein and now this.

#fiction, #strictlyfiction, #donttrythisathome