Chapter Text
it was somewhere between… between third grade and sixth grade. must have been sooner, though. perhaps about fourth grade? yeah, the first few months of fourth grade is when it happened.
kaveh’s family situation has always been incredibly annoying and complex. how does one little kid explain to another that his parents are divorced but friendly? everyone learns pretty soon on that some people have divorced parents, and that means they’re not married because they don’t love each other anymore. often, those people get unhappy about it, and they get stuck between the arguing parents. it’s not easy to understand or accept that kaveh is just the exception. so the boy lived with his father and his elder brother in a small two-bedroom apartment. not where he ever would have wanted to live, but the three of them managed. father would take them to and from school, and take care of them when he wasn’t working. when he was working, kaveh’s mother would come over for a few hours to keep her boys company. to give them time with their mother. as all kids deserve.
kaveh was obsessed with the idea of a pet. that’s all he’d wanted, as most kids do, since he was little. a friendly cat or perhaps a sweet dog. something he can go to his friends and say “i have the sweetest pet ever! do you want to come over and meet it?”. it would make everyone want to come meet his new kitten or puppy, and maybe that way he could make some good friends. but living in an apartment made such a goal annoyingly difficult to achieve. yet kaveh did not realize that, and to spite it, the little boy persisted. begging his father for a long, long time, the boy as adamant to not be bested. he knew better than to say something every day; that would only annoy father.
one day, much to kaveh’s joy, the man relented. after school was out, he took his son to the local pet store, where the most beautiful little cockatiel was waiting. the smaller ones with the orange patches on their cheeks that live about twenty years. not the big ones with disturbingly powerful beaks that can live to be as old as seventy. no sane man would get one of those for his priceless eight year old “daughter”, as kaveh had presented to be. so for his birthday he got a sweet little bird. she was all white, save for her yellow head and round orange cheeks. such colors reminded kaveh of his favourite food; curry shrimp. so that became her name. curry. kaveh had always been very proud to say he had a bird as his pet. most kids had a cat or a dog, some had their hamsters, there was an occasional rat or bunny or chicken. but nobody else had a bird like this.
that, however, was seven years ago. now,
the boy’s fifteen and everything is different.
his father is now… unsupportive of him. disappointed, but the man won’t say it. kaveh lives as himself, yet is not- will not ever be enough for his father. but despite this, he wants his approval. he wants to feel loved, the same way he was as a child. yet that love is not for him. no, to kaveh, that gentle love which a father is supposed to give to his son, that is saved for that little bird. she would fly across the house and fall, and he would always gently return her home. she would poop on furniture and people, but he never cared. startling at nothing; fluttering around the house frantically, making the boy’s heart skip a beat, it would always be comforted. it would chirp and scream and screech until kaveh had to cover his ears and wrap himself in his blanket to cope with the sound, and his father would gently coo to the bird until it calmed down. yet never to him. kaveh always made a big deal out of the bird’s actions, always overreact. that’s what that man believed.
the boy would get out of school, the same time as always, and need to be picked up. a simple task, really. yet his father would regularly be late. sometimes it would only be ten or fifteen minutes, sometimes thirty, sometimes he would completely forget his son and leave the boy to make the forty minute long walk home.
with shaking hands, kaveh might accidentally spill something; a drink, or soup, or a bowl of pasta. he would make a small mess, and his father would always scold him. “you clean that mess up,” he would say, each time, “i’m not going to clean it for you. next time be better. you had better grace when you were a child.” kaveh would fall and skin his knee or his elbow, or get cut by a rock, or sprain his wrist or ankle and not be able to walk without pain. hot, stinging tears would well up and fall down his cheeks. yet the man was always unforgiving, “stop crying. you’re fine, you’re fine.” all his pain was an overreaction, it was invalid. he would have no choice but to swallow the pain, and to keep it to himself. to, whenever he got hurt again, not comment about it. help wouldn’t come anyways.
excitedly, the boy would chatter on about what he enjoys. he would tell his father everything because nobody else would listen, nobody found it interesting like he did. but if kaveh spoke too loud while his father was watching a movie, he was shushed. if he wanted to make a comment about what they’re watching on the tv, in their own home, he was told to save it or to pause what was on. but afterwards his father would always tell him to stop. nobody would ever want to watch something with kaveh because he kept interrupting.
wanting only to feel accepted by the man who had raised him, kaveh would quietly point out that his name is kaveh and that he’s the man’s son, but would only ever be called the wrong thing. “calling it a ‘deadname’ is such an insult!” the man once complained, “i gave you your name as a gift, a gift. and here you go saying it’s dead to you.”
every night, hearing that bird squeak as he tries to settle in for sleep, hearing his father comfort and shush the small creature, it broke kaveh’s spirit. first it was pain and sorrow and longing that seeped out from his heart. longing for that love to be shown to him. yet, in time, having toiled away and away within himself, kaveh’s pain turned to jealousy. jealousy that this damn creature got what he deserved. that something so small and stupid and impossibly annoying could get so much love and affection from the man who he called his dad. jealousy turned to anger, at the both of them; the bird and his father.
and at himself.
why can’t he be good enough to earn his father’s love? what does this bird have that he doesn’t? is it because she’s a girl and he isn’t? is it because she depends on him, and kaveh no longer needs to?
he never knew how to express his pain. physical pain, mental pain, emotional pain, it was all invalid. always has been. so why try to express it? like a volcano of hurt, it all comes out in the most raw, natural way. the pain turns to anger and hatred. anger and hatred which blind him to logic and causes him to skip all rational thought. anger and hatred which inspire only violence, brought by the boy’s two hands. feeling his heart twist into knots, kaveh tries to sleep, to shower, to focus on school. subconsciously, entirely unaware, a plan tumbles within his head over and over and over, down a hill which never ends. in fits of high emotion, times when anger and hatred push the blood into his veins, a hint of those thoughts would strike out through the boy’s mind. an urge to be violent. to scream and throw things and run off, slamming the door.
one evening, it is not just a hint of his true feelings. no, it is much, much more.
feeling anger bubble up inside him, a pocket knife slashes angrily through a block of wood. once. twice. three times. five times. for each time his father had called the boy by that which was “gifted” to him. kaveh’s grip tightens on the little swiss army knife, the red plastic of its casing smooth in his nearly-trembling hands. right now he’s far too afraid to cut himself. he knows that he’ll go too far, that he’ll make a mistake and regret it. nothing that would land him in the hospital, no, but more than what he wants to do to himself. so the wood is the target of his anger.
he sits down carefully on the marble coffee table, facing his father, eyeing his mother and silently asking her for support. all eyes are on him and suddenly kaveh doesn’t know what to say.
“dad, i want you to know that it…” he scrambles for the words, knowing that if he doesn’t speak fast enough, he’ll get interrupted and the conversation will turn into a lecture. “when you call me a girl, and when you call me by my given name, it hurts me. you know that i’ve felt like this for a long time. and ever since i was little i’ve always acted like a boy, and been more comfortable around other boys. you said it yourself; i’m the nerdy son you never had.”
he can’t meet his father’s gaze so he stares at his knees instead. and kaveh knows his father’s picking him apart for just that. “it makes me really uncomfortable, because i’m not a girl- i don’t feel like a girl. an-and yeah, i have the anatomy of a girl. but-but when i look at myself in the mirror i don’t look like me. this body doesn’t look like me. an…”
“⬛️⬛️⬛️- can i say something?” interrupting the boy, his father speaks up. his legs are crossed and hands folded nearly in his lap. the man’s gaze is the only thing that betrays his annoyance. “okay so it’s my understanding that you want to be called kaveh, right?” a nod. “and, ⬛️⬛️⬛️, you chose the name because it was the name of the main character, who you really liked, of a show you were watching.” another nod. “well then i’m not going to call you kaveh because- because it’s hero worship. you’re doing this just because you like the character. that’s stupid! ⬛️⬛️⬛️, i didn’t raise you to be like that.”
“it’s not because i like the character it’s-“ kaveh was cut off, and he frowned. heart racing, he knows exactly where this is going.
“and yeah you’ve always been a tomboy. but i don’t understand why that isn’t enough for you. you- you don’t have to go around saying you’re a boy, and saying this is your new name. because it’s not going to last.” it’s a phase. “⬛️⬛️⬛️, you aren’t a boy, you’re a girl. okay? that’s your identity.” kaveh tries to speak, but his father continues. “you have the female reproductive system- a female body, so that’s what you are. it’s- it’s a slap in the face to girls to say that being a girl isn’t good enough for you, ⬛️⬛️⬛️.”
everything else that comes out of the man’s mouth is lost to deaf ears. this is the same as it always is. the way it always will be, he realizes. kaveh, no matter how hard he tries to meet his father on his level of understanding, will fail. it will always turn into a lecture about how he’s wrong and he’s locking onto this one thing that he thinks will last forever but won’t. suddenly shrinking, the boy’s world threatens to squish him and all the openness of the room is shrouded in darkness. every shadow is a danger lurking for him to slip up. everything that is supposed to make this home his home too is swallowed by his father’s controlling presence.
with his breath caught in his throat, kaveh finds himself on his feet and storming away into his room. he slams the door, the whole house seeming to shake and feel his anger. he digs through his mess of a room to find that wooden block, scrambling to grab the knife and flick it open. hot tears run down his cheeks as the blade scores easily through the wood. but this isn’t enough. it will do nothing. nobody cares about this wood, nobody gives a damn if it’s cut into little pieces or left as it was. no, kaveh needs to do something else. something more gratifying- he needs to hurt something that’s alive. to make his father understand.