Trusting Desire

Chapter One

A small, too-thin boy stands alone on the sidewalk, waiting for a bus; he is wearing a hoodie that is at least two sizes too big for him, a pair of tattered, hand-me-down jeans, and beat-up sneakers. His hood is up to hide his face, partially because he doesn't want anyone to see he is crying and partly to hide the black eye his father gave him. After a few minutes, the bus arrives, and the boy steps on, swiping his bus pass and officially saying goodbye to everything he has known for the past eighteen years.

I close my notebook and look out the window to my right as the bus merges onto the highway. There is no turning back now, not that I want to; there's nothing left for me in Scarsdale. I have no family, friends, or home; at least in New York, I'll be able to start over and be the real me, Mark, instead of the daughter I've had to pretend to be my whole life. I lay down across the two seats, using my bookbag as a pillow. My head is pounding; I close my eyes, hoping sleep will end the pain.

I'm sitting on my bed, wrapping bandages tightly around my chest. I can already tell it's too tight to be healthy, but this is the only way to lessen the dysphoria. The bruises are already present on my chest from the previous day's wrapping ache as I go over them. They never fully heal because I never have the bandages off for too long. Once the dressings are secure, I stand up and walk over to the mirror in the corner of my room; everyone always says I'm too thin, but I don't feel thin. I run my hands over my chest and down to my stomach; even though I can touch bones, I see myself in the mirror, and I see that I am still too chubby. If I could just lose a little more weight, my chest would be smaller, and I could gain some muscle and look masculine.

"What the fuck!" My sister Cindy screams; I jump back at the sound.

I throw my hands up to block my chest as if that will stop her from seeing anything. She runs out of the room, and I quickly throw on the first pair of pants and shirt before running after her. I'm too late, though, and by the time I get to the top of the steps, I can hear her telling my parents everything. I run back into my room, my heart is racing, and tears are streaming down my face.

"Hannah!"

Now it's my father calling me, and his voice is loud and angry. I can't bring myself to him; I'm too afraid. Too much of a fucking coward. Not long before I hear his heavy footsteps on the stairs, I start panicking. My breathing is rapid and shallow, and my heart is beating faster, so hard I swear it will come out of my chest any second. My vision is blurry from the tears. I sit on my bed, listening for each slow and heavy footstep as he comes closer to my room.

My door swings open and slams into the wall, "take off your shirt."

His voice is low and commanding. I'm crying and shaking my head, no.

"I wasn't asking." he picks me up by the collar of my shirt and puts me back on my feet.

I wrap my arms tight around my torso and hold on to the hem of my shirt to try and keep him from pulling it off. I barely have a moment to realize what's happening before his hand comes across my face hard. The pain is so bad that I'm disoriented for a minute, and my hands stay glued to my shirt. When I get my senses back, I look at him, his face is red, and his eyes look black.

"Please," I sob.

He stares at me with the same cold, unfeeling stare, "Take it off."

I don't move.

The second hit knocks me off my feet, and I fall back onto my bed. My hands let go of my shirt to stop my fall. My father yanks me up by my arm while I'm still disoriented and yanks my shirt up, almost ripping it as he pulls it off.

"My daughter will not be a tranny freak," he says as he pulls his belt out of its loops.

He sits on my bed and pulls me over his lap before he starts hitting me.

After the first few hits, he stops, "What's your name?" he asks.

I don't answer; I can barely catch my breath between sobs. He hits me more; I can't keep count.

"What's your name?" he asks again.

I still don't answer; I don't want to; my name is Mark, not Hannah, but that's not what he wants to hear, and I know it. I'm not brave enough to say Mark, but I refuse to be weak enough to say, Hannah. He continues hitting me; he changes where he hits me, sometimes on my butt, other times on my bare back. I sob through the pain.

"Last chance, What. Is. Your. Name?"

By the time he says this, I feel sick. I don't know how many times he has hit me or how long it's been, but my body hurts. I can't even cry anymore. I just keep telling myself to let go. I want to close my eyes and never open them again. I didn't answer him; I couldn't even if I wanted to. My throat is too dry and sore for me to speak. My body tightens as he shifts, preparing for the next hit, but there isn't one; he pushes me to the floor, and I fall limply.

"Get out," he says, pointing toward the door, "you're not welcome here."

I stare at him for a minute, my eyes pleading with his. But he remains stoic and emotionless, and I stand up. I try to reach for my shirt, but he grabs my arm and shakes his head. I leave my bedroom and down the stairs to our living room.

"Mama," I cry, my voice is cracking and barely above a whisper, but she looks at me.

"I'm not your mom."

I wake up with tears already streaming, my head isn't pounding anymore, but I'm disoriented, and it takes me a minute to remember where I am. I sit up, breathing heavily. I don't know how long I was asleep, but when I looked out the window, we were in the city. This is my first time in New York City, I've been dreaming about coming here for so long, and now I'm actually here. I was nine years old when I first heard of New York; it was a story from one of my teachers who had gone to see a show on Broadway. The way my teacher had described it sounded beautiful; she told our class about the bright lights and the crowds. She told us that there were people playing music on the street.

A few years later, a boy in my class lived in New York, and I never had a chance to talk to him. He was in the popular crowd and far above me in the food chain. But he looked cool; he had short, spiked hair and piercings and always wore pre-ripped jeans and rock band t-shirts. I wondered if everyone in New York was like that boy. If that were the case, I would have to work on my fashion sense because sweaters and hoodies wouldn't cut it in a crowd of jeans.

But now, as the bus made its way up the New York streets, it was hard to reconcile either of those images with real life. The streets of New York were not filled with lights and music but trash and graffiti. The buildings all looked run-down and unkempt, and most people I could see on the sidewalks looked about the same. This was not the NYC my teacher had talked about or that I had imagined that boy coming from, it wasn't the New York from my dreams. But it isn't Scarsdale, and nobody here knows me, which means I can be Mark Cohen. I don't need New York to be bright and lively and filled with music, I just need it to be new, and it works.