Chapter Text
"For rebellion is like the sin of divination, and arrogance like the evil idolatry. Because you have rejected the word of the Lord, he has rejected you as king."
1 Samuel 15:23
His knees were already starting to turn purple. The pain was durable, at least for now it was. The palms of his hands were white, as his mind blank. Nigel kneeled at the statue of his creator. He would often curse on his name, and ponder, and plead. Nigel’s parents would often drag him to the floor of the Chapel, by any means necessary. They believed he had a disease, and so did his peers. A disease, only their Lord and Savior could fix. Occasionally, he would look up from the floor—not for long—but for until his neck started to ache from lifting it. Not only did his body and his bones ache, his soul did too.
Permanent indentations painted themselves across the knees of this young boy. Nigel had never been struck by his father, nor his mother. Maybe by the church itself, or maybe by the looks radiating towards him when he walks down the street. Perhaps by the image in the mirror, or maybe the person he used to be. His body had never been physically ruined, but he felt rather he had been born ruined.
The smell of the dust from centuries long ago overwhelmed him. His ears no longer worked, nor did his mind. Sounds of chattering adults were muffled. This beautiful Sunday evening was wasted at the foot of Jesus. His mind drew nothing but a blank, as opposed to his thoughts—which were scattered across the walls of the building.
Voices violently shook his mind back into play. “...We’re leaving.” A slot where a name should’ve been said was replaced by a silence. He heard what he wanted to hear, every time. Nigel didn’t bother to look at the figure behind him. Instead, he looked up at the statue once more—this time for an exceedingly longer period of time. The strain of his neck gave out, and sent his head crashing down to the floor. Now resting on his prayerful hands, he extended his arms as a will to get up. One hand on his left, the other on his right. He slowly picked up his body, and then his head—which was throbbing with the pain of his own thoughts, and others expectations. He now froze on the blackening of his knees. Biting his tongue—to replace what would’ve been a weep—one knee was picked up, leaving the rest of his weight on the other. Long, inky hair covered his evolving masculinity. His other knee swung around, forcing himself to stand up. Nigel’s head turned around, but his eyes did not follow. Instead, they looked at the back of his parents' soles. His legs began to move as his dignity began to sink. The walls of the Chapel were dimly lit—half from candles, half from artificial lights—the ceiling was at least thirty feet towards God. His parents suddenly stop right in front of him, which he follows. His father turns around to look at Nigel, but is met with his downturned face.
Nigel raises his head due to his father’s demand.” John, Helen.” An unknown voice greeted his parents. His eyes were met with an older lady’s stare. The lady was hastily taken aback as soon as she locked eyes with the person in front of her. “Is everything alright, dear?” His father asked—voice dripping with concern, but not for his son—he never broke contact. In front of him was a familiar woman with long grey hair, wrapped up in a braid. She wore an extended, black, turtleneck dress, though there was no reason why she decided to dress so warm. It wasn’t particularly cold outside, nor inside. Her skinny neck was layered with necklaces of all sorts and sizes. Examining her pale green eyes, she wore black mascara all over her eyelids. From her eyes to his, she saw nothing. Maybe she saw his long hair, or his long skirt—coincidentally covering the bruises which lie in his knees—or the displeasure painted on his face.
Eyes are the windows to the soul. Your innermost thoughts and feelings can be ripped from your hands in no more than just a glance. You hold no power over what’s inside of you. The glare of the artificial light shone on his pupil—from which she could see no more. No emotion, no thoughts. No memories, no past, nor future. She pounded with all her might to be let into his barrier of bullet-proof glass, but her weakness automatically denied her entry. Nigel’s gaze wreaked havoc into her mind. He raised his finger to the thin glass of her security, with one tap of his skinny finger, it broke. It shattered to the floor in front of him. It’s like being in a one sided mirror. The woman was trapped with no escape inside of the glass. Only being able to see what is noticeably right in front of her—her own reflection. Nigel’s advantage was the ability to see his reflection as well as her own. He was dominant in the headspace of others, superior even. He craved the feeling of entering other’s minds. He yearned to be let in. The two snapped back to reality when he heard the words he had dreaded to hear his whole life. As much as he tries to block out the words constantly attacking him, he fails. Words have a mind of their own. To their advantage, they’re invisible, but they fight dirty. They’ll always be lurking around you, waiting for you to feel good about yourself, just so they turn everything you created into dust. They feed off your own vulnerability.
Beautiful. He heard the word, “beautiful,” come from the mouth of the Devil himself. That wasn’t all, it was followed by another reminder of Nigel’s past. “This is my beautiful daughter.” For a second, his walls were lowered and his windows were cracked. A glimpse of vulnerability and anger coursed through his veins. Most of him wished his father was strapped on an examination table. Completely immobile, while he readied his tools and tidied his space. He felt a hunger to dissect him like a frog. Starting with the face, carefully cutting his tongue out. Followed by cutting his vocal cords in half, leaving it bloody and messy, and making sure to keep him alive in the process. He would soon begin to carve his organs out. Nigel wished he could make his father feel his pain—his screams in horror and agony were a sure sign of it. Every time he screamed, he would feel the pure hatred Nigel felt for him. Each scream and weep would be more painful than the last. He imagined what he would do in the split second of the moment, and the smallest smile appeared on his face. This was a desire that he had longed to complete.
His gaze was broken once his father’s elbow collided with his shoulder. The small smirk erased itself from his face as if it was never there. A look of animosity was shot into the side of John’s head. The feeling so strong, a bullet could’ve pierced straight through his skull, yet you would never be able to tell the difference. Nigel then shot a glance at his mother—who he could never muster up hatred for. An empathetic look shot back. “I really must leave now, it was nice seeing you both.” The woman said before swiftly cutting through them, and hurrying away. A scowl appeared on one adult’s face, a sigh came from the other. John started to walk, then Helen followed. Nigel stood still for a moment, before he too started walking. He slowed his pace. The door was opened in front him—but John would’ve let it slam in his face, if he had not stopped. Nigel turned his head in the slightest to look back at the place he hoped to never return too. In his view of the paintings, stained glass, and the statue of Jesus—he had wasted too many mornings and evenings at.
Their ride home in their 2001 Toyota Corolla was quiet. The air was still thick, and in order not to choke—Nigel didn’t speak. Instead, he looked out of the backseat window. He watched the mass of moths congregating around the bright street lights. Particularly, noticing the corpses which lie on the light itself. The road was nearly empty, which meant he would soon arrive at the place he dreaded most—home. “Look dear, there’s a cat on the side of the road. Poor thing.” Helen noted, but it was clear she was only talking to herself. Nigel stared at the disfigured cat with its guts all over the road. He could hear its painful meow in his head, not that he cared for it any. The cat was dead, yet the essence of death surrounding it fascinated him.
They pulled in the driveway of their two-story home. The engine shut off, and all three doors were opened. Nigel stepped out into the night, crickets playing their tune outside. He stopped for just a moment, looking out onto the streets of his neighborhood. The lights in the house across from him were on. He focused his gaze on a family of three—much like his own. Except, this family seemed lively. They were chatting instead of staring, the father had a smile instead of a scowl, the wife held her husband's hand from the seat next to him instead of sitting on the opposite end of the table. Nigel examined their behavior, although he would never display such vulnerability. A hand slid across his back, yet he didn’t turn. “Come inside, love.” A nurturing voice cut into his ears. She tried her best, and he partly understood it. When the time came, he would kill murder her quickly—it’s the least he could do for her. Nigel eventually turned around, looking over her head—his father was nowhere in sight. Helen formed a soft smile on her face, which was met with nothing in return. She lowered her smile and turned, letting out a sigh before walking in. Nigel had no choice but to follow.
John had already made himself comfortable in his imprinted spot on their couch. A bottle of beer in his hand, and condensation droplets were rolling down his hand. Nigel stood in the doorway behind him, looking past him and now at the tv—which was illuminating the dark room with some sitcom. He continued walking towards the stairs. His mother was standing at the kitchen sink, back turned towards Nigel. He didn’t care to stay for whatever problem she was having. Instead, he ascended up the carpeted stairs and immediately flung himself into his room. He locked the door behind him, and began unbuttoning his shirt. He knew the layout of his room—he didn’t even bother to turn on the light—before entering his built-in restroom. Nigel’s finger scraped along the textured wall, searching for the exact location of the light switch. Flicking it on, he slowly removed his shirt, exposing his skin underneath. Nigel then folded it and stored it on the right side of the sink. He looked in the mirror at himself, at his long black hair, at his undergarments, but most of all—at his femininity.
Only one of the other three light bulbs worked, and barely at that. The light was dim, and occasionally flickered. The sink had water dripping for who knows how long. On the left side of the sink, a quarter filled tub of toothpaste, one singular toothbrush, a jar of face wash—among other necessities. On the right were these jars filled with animal carcasses, and nearly melted candles. Nigel had planned to add the cat from the side of the road to his collection, if he hadn’t had to leave in the morning. It’d be a complete mystery on how he would be able to get the cat back to his room in one piece, considering its guts covering the road. This mystery would be one that Nigel could somehow make possible. Next to the toilet was the shower, which was completely covered by its gray toned curtain. He turned around and pulled the curtain back, exposing the white shower. The handle turned on as soon as his hand connected with it. Nigel turned it to a medium heat, and now slipped out of his long skirt. It fell down to his ankles, bending to pick it up, he neatly folded it and placed it on top of the shirt.
Nigel removed his undergarments without bothering to pick new clothes for after, and stepped onto the slick surface of the shower. The lukewarm water splashed down on his back as he backed up more into the stream. The water splashed upon his back, completely coating his skin and hair in the wetness. Water ran down his face, and he didn’t bother to open his eyes. He let the water wash away his problems. His troubles and worries melted off him and down the drain. Nigel ran his lanky fingers through the scalp of his head to clear the hair from his eyes. His greatest enemy wasn’t his parents or his religion. It was himself. It was how he looked.
He stared at the wall opposite him. The water purified him. He felt anew. Nigel is known within the Colbie family for his extended shower periods. In the secluded walls of the shower, he could isolate himself from reality. He didn’t have to bear the shame brought on him from family. He could be himself—not herself. He let the water run over his eye sockets as he tilted his head up. After a minute or two—letting his body adjust to the water, he turned and grabbed the first of two bottles. An open half-used bottle of shampoo sat in his hand. Automatically turning it over, making the information on the back incomprehensible. He shook and slapped the bottom of the soap until a clear fluid poured into his palm. In the same swift motion, he both sat the shampoo down and began lathering it on his hair. It took both hands for him to evenly massage it into his scalp. The time it took for him to wash his hair wasn’t ideal. Nigel loved the feeling of clean hair but hated the feeling of having something attached to him that didn’t belong to him. The soap ran down his neck and collected at his feet until it could properly drain. He didn’t bother to look away from the wall. Once the soap had disappeared from his hair, he turned and grabbed the last remaining bottle and continued the cycle—but this time only lathered the bottom of his hair. He didn’t bother to wash his body this time. It wasn’t because he was a filthy person, but because he couldn’t stand to touch himself. Nigel didn’t want his already imprinted femininity spread to any other part of his body. He didn’t want to feel the lumps on his chest that he had been cursed with. He couldn’t look at or touch himself. The conditioner ran down and made the floor slippery, but Nigel didn’t move at all. The only sin the water couldn’t purify from him was the creature of hatred in his mind. It had been trained to hate every inch of him—for as long as he could remember.
To conclude his shower ritual, he turned around and rotated the shower handle from lukewarm to the hottest setting it had. Turning back around, the water began to boil. Steam crowded the air that surrounded him and fogged up the mirror. He closed his eyes and bit the inside of his cheeks to suppress the pain of being boiled. The temperature rose and scorched him, turning his pale skin into a pink splotchy mess. He didn’t bother to move when the water ran too hot. Nigel thought that since the soothing water couldn’t wash his hatred away, maybe it would do better to burn it out of him. His skin turned from a soft pink to a darker shade. On two sides of the same coin, it hurt him, but it also allowed him to feel something. It made him feel human. The water made him forget everything outside the walls of the enclosure. It made him forget he had a father that drinks and yells too much, or a mother that doesn’t do much of anything, or a reality that had been spoiled by hatred. The longer Nigel stood thinking about what he had and what he didn’t, the darker his skin became. For a moment, the pain stopped, and it seemed the water had stopped mid-air as well. Maybe there was something completely wrong with him, or that he imagined different scenarios—so he could escape his own—too much that they began to come true. At that moment, when everything was still, it appeared no one would know what truly happened. This time, he had left himself to rot under the shower head for longer than usual. His imagination took up most of his time. When Nigel was able to snap himself back to reality, he suddenly remembered where he still was. He forced himself to look at his body, blurring out his genitals and only focusing on the affected areas from the boiling temperature. In one swift motion, he turned back around and dragged the handle down. The water slowly disappeared, leaving a trail of dripping water still hanging from the shower head. Pulling back the curtain, a gust of cold air slapped him across the face. One foot after the other, Nigel stepped onto the bathroom mat. Naturally, he grabbed the nearest towel—which he had just been used the other day—but he didn’t have the strength or any proper reason to care. Without the towel, Nigel was vulnerable. He hated it. His body was on display for the audience on the other side of the mirror to see. They were all laughing at him and pointing fingers. Phony. Fake. What shall he be called next? As soon as the towel touched his body and covered him up, the voices went away. His mind was completely rid of them.
The mirror was completely fogged up with condensation. Through the doorway, he peeked back into his own room. The room reflected his mind long ago. It was like it, and everyone was stuck in time, but he was the only one willing to move on. The walls were white, yet the decorations were still so feminine. Nigel had tried to take down what he was able to, but it remained no different. His room had been touched by him, with his taxidermy projects, or his empty jars awaiting to be used. Yet, his parents still had their grimy hands wrapped around his neck and everything in his possession. Nigel dug through his drawers and pulled out a black shirt and a pair of black boxers—which his parent had no idea he had. A knock came from the other side of the door. He didn’t turn around. “Nancy, I’ve got dinner for you. It’s just last night’s leftovers.” A muffled voice came from the other side. Nancy. He clenched his jaw, so he could refrain from yelling a cruel remark. He managed to stay calm, “Not hungry.” Helen didn’t expect anything other than the usual, yet she still tried. Nigel didn’t eat, at least not any of her cooking. The sound of the porcelain plate being laid on the floor sent an echo through the hall. “I’ll just leave this here for whenever you are.” He waited for the footsteps to recede before he continued anything.
The smell of his mother’s leftover casserole made him sick, he couldn’t think of anything worse. Nigel stopped to stare at the girly clothes he would usually wear. The ones he hated. The hems of the clothes sat between his fingers as he grabbed his usual black pajama pants. He slowly unwrapped the towel and dropped it on the floor. Sliding the boxers on, then the pants, he couldn’t take his gaze off the binding tape that sat on his desk. Nigel loved the look of wearing it, but it was uncomfortable to wear, and it somewhat hurt to an extent. He pulled his black top over his head and stuffed his arms through the remaining holes. He untucked the rest of his hair from the captivity of the shirt. Nigel’s eyes still glued to the tape, yet it awakened something within him. Something that had been yearning to be let out for ages. Tonight was the night, and tomorrow was a new day with a chance of a new beginning.
Nigel kicked past the damp towel on the floor, arriving at his desk and opening the filled drawer. He rearranged items, moved items out of the way, and made disruptions in the scheme of things in hopes of finding the one object he truly desired. A gray handle appeared from the rubble of the drawer, and as he created a path for it follow, two sharp blades came with it. He picked up the scissors and attempted to shut the drawer—but to no one’s surprise, wouldn’t shut due to the total chao he made within. Since he was so eager to do what he’s wanted to do his whole life, he left the drawer cracked. He continued to the restroom, stopping just in front of the barely fogged up mirror. Nigel extended his free hand to wipe away the rest of the condensation, then wiped his moist hand on the side of his pajama pants. It was nearly like he couldn’t contain his excitement. He took one final look at himself. Part of him wondered if he should say goodbye, but the other part overruled it considering he had already said his farewells to her long ago. The scissors opened and snipped the first of many pieces of hair off. Black hair landed in the sink. Then it opened and snipped again, and again, and again. He had found freedom in a state of captivity. He had been chained up by his mind, his parents, this house, and most importantly by the Lord. Nigel despised God, for He had never shown him mercy or help at his many hours of need. No matter how many hours Nigel spent at the church every day pleading to make him normal again, God never helped. He never made him normal, nor did he make his mind quiet. God had betrayed him just as his femininity had his whole life. While completely immersed in thought, the scissors opened and snipped for the last time.
The sound of the blades cutting strand by strand shot him back to reality. Nigel looked in the mirror and it looked right back at him. He was speechless. The final visible thread of femininity had been cut from him. Nigel was no longer this person that lived inside his head. He was now Nigel in every sense. A smile appeared on his face, and it was genuine. He looked normal, and most of all, he felt normal. The reflection that looked back at him had short black hair. It was obvious that it hadn’t been professionally cut, but he didn’t care. A collection of hair formed in the sink. He scooped his hand into the pile of hair and collected the majority. Nigel put the scissors on the counter space to the right of him, then leaned his hand over the trash can next to him, and let the hair slide in. He then walked back to his bedroom, flicking the bathroom light off as he passed. It was already late, so he turned off his one remaining lamp. In the pitch darkness, he found his way to his bed and covered himself up in the thin layer of sheets. Nigel kept his gaze at where his suitcase would be. When he closed his eyes, his view remained the same shade of black. He desperately hoped he would dream or at least have a nightmare—for he hadn’t had any in years, but he didn’t.