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When using the term “complicated relationship,” your first thought probably goes somewhere along the lines of a guy who hooks-up with a girl once, then, after claiming he wants to pursue an actual relationship, never calls, leaving the girl feeling “unwanted” and “unsure” of her “future,” only to go through this type of back-and-forth relationship for several months. Or you might go the other way and think about a couple already engaged in a relationship, but the indestructible-moodiness of the boy combined with the constant intolerance from the girl makes the entire situation poisonous.
Now I’ll tell you a story about a real complicated relationship.
I walked on the sidewalk, noticing the sharp winter air more than usual. My senses were heightened because of where I was headed, who I was preparing to be with for minutes on end; I’ve always had the habit of stepping-out of reality, taking on a third-person view of things. Today was no different. In fact, my stress had unconsciously forced me into this mode all day long. By the time I made it to the dorms, I was exhausted; but my frustration and irritated-determination kept me going. The time for thinking was over. I had done my thinking. I started thinking about it the very first day I met Colton. And now, those thoughts had created a conclusion. A tentative conclusion, but still a conclusion. My racing heart kept bouncing between worry and anger. For once, I didn’t ignore either of them.
Colton, my boyfriend, lived on the fifth floor, so I hopped into the elevator and used the isolated room to clear my thoughts.
Okay. What does the common outsider think of this relationship? What are their thoughts? I wondered.
Outsider: they’ve been dating since the beginning of the summer. Peyton decided to come to this college instead of the one he originally wanted to attend, but he’s still enjoying his classes and doesn’t think the campus is that petrifying. Colton is okay with (“okay” being more of a negative term, unfortunately) Peyton being transgender and having issues with his identity at certain times…and yet…he doesn’t seem fully-interested in Peyton. They hold hands and kiss, and smile, and laugh…but whenever Peyton tries to make conversation, he somehow always ends-up having to mention his “condition,” because that seems to be the only topic Colton and he can discuss.
Why is that so true? I wondered, sighing as the elevator door opened. Why does he constantly remind me of the one thing that sets me apart from most of the population? Isn’t there anything else special about me? I say nice things about him all the time, but he only ever replies with a grin and says “But you’ve got the best of both worlds, which makes you the attractive one in this relationship,” which might be funny, if he didn’t say it all the time, in that tone that just makes me feel…inhuman.
These reasons provided me with enough confidence to knock on Colton’s door. He yelled something from inside, so I slowly pushed the door open and stepped-in. Nothing had changed since the last time; Colton was lying on his bed, playing a video game. How he managed to move around was a mystery. The space between his mattress and the TV was becoming increasingly non-existent.
“Hey,” Colton said, flashing me a quick grin.
I cleared my throat and mumbled, “Hey.”
He glanced over again as I stood near the edge of the bed. “What’s up? How was your day?”
“Fine,” I shrugged, sitting down on the corner, as far away from him as I could. “How was yours? Did you get your paper done for English?”
“Yup…finished at one a.m.” Colton laughed.
Curse your work ethic, I thought dully. That’s the only part of you I really enjoy being around. Maybe that’s because we don’t have to talk so much when we’re both working. Stay strong, Peyton; he’s not always like that. You of all people know you can’t depend on one side of someone.
We sat there for a few seconds, silent. Before he could speak again, I turned my body around to face him; I studied his face, his focused expression. I didn’t care that his focus wasn’t on me. I was more relieved than anything.
I can’t believe it’s taken me this long to realize how uncomfortable I am around Colton.
He noticed my stare and finally paused his game.
“What’s up?” Colton repeated.
I internally cringed at his gaze, feeling myself shrink three-sizes. It’s not that he’s intentionally trying to make me feel bad; that’s just the kind of impression he gives-off.
Colton leaned forward and started to grab me. I held onto his arm to stop him.
“Colton…”
“Do you wanna break-up?” He questioned seriously. “Is that why you’re acting so…so…”
So WHAT? I thought, almost losing my temper. So girly? So serious? So moody? Say what you want to say. I already know what your argument will be. Say it to my face like you always do.
“Yes,” I answered before he could go on. “I want to break-up.”
Colton stared at me blankly, comprehending my words. A fake smile creeped to his lips.
“Just like that, huh?” He said slowly.
Only I can bring that emotion to people. They never take anything seriously until I demand the respect. By that time, they’re so un-used to the type of situation that they don’t know what to do or think. I hoped that fact gave me an advantage now.
“Why?”
Stick to your guns, Peyton.
“I don’t feel,” My mouth went dry. “……comfortable…in this relationship. I’ve felt that way for…for a long time.”
My boyfriend’s expression changed drastically. He no longer looked hesitant, uncertain, like someone who was about to be dumped; he looked like he had just figured out a century-long mystery.
Colton gave me a sympathetic look, and grazed his thumb across my cheek.
“Oh,” He said quietly. “I guess I understand that…”
It took most of my will-power not to glare at him.
“Firstly,” Colton started again. “Is there anything I can do to help you become more comfortable with that? Or is it the type of problem where—“
“No!” I yelped, jumping off the bed. I forced myself to remain calm, lowering my voice back to normal. “No, there isn’t. You always assume that that’s the problem, when 90% of the time, it isn’t the problem, Colton. I’ve been sensitive about my gender since the very beginning, but around the time I met you, I thought I would be okay, because you were the first person I’d met who was okay with me being transgender, but I haven’t felt comfortable around you in forever, because you’re always using me and my situation against myself!”
I let my words flow, knowing, despite my speed, Colton was keeping-up. I couldn’t take it anymore. I felt stupider by the second, remembering how long it had taken me to get this far.
“Don’t you…understand that?” I asked him slowly. “Don’t you notice how your comments make me feel?”
“I’m sorry Peyton,” Colton said immediately, kneeling-up on the bed so that he was level with me. He reached out and took my hands in his. “I don’t mean to make you feel bad about yourself.”
“I know that,” I continued insistently while pushing his hands back to his own area. “But that’s just the point, Colton…you never notice these things. You can’t possibly tell me that your instincts completely ignored how I always shifted uncomfortably or stared at you incomprehensibly whenever you said ‘Oh’ and ‘I’ll do whatever I can to make you feel normal, Peyton,’ every single day?”
He froze now, my words finally beginning to sink-in. I knew it would take even more than that, because if he needed this long of a minute to remember all those occasions, when they were, indeed, occurring every single day…it was going to take a lot of lecturing to get the message of “we’re breaking-up” imbedded into his brain. Colton kept staring at me. I could see that he was hurt, but at the same time, in denial of the real reason why he was being dumped. His thoughts were basically visible in the air, hovering over his head.
Wow…he’s really this confused about his gender?...Wait a second. Oh my gosh—I get it now. He’s not…attracted to me…not anymore. I guess he’s figured it out—he likes girls, not men. (Here his heart sunk a little, but only momentarily, because he feels like he was the one that “pulled it out of me.”) But that doesn’t mean we have to be over…we can just stay together until he’s sure he’s figured it out. I don’t want him to come crawling back after years, when I have a new life, begging me to take him back because he’s finally figured everything out.
Wait—should I be referring to him as a “she”?
I took a deep, steadying breath, and lowered my head.
“Look…I’m going to be blunt, here; I feel incredibly uncomfortable around you.” As if on command, my body cringed. “I have for most of our relationship. You can come-up with whatever reasons you like, but the truth of it is…I just…can’t be around someone, much less be in a relationship with someone, if I feel that way—I’ll…I’ll go crazy or something.”
Colton opened his mouth.
“Please, just—don’t say anything.” I begged him. I’ve heard enough of his voice. I knew whatever he had to say would only disappoint me and lower my self-esteem even more. “I’m have to go now. I’ll be transferring to Crimson Rose State next month. Call me up if you ever need someone to talk to, but…I’d prefer if you don’t act like we’re best friends, okay?”
I began to back-up, silently proud that my confidence and determination were standing their ground. So often I find myself saying and doing things out of the blue, just because I was uncomfortable, feeling rushed and watched. I guess after dating Colton for this long, that makes sense. He didn’t say anything, but blinked stupidly a few times as I neared the door.
Almost there! I thought in triumph. Keep quiet! Just let me leave and you can save yourself the embarrassment!
“Peyton, wait!”
Colton scrambled off the bed as I internally screamed. He rushed forward and stopped in front of me, grabbing my face in his hands. As if I wasn’t annoyed enough…
“You know you can depend on me for anything, okay?” Colton promised. I hardly knew what he was talking about. Him, dependable? Did he not hear a word I said? “If you ever have any trouble, call me up, I won’t mind, okay? And if you can’t figure this out, we’ll do it together, okay? And if…someday, you decide you like me—or my type—again…maybe we can…get together sometime. Does that sound okay? I just don’t want things to end so abruptly between us.” He explained, giving me a weak smile.
It took most of my patience not to let my mouth drop open, or my hand accidentally wind-up and thump him alongside the head.
He really…he doesn’t…he honestly doesn’t understand? I thought painfully, feeling my confidence take a shot to the chest. Didn’t I explain it thoroughly enough?...I thought I did…I was speaking from my feelings, which I never do. Is there actually something wrong with me? I wondered as Colton stared down at me, waiting for a reply. Am I acting like a total girl? Am I just…acting like a stubborn boy?
That familiar feeling of humiliation racked my body, sending a shiver from the bottom of my spine to the top of my neck. I swore I could feel the idea surround my very soul.
Or am I neither?
Instead of speaking, I gave a hardly noticeable nod, and turned around. Colton must have been shocked that I didn’t hug him or offer him one last sweet kiss before parting, but I didn’t think he deserved that. He had stolen too many kisses from me already; to give him that satisfaction, if only one more time, one more second, would forever determine the remainder of my romantic future. I left the building thinking I had made a mistake. After all, how many people in this world would be comfortable—not “okay”—with dating a transgender? I began to think that I should turn around, tell Colton I was just kidding…but then…my instincts…whoever they are, whoever they belong to…saved me.
Don’t turn around, it said as I glanced behind my shoulder. Colton was not in it for you. You were not in it for Colton. You were only in it for the acceptance. And did you receive it anyway?
No, I replied slowly. No I did not.
~~-~~
A few months later, I was starting my first day at Crimson Rose State College. Spring had arrived early, which I was glad for. I was already nervous enough, I didn’t need to be worried about the weather and having an umbrella and wearing the appropriate clothing for when it started to snow suddenly. Between credit-transferring and signing paperwork, I hardly knew what classes I had signed-up for when Monday came around. I did know for sure that I was taking a film class, so I searched around the building for room 205, finding it faster than I expected to. My luck was pretty much spent after that.There were already about thirty kids in the class, all of them loud and opinionated, which immediately drove me to find a seat in the furthest back corner. I sat and waited, recovering from the stress that affected my body in more ways than one.
You made it Peyton, I thought, watching as more students piled-in. You’re at Crimson State. You’re in a film class. Your credits transferred, you get to live alone in the dorm room, and you’re single. But you’re still transgender. Don’t forget that part. It could be important.
I rolled my eyes at myself as the teacher clapped his hands, signaling everyone to settle in.
“Alright! Everyone take out your scripts, your highlighters, your brains, and get to work. Remember; what you’re looking for is importance, looks, words, details that give hints to the plots.”
Everyone around me started chatting and taking out huge stacks of paper—apparently they were analyzing scripts…only I didn’t have a script. Come to think of it, everyone in the room looked very sophisticated, much more experienced in life than I was. The guys had beards, the girls raccoon eyes. I distracted my worry by thinking that it was odd of a college professor to give out scripts before class even started for the semester.
Don’t worry, I panicked, pretending to highlight invisible lines on my notebook. No one noticed you yet. You can pull this off. Just do what they’re doing. Pick out the important stuff in the script that you don’t have. Just calm down. Maybe the teacher just forgot you transferred in. He probably forgot to get your assignment. Just remind him, after class, when no one else is here. Although that might be sort of awkward…
When I peeked-up, just barely looking over my notebook, someone locked eyes with me.
Shit, shit, damnit, damnit! No!!! Why did I look-up?!
The boy looked away, and I sat there for five agonizing seconds, heart-pounding, waiting, dreading the moment when he raised his hand or blurted out “Uhhhh…why is that kid sitting back there? Is he supposed to be in this class? Hey kid, what are you doing here?”
I basically burned a hole in the back of his head by staring. But the longer the moment lasted, the less I felt worried. The boy didn’t say anything. He went back to his script and started highlighting quietly, not giving me a second glance, but I made a note not to make any sudden movements, such as taking deep breaths, coughing, rustling paper, shifting my legs, nothing. And so, on my first day, in my first class, at my new school, I sat in a desk that I didn’t have any right to sit in, and didn’t move for an entire hour. By the time the bell rang, I had elaborately disguised myself as a common college student. Maybe that’s why I was so happy to be leaving.
Some people noticed me as we all spilled out of the classroom. I avoided their comments and questions, scrambling around with my class schedule, trying to decode it, wondering where I had went wrong, how I had gotten myself placed in a higher-level class—
“You must be in the wrong class,” A boy said, coming-up beside me. Someone had said something similar, but for some reason, I didn’t reply to them. This student was looking at me thoughtfully; having been dating Colton for a few months, I wasn’t used to such a look. Of course I wanted to respond.
“Yeah, sorry about that,” I answered nervously. I was too flustered to realize how stupid it was to be apologizing. I also didn’t want to have a disapproving upperclassman breathing down my neck.
“Don’t worry about it,” He smiled, waving it off. “The freshman film class is at 2:15, same room.”
“Thanks!” I said in amazement, breathless to my very core.
So…end of conversation?
The other students hustled past us. The boy continued to follow along, walking in stride right beside me. I snuck a glance, only to find he was already peering over.
“I’m Cher Creek,” The mystery man revealed.
“Peyton Archer.”
“Nice to meet you,” He smiled. You would have to be an idiot to not notice how blinding that smile was. “Did you transfer here over the break? I don’t remember seeing you in these halls before.”
He noticed a change? I thought, completely stunned. “Yeah; from Terrivan University.”
Cher (a rather unisex name…) nodded politely. We kept walking beside each other.
“What year are you?” I asked.
“Junior.”
Damn.
“Any tips you can give to a frightened freshman?”
Cher gave me a crooked, yet entirely mild, smile; it was a crooked grin I’d become very familiar with.
“Just don’t be frightened,” He suggested simply.
We were at the entrance door now; I glanced around, seeing that there was no one else in sight. Did I mention that Cher’s teeth are really white? The sun coming in from the window was basically providing me with a black light, the way it glimmered off his dazzling pearls.
“Well…I’ve gotta run,” Cher said reluctantly. “What dorm are you in?”
“Clide.”
“Cool. I have an apartment a few blocks away from here, but I stayed in Clide when I was a freshie. Buuuut my roommate was a chain-smoker, so I moved out of there pretty fast,” He laughed openly, making my zombie-trance abruptly end. For having to go, he didn’t seem to be in a hurry. I silently wondered how he viewed me. Did he see a girl, or a boy? Did that matter to him? Did he even notice something strange about me? I hoped not…
“I’ll see you later, kay?” Cher promised, looking at me with steady hope. I could only nod in response. He beamed, for some odd reason, then glanced over at the clock. “Crap! Looks like I’m gunna be late!” Cher announced as he took off running towards the door. The gust of air made me even more breathless. “See ya later!”
“Yeah…” I whispered blankly. “See ya.”
Well…in the weeks following, I was torn between a lot of things. I didn’t know if I wanted to keep my mathematics class, because I hate math and I wanted more film-like classes. I didn’t know if I should recuperate the shy, flirty advances a girl in my interior design class kept giving me. I didn’t know if I should answer Colton’s weird texts that kept hinting he was still into me. As it turns out, I only had to come up with an answer for the first possibility; the answer to another question I had failed to ask myself cancelled out the remainder of the list. After about four weeks of knowing Cher, he asked me out on a date.
And I said yes.
~~-~~
Cher and I had gone out on a few dates by the time spring officially arrived. The first time, we ate at a cool coffee shop in the city. The second time, we ordered fast food and sat at a picnic table in the park at nighttime, after one of Cher’s volleyball games. He plays for the school team, and they’re quite good. Apparently he’s one of their best players, the libero. I’m not much of a sports person, unless you count Pokémon. Our third date (my personal favorite), was when we went to Cher’s apartment, sat on his fold-out couch, ate an entire bag of potato chips, five cans of pop each, and talked about our favorite Disney soundtracks. Colton never took me out like that. Ever. Not once. We never even sat on his bed in the dorms and talked about useless shit. Everything we talked about was useless, so I guess I can’t use that word to describe our “get togethers.”
When Cher was walking me back to the dorms one night, I wondered if the reason why things were going so well was because I hadn’t told him about my…you-know-what. I didn’t end up revealing my…partial-gender situation until our fifth date, while we were sitting on a bench drinking iced coffee, even though it was chilly out. I gave Cher my jacket because he was only wearing a t-shirt. To be honest…aside from when I had to take my pills in the morning, I kind of almost forgot about my condition. Cher has that kind of effect. He has a way of making you overlook all the pain, the injustice of the world, your world. That’s why I decided to tell him. Over the weeks, through the course of our…(romantic?) relationship, I spoke more willingly, more frequently, more openly than I ever had before. I suddenly realized how many stories I had buried deep within my soul, and I immediately wanted to make them known. I liked it when my words made Cher laugh, or smile, or grin, or think, or raise an eyebrow, or pause, only to burst into a fit of giggles a second later.
I remember thinking, the first time Cher held my hand, on our third date, that maybe…there was more to my identity than just the physical clarification.
Maybe…I thought. Maybe who I am…changes, depending on who I decide to spend my time with.
As I was mulling over my final decision, we casually sat on the bench, looking at stars, the street, anything else that caught our interest. When Cher put his hand into one of the jacket pockets and accidentally hit my pill bottle, yet remaining as nonchalant as ever, I knew he needed to be told the truth. He deserved it. This was his reward for making me comfortable.
Naturally, I was scared out of my socks. The last time I told someone this, I ended-up feeling like a fish out of water, and even worse, stuck in an unhappy, complicated relationship with someone I wasn’t sure why I liked in the first place. There was a huge amount of risk involved in this confession; firstly, I was putting myself in a position to be ridiculed, tormented, teased. Secondly, I was potentially setting myself up for the end of a relationship, in more than one way. Once notified, Cher could become just like Colton; or, he could simply become uncomfortable, thus, ending our friendship, and erasing whatever other feelings lingered around our connection. To say the least, I was tremendously anxious.
“Hey Cher…” I said slowly. “I gotta tell you something.”
He glanced over, waiting patiently. The wind died down. I wanted so badly to look away, but found that I couldn’t.
“It’s a secret for now. Can you keep a secret for me?” I teased, trying to relieve some of the tension in my body.
“Yes, Peyton, I’m perfectly capable of keeping a temporary secret.” Cher chuckled good-humoredly. His hand came up, and I felt his fingers softly close in on a curly lock of my hair, right above my ear, moving them around to feel the texture.
My anxiety returned full force.
Crap. What do I do now? I certainly have his attention…but I don’t think I can handle it. I won’t be able to handle him abruptly removing his hand once those words leave my lips…I just can’t.
Unable to gather my thoughts, I sat there, silent. Cher mostly focused on my hair, but when I glanced over, hoping for some sort of silent encouragement (which Cher usually radiates), his eyes flickered down to lock with mine. I almost hesitated—upon remembering who I was with, my mouth spit it right out.
“I’m transgender.”
…Cher’s touch didn’t falter.
Our eyes locked again. I couldn’t have looked away even if I wanted to. I desperately searched for some kind of rejection, a hint of disgust. Cher’s blue eyes revealed nothing. The silence remained for a long, long, long moment. Incredibly…I didn’t feel uncomfortable. But I was waiting for it, even though I was praying for it to never come. Finally, Cher did something. He gave me that damn crooked smile that never fails to make me stop and stare.
“Do you want me to throw a tantrum?” He giggled, not breaking eye contact.
“It doesn’t…creep you out or anything?”
“Not at all! Is…that what you were expecting?” Cher asked, a slightly concerned expression scooting across his face.
“No—well—I was…hoping not. I wasn’t sure,” I shrugged hurriedly. “But…I didn’t think you would, like…beat me up or anything, I just…”
I trailed off, losing my words in his eyes. Cher smiled suddenly, and lowered his hand to grasp my shoulder firmly.
“Peyton—that’s cool.” He said calmly. “I don’t secretly hate or am disgusted by you, nor am I turned off by the fact.”
I blushed, but couldn’t (and didn’t) stop my smile. What can I say? Cher came through. He always comes through. I was overwhelmed with such a jubilant joy I wanted to rip my clothes off and show him just how transgender I was. Not in a weird way…I didn’t want to have sex with him or anything…that’s just what I thought of. That’s how impulsive I get when I’m happy. I’m not happy a lot, not like this, so I guess my thoughts went a little overboard.
“It doesn’t make you uncomfortable? Not even a little?”
Cher shrugged, “Well I know nothing about transgender-stuff, but I don’t see a reason why I should be freaked-out,” His voice lowered, and I saw his cheeks go pink. “I just…like you, Peyton. A lot.”
Before I could rip my shirt off, Cher reached back into the pocket and took out the bottle of pills.
“Is that what these help with?”
I nodded, watching as he stared down at the drugs thoughtfully. There was a slight frown in his eyebrows, but that wasn’t the expression his eyes were telling me.
“I…guess we have a lot to discuss.” Cher said softly, gazing over at me.
“I guess so,” I whispered. My happiness didn’t allow me to speak any louder. I knew he heard me.
Cher put the pills back and replaced the emptiness of his hand with mine.
“Tell me everything.”
As if things couldn’t get any better for me, another cute incident occurred. About a week after my big reveal, I was walking home from film class, when suddenly, Cher came sprinting down the sidewalk, headed straight for me. The other kids scattered as he crashed into me, taking my face in his hands immediately.
“Peyton,” He heaved, eyes wide. “Peyton, I have to tell you something.”
“O-Okay!” I squealed.
“You don’t have to worry about this,” Cher said, refusing to break eye-contact with me even though he was shaking his head. “You don’t ever have to worry about us, understand? You won’t have to worry about coming home after a horrible day only to have it get even worse because we break-up that night. You don’t ever have to worry about this ending because you get busy with other commitments, other successes, other failures, understand?”
I didn’t answer because he obviously had more that he wanted to say.
“This isn’t a burden you have to add onto all that stress and worry and responsibility, okay Peyton?” Cher clarified, his hand brushing my bangs off my forehead. I kept staring, listening as his voice went soft. “At the end of the day, I’ll always be there…so don’t worry about it…okay? Promise me?”
My own voice came out broken, but somehow I managed to squeak-out “Promise.”
Cher grinned, ruffled my hair, and took off running past me.
“Gotta go, gunna be late again!” He yelled back as an explanation. I heard him, and those words only added to my on-coming tears.
Cher is always late for his graphic design class.
I walked back to the dorms (not noticing the group of other students still watching the scene unfold), went into my empty room, fell onto the bed, and bawled my eyes out for forty-five minutes.
~~~-~~~
About three weeks after my crying episode, I was walking over to Cher’s apartment, hoping he would have some food I could make for us. He gave me a key earlier, and I planned on taking full-advantage of it. The dorms were nice, surprisingly quiet, but Cher’s apartment was just so comfortable. It had grown accustomed to its owner’s ways. I walked inside and turned towards the kitchen, leaning down to take my sneakers off. That was when it hit me. A wave of nausea overwhelmed my entire body, and the added dizziness made me stumble to my knees. Everything felt out of place. I was no longer in control of my body. My eyes struggled in their sockets, trying not to roll backwards; I knew that if I let my eyes close, I was probably setting myself up for a blackout, possibly a coma, maybe even a seizure.
And that scared me beyond belief.
“Sh…”
I tried to mumble out a panicked curse, but my chest didn’t have any air to support it. Then the real pain started. It suddenly occurred to me that I hadn’t taken my pills in three days.
W-Wait…I thought, trying to make the memories clear through my blurry vision, forcing myself to stay awake, mostly out of fear of what would happen if I didn’t. Did I take them Wednesday?...no, I didn’t…or the day before that…did I take them Monday?...I can’t remember…the last time I…did I take them the week before?...I can’t remember…
A mixture of a gasp and a desperate lunge for air escaped my throat. It hadn’t been a few days since I’d taken my pills. It had been four weeks. Four weeks. Twenty-eight days, almost a month. Four fucking weeks. I started to sweat from all the stress my body was under, and yet, my skin was freezing cold; the black dots continuously assaulted my vision, becoming more powerful with each strike. I faded-in and out, struggling, begging myself not to give-in. My brain pretty much shut-off after that, incapable of thinking rationally: instinct was all I had left. I writhed around on the ground, trying to clutch at the pain, only now, it was spreading everywhere, from my chest to my stomach to my groin to my thighs, leaving me desperate to catch-up. It was trying to find the original pattern, only there wasn’t a definite path either way. Nature battled against my clothes, my mind, the medication, everything.
I was utterly powerless to stop it.
And after being with Cher for this long…even though it’s technically a short period of time…it hit me pretty hard. All this time, I thought I was in control. I felt like I was in control of my own body, because Cher always made me confident. I didn’t step back long enough to realize I was only stuck in a trance. A blind, false trance of humanity and security. The pain tore me out of that trance, and I started to cry. I wasn’t hard-core bawling yet, but my face was red and the tears were making me look like a wet mess. I saw, because as I shakily crawled through the kitchen, hoping to make it into the bedroom, I saw my reflection in the fridge. Like always, I forced myself to stare deep into the image, searching for things that weren’t there, things I wanted to be there. My thoughts gave in and did a U-turn South when I saw a girl staring back at me.
The pain in my groin receded a little bit, cancelled out by my boiling anger; that’s why I was effortlessly able to return to a dark shadow that resided in the back of my brain. It was a very familiar shadow; I knew it well, from the days of my youth, from only months ago, on those unsettling nights when I sat in the dorms with Colton, wondering why me.
I let bitter sorrow overwhelm my brain as I drug my limp, aching body towards the bedroom.
Why didn’t they just kill me? Why did they even try to have a kid? They knew their bloodstream was impure. Why did they have a child despite knowing that? What were they thinking? Why didn’t they just give me euthanasia when they saw the weird things on my body after she gave birth? What did they think, when they saw the disfigurement? What was their original thought when they saw characteristics of both genders on their baby? What did they feel when I thought I was a boy? Did they want me to be more like a girl? Why did they keep me, if they were so disgusted? It’s not my fault!!! I wouldn’t care if I was born a girl! I wouldn’t care if I was born a boy! But why oh why did I have to be both? Why do I want to be a boy? Why did Satan choose me to torment? Why is he still tormenting me now?
Every inch of my skin was tender and throbbing, but I forced myself up into the bed. I told myself that Cher wouldn’t mind, which might have been a lie, but I was too far gone to care. My breaths were coming out as panicked, desperate sobs. They weren’t loud. They couldn’t be, with how much agony my mental state was in. I thought that if I focused on the high, barely audible (but somehow painfully loud), stomach-churning pitch of those cries, I might get distracted, but the only thing it did was make me aware of how girly my voice sounds.
Soft, I sobbed internally with sweet relief, the cool bed sheets coming into contact with my inflamed hands. The damn pills were still in my room, back at the dorms. I tried to be mindful of Cher’s personal space; there were a few pillows on the bed, and as much as I wanted to let my heavy, drooping head fall right onto the one below me, the one with the caterpillar pillowcase, I knew I couldn’t, because that’s Cher’s favorite. I used my last ounce of strength to switch the pillow out, then collapsed onto the bed.Think h-happy thoughts, I reminded myself, clutching my stomach painfully. Think about C-Cher.
His scent lingered on the sheets, which I encased myself in upon an overpowering chill flashing through my body. Cher’s amazing. He has the same name as a legendary singer. And his last name’s Creek, which is cool.
My attempts were futile, but I kept trying.
Focus Peyton. Think…of all the good moments you two have had so far.
One time, when we were talking about why Cher liked me, he said “Well it’s not like I seek out trans people to fill some weird void.”
“Void?” I had laughed. “What are you talking about, Cher?”
“You know, like…those weird things people like…”
“You mean fetishes?”
“No!” Cher yelped, covering his ears and looking at me with wide eyes. “Don’t say that, say kinks! It’s creepy when you say that!!!”
“It’s not any creepier than the word ‘kink’!”
Good, good…what else?
Another time, we were lounging around on the fold-out, listening to his record player, when suddenly, he stood up and demanded I dance with him.
“I get to lead.” Cher said.
“What?!” I exclaimed. “Why should you get to lead?”
We ended-up wrestling for it. I won, of course. Cher started to grumble and frowned-up at me as I sprawled out over his body.
“How about we both lead?” He suggested.
“You’re just saying that because you lost.”
My stomach didn’t hurt as badly. I was still twitching and shifting uncomfortably, but at least my mind was more stable. I almost smiled at the memories; it was quickly taken away by another sharp jolt of burning in my thighs. I started sweating again, and the room become dangerously humid. Each breath became a frantic struggle for survival.
A gentle hand came in contact with my forehead. I forced my eyes open, and saw Cher, kneeling beside the bed, looking down at me with unblemished concern.
“Are you okay?” He asked in a whisper.
The heat seemed to leave for a moment, with his cold skin touching mine. Cher, I sobbed in relief. Cher’s here…
“F…forgot…pills,” I said hoarsely through the tears, drool pooling out of the corner of my mouth, beyond my body’s control. Cher wiped it off with his sleeve, which I thought was gross, but I wasn’t about to complain. His hand brushed the sweaty hair off my forehead swiftly, like he was afraid to cause me more pain. I let my eyes flutter closed again, not wanting to waste more energy. “Forgot them…at dorm…” I added.
Cher moved some things around in the pocket of his jacket, and I heard a bottle being opened.
“You left them in my jacket when I borrowed it to you. I lost it under the bed so I didn't find them until this morning...how many do you take?”
I opened my eyes again, seeing him holding my bottle of pills in his hand. He looked down at me seriously, mercifully, waiting for a command. I used my fingers to tell him two, and Cher held the pills to my lips; he angled my head and poured some water down my throat to help with the swallowing. As he laid me back down, he paused, his hands stuck underneath my head.
“How come you didn’t use the good pillow?”
I tried to retrieve what breath I had lost during the attack, but my chest ached too severely for the air to greatly affect my state. Plus, I was still trying to get my chest to stop jolting with cries.
“It’s your favorite,” I managed to whisper, my throat revived. “I didn’t want to…ruin it.”
Cher didn’t say anything.
Although it had only been a few seconds since I had taken the pills for the first time in four weeks, I wondered if they were working, trying to fix and balance what they were supposed to. I was desperate for them for start working. Everything felt out of place. I think that was worse than the pain.This…foreign, outlandish feeling, like my soul wasn’t connected to the rest of my body, overwhelmed me, just like it had when I was a kid, before the pills came into play. The feeling of my body aching, confused at why the commands weren’t being obeyed. Everything was scrambled. Everything hurt. It wasn’t only loneliness; it was isolation. Like an alien crash landing in one of the most populated cities on Earth. Cher might as well not have even been in the room, a foot away from me.
I wasn’t a part of anything. Not even my own body.
I was inhuman.
Cher’s hands lifted my head up again; one of them left, and I heard the pillow that I had been laying on be slid out from underneath me. It was replaced by another, softer, fluffier support. Just when I thought I was too exhausted to do anything but fall asleep, my eyes opened; cute-little green, blue, and purple caterpillars were printed on the light-blue pillowcase, accented with green trim. I trailed my gaze up to look at Cher. His hand returned to my head, only this time, it was softly running over my cheek, his fingers twirling my hair every few strokes. I was confused, but couldn’t find it in me to say anything, in fear that he would stop.
Everything’s…I don’t…nothing hurts anymore, I thought suddenly, realizing that I was able to think clearly. I’m really tired…but…I think I feel…collected, again. Can this be real?
“Cherokee.”
“H-m?”
Cher’s lips twitched upwards as he continued quietly. “My real name is Cherokee. Cher’s just a nickname. A rather incorrect-pronunciation nickname, if I’m honest.”
“Cherokee…Creek?”
“My dad’s grandpa’s name was Creek…my mom liked Native American things,” He shrugged. “Therefore, I was named Cherokee Creek. Cher.”
“Cherokee…” I repeated. The pain was slowly fading from my stomach. Part of me came back from that dark shadow. “It suits you.”
I got a good long look at that crooked smile of his. Everything seemed to be coming down to earth. For half a second, I thought this new feeling of tranquility was because of the pills; upon seeing his smile, I knew that wasn’t the case.
I don’t know whose heat is whose, I thought, my body loosening and relaxing at Cherokee’s touch. I don’t feel…bad anymore. I can say my name without reservation: Peyton Archer. That’s who I am. How is he doing this?...
A few more beautiful moments of Cher gently stroking my cheek flew by without me noticing; he took his hand off, and crawled over my body to lie down next to me on his bed. Had it been anyone else (someone like Colton), I would have squirmed to the edge of the matress as much as possible.
…But Cherokee isn’t Colton. That’s why I let him lie close to me and wrap an arm around my shoulder, adjusting so he could continue petting my hair in comfort. There was barely an inch between our bodies. I had never been this close to someone before. Amazingly, I didn’t feel like I was putting myself on display; I didn’t feel exposed, vulnerable to abuse or neglect, alarmed, or even shy.
“Peyton?” Cher asked, his breath against my neck making my heart come alive, but in a different way. “Would you be…offended, if I were to do some side-research on transgender-related things?”
“Do your research on me.”
Cherokee paused.
“…Is that an enticing hint, or an actual suggestion?”
He laughed in my ear as I huffed silently, soaring over the clouds over the fact that I was smiling, despite my condition.
“No, I wouldn’t mind," I finally responded in a hushed tone. “Just be careful of what you read. I don’t want you to…” My voice faded out. “Look at me differently.”
Cherokee’s arm pushed down on mine firmly.
“You don’t have to worry about that,” He assured me. “Remember what I told you?”
How could I ever forget?
“I just wanna help you out, you know? It would be a jerk thing for me to do if I just let you deal with this on your own, if it needs to be dealt with. If not, that’s fine. I’m content just by being with Peyton.”
Cher sighed deeply.
“Now get some sleep, okay? It’ll be Friday before you know it.”
“But I have…a paper to do…”
“That was Monday, remember?”
“Oh yeah…”
Truthfully, I had remembered, but I just wanted to hear Cher laugh again. He settled-in behind me and cuddled the bedsheets around my curled-up body. A newfound warmth surrounded us; only half of that warmth was because of the blankets.
This is a good pillow, I thought, drifting off into sleep. Cher was so nice to let me use it, even after I drooled and he had to wipe it off. I wonder if he’s had this pillowcase for a long time. It’d be pretty cute if he’s had it since he was a kid and took it along for college, as a reminder of his home. That matches his personality well.
Cherokee’s hand continued its ministrations, caressing my temple with more care each time. I wondered if it would have felt different, had my hair been more like a girl’s. Almost immediately after wondering that, I decided I didn’t care. Cher let out a soft breath, closing the gap between our bodies.
“Sleep well, my sweet little caterpillar.”