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Annabelle looked at herself in the mirror, her gaze unwavering; her bright blue eyes meeting her own. She looked down at her hands, watching as her fingers moved in a meticulous, calculated manner before returning to the mirror, looking at her now distorted face. She couldn't place what was wrong with her face, how inhuman it looked. But that's exactly how Annabelle felt. Inhuman. She traced her seemingly wobbly features again, the limp and frayed curls in her hair, until she realized what was wrong with the reflection staring back at her. It was the fact that a girl could fall in love with another girl, and she was one of them.
Her daddy had suspected such a thing years ago. He'd playfully tease Annabelle about it. “You're mother was the same,” he'd say when his teasing upset her. “There's no shame in it.” Yet, Annabelle told herself, convinced herself, that she wasn't. She couldn't. And for years, she convinced herself of the lie.
To distract herself from the thought, she'd developed a habit of going into town to look for dresses and husbands. On every outing, she found a new dress she absolutely adored, but never a man.
But then came Josie. Everyone called her Butch, but Annabelle never knew if it was a nickname to make fun of her or one she genuinely went by, since she looked more like a boy than a girl. But every time she walked past Josie, her stomach would do flips. She never knew if it was Josie's short brown hair, pink lips, waist, muscular arms, or perfectly blushed cheeks that made it hard to look away, but it was hard to keep focused when she was around Josie. Sometimes, looking in that exact mirror, she could imagine Josie behind her, holding her waist and enveloping Annabelle into her arms. A weird feeling of embarrassment would swirl around her stomach and sometimes froze her in place. But was embarrassment the right word for the feeling? Annabelle wasn't sure. But whatever it was, it was overbearing and moderately uncomfortable.
She was staring back at her reflection, watching a single tear roll down her cheek, leaving behind a trail. The tear angered her. Someone like her, someone gay and weird, shouldn't feel sad. They don't deserve to feel at all. They're inhuman.
She saw Josie again in the mirror. No. Nonononono. She has to go away. She wanted–needed–to make Josie go away. She blinked hard a few times until Josie finally disappeared.
Josie's disappearance brought back Annabelle's prior emotions, and between the feeling of inhumanity and the conflicting thought of deserving no emotion, Annabelle sobbed. Her conflicting ideals hammered her down. If it wasn't the feeling of self-loathing beating her down, it was the idea that she felt like she wasn't allowed to feel the self-loathing. Over and over, her thoughts battled each other, but each one made her cry more. Her knees began to fail her, wobbling as she walked over to her bed before allowing herself to collapse, laying her head on the bed while her knees landed with a soft thud on the carpet. She wept into her arms. Sad, angry, upset, whatever thought and its linked emotion were in the forefront, the cyclic torment felt like it would never cease.
“You okay, pumpkin?”
Annabelle nearly jumped out of her skin as her head shot up. It was her daddy. He heard the thud from downstairs and called up to Annabelle to make sure she was alright. Not receiving a response, and hearing the subsequent sobs, he ran up the stairs. He feared that Annabelle had gotten hurt, and now all he saw was his upset daughter and her tear-stained face.
Annabelle quickly rubbed the tears away and sniffled. "It's nothin’, Daddy.”
“This don't look like nothin’,” he responded, sitting on the floor next to Annabelle. “Come ‘ere, pumpkin.”
He held his arms out to her, and almost immediately, she was sitting on his lap. Her head rested on his shoulder; her feet still flat on the ground. They sat for a moment in silence. Together. Annabelle might have been 16, but she would always be daddy's little girl. He even rocked her back and forth like when she was younger. She sniffled again before she broke the silence.
Her voice was soft, barely kept together, “I think I'm a lesbian, Daddy.”
“That's okay. Your mother-”
“-was the same way. I know,” she interrupted, her voice wavering and cracking. “I don't wanna be like her. I don't wanna to abandon you for San Francisco. I don't wanna be teased at school.”
“People are always gonna find a reason to tease you, pumpkin,” he responded. “You just gotta be happy with yourself and not care what others think.” He paused for a moment, seemingly confused. “Who said you had to go to San Francisco?”
“I dunno,” she mumbled. “Mama did it.”
“And you're not your mother,” he said. “I don't care what you do as long as you're happy. Unless you're robbin’ banks or somethin’.”
Annabelle smiled a bit, then frowned again. “You don't think it makes me less. . . human?”
“Bein’ a lesbian?”
Annabelle nodded.
He held her closer. “Of course not, pumpkin. I'd rather you know who you are rather than tryin’ to run away from it.”
Annabelle nodded again, still being held by her father, breathing slowly and calmly.
“Why don't you tell me about this girl?”