Our Great Veins Of Golden Blood

Mirrors

For half an hour, there was peace. The only sound in the whole cottage was the gentle swipe of a paintbrush decorating its canvas, while outside the wind was blowing relentlessly and the rain pelted against the glass of the thin windows. Thunder clouds were looming over the village again, peering down as the silly little people went about their silly little lives, worrying about shopping and driving to places on time. It was probably amusing from the clouds' perspective, seeing as they had to watch every day as insignificant problems were caused, while they simply hung low in the sky. They hung low and brooding, terrifying the villagers as they hurriedly stocked up food in case of a storm that would never arrive.

Inside the cottage on the hill, a teen was standing in his dull bedroom humming a comforting tune that he had forgotten the words to long ago as he painted absentmindedly. His bedroom seemed to be decorated for a nine-year-old more than a sixteen-year-old; its walls were a baby blue and were completely bare, and his room was empty despite a green bed and a few painting supplies. 

The boy didn't care about his surroundings - though - as he bit his lower lip in concentration. Pale skin stretched around his slim build, his lack of a shirt on showing how skinny he was. A white binder was tightly fit around his chest, and he itched it slightly when his hair brushed against it. There was a great contrast when it came to his hair and eyes because his dark hair neatly stayed tucked behind a blue bandana, but that didn't stop a wild curl from hanging in front of his eyes. He huffed in annoyance and blew the strand of hair away from him, pouting. Before he could get more distracted, his jade eyes narrowed as he started to concentrate again. 

What was he painting? He had no idea. Obviously, he was painting an eye, but whenever he tried to think about who's eye it was, his thoughts escaped him and he was back to square one. The eye had long eyelashes, and its outer rim was a turquoise blue that felt so familiar yet so far away. As the colour got closer to the pupil, the eye became a captivating bright clue that was mixed in with the same shade of green as Harry's eyes. The eyelashes framed the eyes perfectly, and it just felt right to have them make shadows on the skin below. 

Throughout the peaceful half an hour, the teen had dropped a few pitiful blobs of paint on the floor and on his concentrated face. He knew his grandmother would be furious that it had happened again while she was out because she would have to scrub the floor whilst he took a lovely refreshing shower. A ball of guilt made itself at home in his stomach at the thought of her working so hard while he took his time singing loudly in the shower. As he put his paintbrush back in the water pot, he shuddered at the thought of her having to listen to his "dramatic howling" as she once said, while she hurt her back even more because of something that he was the cause of. God, why was he so selfish?

"Harriet? What's this mess?" his grandmother's croaky voice rang loudly throughout the house, and he cringed at the thought of her punishing him yet again for trying to help. In a moment of stupidity, he almost told her that Harriet was not his name and it hadn't been since he was ten years old. The memory of that day sent a shiver down his spine, and he tried to shake himself out of his trance as he heard her hobble down the hallway, but he was dizzy with the memories of fear and shame and pure embarrassment that had come with telling his stepfather and grandmother that he didn't think he was always a girl. His door slammed open to reveal his grandmother.

She was a plump woman with a stern face, her green eyes glaring daggers into Harry's as soon as they met his. A chill went down his spine at the sight of her anger, and he immediately felt guilty for trying to bake this morning for her birthday tomorrow. He suddenly remembered the mess he had made when he had forgotten to put the eggs in the fridge and the flour in the baking cupboard. She angrily pushed a strand of blonde hair away from her eye, but her attempt was useless as it fell back into place so that it was hanging loosely instead of being in the high bun like the rest of her hair. 

Blood rushed to Harry's cheeks, "No, Gran, I promise I just wanted to-" he stuttered pathetically as she watched him with eyes full of annoyance, "I just wanted to make you something for your birthday." A look of dismissal passed over her face and for a fleeting moment, Harry stupidly assumed that maybe she was letting him off for being so untidy. He thought wrong because her face went from bored to disgusted in half a second. His eyes started to sting as she ripped the bandana out of his hair. 

"Listen hear, you live under my house, under my rules. What is it about cleaning up after yourself do you not understand? I have raised you since you were six years old, and not once have you met my expectations of you. There is nothing more shameful than having to babysit your dead daughter's faggot child, and yet here I am, doing exactly that!" Harry flinched at the words as he held his bandana in his hand. Nobody in the house brought up his mother's death anymore, and Harry felt sick that it was being used in this context. "The least you could do is respect the fact I wish to have a clean house or even a clean kitchen. Or is that too difficult for your little brain to understand?" 

Harry nodded quickly, wiping away his tears as he let her words sink in. Why didn't he just put away the stupid eggs? Noticing his grandmother's eyes fixed on his hand, he furrowed his brow and looked at the back of his hand. Shit. Blood run cold, he looked back up at her quickly, desperately hoping she was looking at the smudge of paint on his fingertip and not his white binder that he now remembered she hated seeing because it reminded her of a revealing kinda of cropped top.

"Why the hell are you wearing this, Harriet?" she sneers as she shoves him back with a hand on his chest. Harry gulps and wets his lip. She wasn't supposed to see that, because when Harry had woken up he was too tired to do anything other than put his binder on and he had meant to put on a shirt before she got home. 

"My name isn't...it's not Harriet," he stutters out, fearing the consequences already as her face turned angry. "Just Harry." That was the wrong thing to say.

What happened next, Harry didn't comprehend as fast as he should have. His grandmother grabbed him by the hair and yanked hard, earning a whimper from him as she dragged him to the bathroom. The bathroom was small, and she knew that he hated small spaces, so she paid no mind to him as he desperately gripped at the door frames to stop her from taking him there. She had done this before; when he was twelve he had told her that he didn't just feel like a girl and a boy, because he felt like he was somewhere in between. He had been locked in there for fourteen hours, and ever since then, he had been claustrophobic. 

"Please, don't. I can't...please," he begged, "I'll do anything just...please don't lock me in there again." Tears were trailing down his red face, and his breaths were coming out short and hurried while he desperately curled in on himself out of instinct. His last sentence seemed to catch her attention because she suddenly stopped in the hallway outside the bathroom. 

"Anything, you say?" she asked, more to herself than anyone, but Harry nodded regardless. Anything but the tight space of the bathroom for hours on end. She seemed to study him for a second as though she was weighing her options on a very important matter. The only sound in the air was Harry's quick breaths and sniffles, however, the awkward silence was broken by her clapping her hands loudly. Harry tried not to flinch. 

"Meet me in the kitchen in an hour."