Chapter Text
"You shall eat the flesh of your sons, and you shall eat the flesh of your daughters."
Leviticus 26:29
The soft light of the early morning crept through the cracks in the blinds. Birds were singing their tunes some distance from his house. His alarm clock next to him didn’t go off this morning, instead it sat there in silence. Nigel’s eyes began to flutter open as the light reached his eyes. He picked his head up and his chest followed it. The sheets that hugged around his waist slowly fell. He immediately slumped his back, feeling the air blow on his bare neck. This feeling was foreign to him. Nigel spun his head until his gaze locked on his alarm clock. The alarm clock had been set for 6:55 am every morning for as long as he could remember. For years, he had a set routine every morning. Yet, he had only recently turned it off. The only part of his mind which hadn’t been clouded by animosity, had somehow memorized a sleep schedule.
Once waves of discomfort started to run through his neck, he corrected his posture. Nigel tore the covers off him and slung both of his legs over the side of the bed. His hands stayed by his side until he was ready to get up. The bed creaked as he pushed his hands into it as support to get up. His ears began to ring, while his vision left. For a moment, Nigel saw total darkness—for he must’ve gotten up too fast. After the moment had stopped, the sunlight overpowered the darkness. Suddenly, he could see and hear perfectly normal again. He looked back at the clock on his bedside table: 6:58 am. It was strange. The act of sitting up on the bed to standing up felt like a mere millisecond. He guessed that his parents weren’t up yet by the silence that awaited outside his bedroom for him. His father would normally be watching the morning news—with his favorite coffee mug filled to the brim. The mug was all black, with a crack at the top of it—where coffee would sometimes leak if it was too full—and ironically had the words “world’s best dad.” This he found quite laughable at times, considering how far from reality it was. Yet, it was the only time of the day he didn’t have a beer in his hand. The only time that everything was peaceful, and that he felt like that was his father in there. When he wasn’t yelling or shaming him, Nigel could see his real father. That image of him never yelled and never drank, merely because the taste of alcohol made him sick. When they would have family dinners every night, and it’s hard to believe but they were just like the family across the street at one point in time. Now, he would come home from work, and he wouldn’t talk. No one knew if he was distancing himself from his family or his mind. Helen would usually get up about an hour and a half later than him. Every morning, she would do the daily word puzzle on the back of the morning newspaper. Nigel would always wake up before his parents, but he would never leave until he absolutely had to. If he woke up in the middle of the night, he wouldn’t go back to sleep. Whatever the time may be, his brain is wired to not let him fall back asleep. This was the Colbie’s routine. It never differed.
Nigel enjoyed the darkness of his recluse. He never opened the blinds, but he thought since this was supposed to be his new beginning, he ought to. One foot over the other, he inched closer to the window, and the pale, lanky fingers—that were attached to his right hand—shot up to the cord connected to the blinds. Gently pulling, the sides flipped, and sunshine wrapped itself around the entirety of his eyeballs. The warmth slivered its way into his face through the cracks. He paused for a moment. His hand let go of the cord and swung down by his side. The cord quietly clattered against the blinds. The rays of light swarmed his bedroom, bouncing from surface to surface—in the tiniest millisecond—it soon completely covered the entire room.
Nigel raised his arms to the top of his dresser and tried to pull open the top drawer, but it got stuck. Now, he pulled twice as hard with twice as much strength. The drawer might have been caught on something, or even too full of clothes. Finally, with one last pull, it opened. Inside was scarce—after emptying it for his suitcase. A few dark-colored shirts and tank tops remained. Nigel rummaged through the neatly folded pile of clothes until he found the upper half of his school uniform. He left the clothes untidy and took his shirt off. The bandage from the night before was still on top of his dresser. He reached out and grabbed it, starting to unravel it. It was tan, and had a semi-thick, wrinkly texture. Holding it against the side of his chest, he started to wrap. Every wrap was tighter than the last, but he liked it that way. The tighter and more in pain he was, the happier it made him.
The bandage had been positioned in the perfect spot on his chest. Any further up or down meant that his circulation would be snipped. Nigel was born a humane all-loving adolescent. Over time, he had been exposed to a such enmity in society for his beliefs. Certain flowers represent certain symbols. For example, Lillies represent purity, innocence, and resurrection. In other words, the Lily inside of him had already wilted before ever having the chance to blossom. Taking off his plaster every night was like reopening a wound, and the air was peroxide seeping in and fizzing up in the fresh meat. It didn’t harm him physically. It barely scraped him at the most. Yet, it shattered every remaining inch of his soul. There wasn’t much left of him to lose anyway. Nigel was deep in thought, but still his limbs continued to wrap and wrap, until there was hardly any bandage left on the spool. He had to look the part.
Weeks ago, his parents had withdrawn him from his regular public school. They noticed a shift in Nigel’s demeanor. He would come home everyday quieter than the last. He was never popular —not even when he was young. Though he had never had an issue with anyone, nor did anyone with him. In more recent years, he would come to be harassed by his peers. No one knew what he was or cared who he was. John and Helen first noticed the change when Nigel had come home from school, drenched in water. The water had a horrible smell to it, and it cling to his clothes. He hid out in the bathroom stall during lunch. In that same vicinity were two girls. One had beautiful, long blonde hair. He could only tell from the cracks of the stall door. They had both lingered in front of the mirrors, examining their blossoming selves. Nigel was quiet—an eerie quiet. It was like you could tell someone was in there but couldn’t hear them. Her friend had short, frilly red hair, and acne scars running up and down her face. The sink had been running for longer than usual this one day. A concoction was being made. Trash, throw up, and water. He was still quiet in the stall. The sound of muffled giggles and the picking up of a big plastic container filled the room. One moment he was calm and quiet, sitting on the toilet and staring at the backside of the stall door. The next he was drenched in some awful potion. Before he could process what had happened, the girls already took their leave. This wasn’t the first nor last time it had happened.
Looking up schools, they decided on an all-girls school about an hour or so from their home. They thought that if they enrolled him here then he would learn what makes being female so special. They wanted to cure him of his disease. Nigel fought and rebelled against their word—until he couldn’t fathom it much longer. He had written an entire new letter to be sent. It completely copied from the original, except the name. When he typed it new, he replaced the name with Nigel. Deep down, he had always been Nigel. Staring at the five letter, feminine ideal of his name—he began to scribble on top of the name, “Nancy Colbie.” Black ink stretched itself across the length of the name. He scribbled until the holes were being indented into the paper, and there was one tiny tear where his dead name should have been. The letter was instead sent to an all-boys school. John and Helen never knew about the change.
Now here he was, getting dressed for his first day at a school he was never supposed to exist at. He slid his arms through the holes of the sleeves, and he began to button from the top down. Nigel’s vision drew a blank as his eyes closed. He imagined the horror plastered on his parents’ face after seeing his fresh haircut. Helen’s maternal cries plastering the walls of their living room. His father would be sure to strike thunder upon him. Nigel would be banished from the place he had grown up in—but that’s exactly what he wanted. He was truly a deeply disturbed individual. Disturbed was an understatement. He grabbed his tie from the top of the dresser, slung it around his neck, and began to tie it.
Before he left, he made his bed. Pulling up the soft covers to completely flatten his bed out, he looked around the empty room. The staple of his old self—who he would be leaving behind eternally. The walls stayed empty, as did everything else. Nigel’s room looked and remained devoid of life. Hopefully this would be the last time he set foot in this room—yet he knew that wouldn’t be the case. Lastly, he stepped over to the blinds again and pulled the opposite cord down. The blinds hadn’t been open very long, yet he felt that they shone too much life into his room. A life of someone who wasn’t damned to this body for all eternity. A life of someone who wasn’t him—not anymore. It was dark, almost too dark to see. He knew the outline of his room, so he got around just fine. A hand reached for the bag on the floor, and with a small pull, it lifted. No lights were on, and nothing he wanted to stick around for was anywhere. Sliding out the crack of the now open door, he didn’t say goodbye. It wasn’t necessary to him. He gently closed the door behind him.
Last night’s left-over dinner was still at the foot of his door. Someone must have left a door open because there were flies surrounding the plate of food. It was absolutely disgusting—maybe more so than the original dish. Part of it was already starting to brown. The long hallway was dimly lit. Frames of photographs scattered themselves across the walls. The pictures were filled with a memory of a happy family. A mother, father, and their sweet little girl. Something that did not exist anymore. Nige’s fingers glided along the textured walls. Lifting his fingers up and down as he walked, until he stopped on the glass of the frame. He traced his face and fixated on the full photo. He snapped out of the trance he was consumed in. His arm automatically swung down by his side. There was dust collected at the top of each photo but not this one. Nigel ran his touch along it often. The other photos along the wall had been replaced by a protective barrier of plastic-based glass. He had broken all the other ones, either by smashing, or tearing them off the wall. This one was different, no matter what he couldn’t bring himself to smash it.
Nigel descended the stairs into his living room. From the time it had taken him to get dressed, his parents had risen. He could see the back of his father’s balding head, sitting in his normal recliner. A white coffee mug laid on the table beside him. From his perspective, he could only see the back and not the idiotic lettering on the front. It’s filled to the brim — almost overflowing with coffee. His body left the stairway and stepped out into the hallway. With where he was, Nigel couldn’t see his mother, but that didn’t necessarily mean that she wasn’t up yet. Nigel’s feet took him into the frame of the living room, and there she was. He could see his mother at the dining room table doing a crossword puzzle from this morning’s newspaper. It was a minute before a moment that would change his life forever. Yet, for a moment peace filled the room. It was calm. His mother may have felt a presence of someone standing there — and nonetheless, she looked up. A look of near horror once she had comprehended what she had seen. The girl she birthed had no longer existed. Helen stood up from her halfway completed crossword puzzle and stepped towards Nigel. Her mouth was open, yet no words were spoken. As she inched closer to him, her quivering hand found John’s shoulder. It shook until he was alerted to look behind him. Curiously, he turned his head towards Helen to see her chilled expression and from the corner of his peripheral, he saw a figure. Turning his head the opposite direction to see Nigel’s haircut.
John immediately jumped from his seat and stared at him. Helen, still speechless, stepped closer to him and put her hand up to his cheek. “What have you done?” Her warm hand connected with his cold cheek, but he backed away. Nigel stayed silent. “Your... Your hair.” Helen managed to at least stutter. Instead of a frown or a scowl—an expression like hers appeared on Nigel’s face. With each passing moment, the expression grew the exact same. On her face, lie a pair of wide eyes, and furrowed brows. On his face was the same thing. “What are you doing? Stop that.” He didn’t stop. His expression only grew more sinister. Nigel had a problem with copying the expression, feelings, and social abilities of others—since he lacked in all these departments. For example, he would mimic the family across the street. How they looked when they would greet each other after a long day, or when the parents would kiss their children goodnight—something Nigel had never gotten. Nancy had seen many times a day, but Nigel never. John, still with an expression of shock, slowly stepped towards them. “But why? Nancy, you were so beautiful.” Nigel must have blocked out the word “Nancy,” but it struck him when he heard the word “beautiful” at the end. Once the words registered in his mind, the expression completely melted off his face. His usual doe eyed, no smile look painted his face once again. It was like nothing was ever there to begin with.
John stepped between the two family members, separating them. Helen backed off, still in disbelief. “You’re not my little girl anymore.” Nigel finally hearing a “not” within the sentences made him grin. He was never his little girl, not even when he was a little girl. Something about this conversation opened a new portal of happiness within him. “Look at what you’ve done.” His usual scowl was still on his face, and he surprisingly hadn’t started day drinking yet. Still carrying his bag—Nigel didn’t think this would last long—his mouth opened. Inside there were words that should never come out of someone’s mouth. Especially to their father.
“No. Look at what you’ve done.” A look of confusion splattered across both Helen and John’s face simultaneously. “Your little girl is dead. You killed her.” Both individuals in front of him were taken aback. With those words out in the atmosphere of the room, John automatically raised his arm at an angle. Nigel didn’t prepare to be struck—in fact, he didn’t move. He didn’t care. His arm came down with all the might he had, but something stopped him. A moment of realization maybe, or even a remembrance of whom he would he hitting. Whatever the case, his arm stopped mid-air, right next to his face. No matter who his daughter had become, he remembered who he would be harming. A version of his little girl. John swallowed hard and collected himself, swinging his arm down by his side. Clearing his throat, he opened his mouth for the last time. “Leave.” Helen wiped tears from her cheeks with a handkerchief, yet didn’t speak of. Nigel had always wanted to leave this house—not the house, just the people. To admit, as much as he wanted this, it didn’t feel good. Being cast out like this made his stomach turn. No matter how much of a freak people had made him out to be—inside, he was the same person he had always been. He loved his parents. He loved going on walks after dark. He had a fear of flying, and even if he was dragged on a plane, he would be freaking out the whole time. There was a side to him, which had been hidden for a very long time. Hidden under layers of fear. After a while, the fear became so real, he lost sight of himself. Nigel pushed his qualities underneath his skeleton and hoped they would die in there.
“Leave this house.” It felt like he was being punched in the throat over and over by the fists of God. He didn’t speak. He didn’t show emotion. He just stayed silent and still, like prey. “Don’t ever step foot in this house again.” Nigel could see the seriousness in his voice and face. Nonetheless, he listened. His fists squeezed hard around the handle of his bag, and he began to push through both his parents. “Nancy...” His mother whispered, and she grabbed his arm and tried to hold on. When he didn’t stop or respond, she let go. He then made his way to the back door, opening the screen on top and stepping out. As soon as the screen creaked shut, Nigel felt like a pair of hands had wrapped around his neck. John had the bridge of his nose pinched and let out a sigh. Helen was still staring at the door where Nigel had stopped. “Why can't she just be normal?” John questioned. No words had ever hurt him, yet this had. For a second, he couldn’t breathe, and he felt like a cleaver had been stabbing in and out of him this whole time.
Finally, he collected himself and stepped off the porch steps. Nigel walked towards the gate, as the sun had barely begun to rise. Bird chirped and hopped from house to house. The neighbor’s rottweiler was barking up a storm behind the fence. He bypassed the dog and continued for the gate. An unfamiliar sadness overwhelmed him, as he unlocked it. It suddenly hit him that he would never have a home to come back too. Once he left, this was the end. The place that became his beginning had also become his end. Nigel stepped outside of his property and looked up at the house one last time. He looked up at his bedroom window, then down at the yard he just exited out of. His feet carried him down the sidewalk, and didn’t stop. He knew that nothing would ever be the same.