Unapologetic (LGBTQ+ Trans MxM)

Chapter 2

My dad pushed me against the wall the second the front door closed. He didn’t even hang up his coat on the old dusty coat hanger mom got him for christmas three years ago, thrifted, ofcourse. He pointed his finger in my face holding my shirt with his other hand.
'Why do you always have to cause trouble? Huh?'
I stayed silent. What did I have to say? Sorry that you are such a shitty dad?
'Huh? Answer me!'
My heart was pounding in my chest. I might pretend to be brave, but I really am not. My father was at least ten times stronger than me and he was a whole lot bigger and heavier. Nothing like Brodie.
'I'm sorry,' I managed to get out. 'I-I'll work on it. I'll learn how to control myself.'
Dad's eyes pierced into mine, I felt tears forming. Not sad tears, not the ones that burn your eyes when they run down your cheek and block your vision. No. Angry tears, the ones that make it hard to focus because all you can see is the wretched thing you are angry about. All you can feel is hate, and hate is not a pleasant feeling. Dad was fuming. I want to do it right, do what I need to do to be loved by him, but I know that, what I need to do for him to love me like a father should love his son, is only going to make me more miserable. He wants me to be “normal” but I can’t and I don’t want to either. Why can’t he just accept me for who I am? God made everyone perfect, right? Then why is my existence a sin.
‘What do I do with you?’ He asked. ‘Grounding you isn’t going to be enough, chores aren’t either. What do I do to fix this?’
‘Ever thought it could be your fault?’ I mumbled.
‘What did you just say?’
Stupid Nick, stupid. Why did you have to say that out loud!
‘Nothing,’
‘Don’t you dare lie to me!’
‘I- I’m not,’
His eyes pierced mine. His eyebrows were frowned. His face showed nothing but hatred. If there was any love behind that cold exterior, I couldn’t see it.
I looked away.
I knew what was coming, I saw it in his expression, his face was as red as a tomato and his jaw was clenched, his nostrils were a whole lot bigger than they should be. I saw it in his eyes, the way they twitched, the darkness that you couldn’t literally see, but still somehow perceive, like how you might feel that someone is watching you, even if you can’t literally see them. I knew that putting on a sad face or apologising wasn’t going to stop it. I knew that it was a chance the moment he pushed me against the wall, I knew it when he raised his hand in the air, ready to strike.
'Wait!' my mom interfered, her hands placed on the shoulders of the guy she married. 'You know she has therapy today, we don't want mrs. Wood asking questions,'
My dad groaned. In truth the argument mom gave didn’t make much sense, I was already covered in bruises. Mrs Wood probably won’t notice a few more. But it worked. Dad let me go and walked towards the living room. I realised that I was shaking, I looked at the ground, suppressing the tears forming in my eyes, this time I didn’t know if they were sad or angry tears, or maybe tears of fear. I breathed deeply to get my heartrate to normal again. Mom was also silently looking at the ground. I looked at her, she saved me, but she wouldn’t dare look at me. I know she did it, not because she didn’t want mrs. Wood to ask questions, but because she wasn’t the same as dad. Behind the mask was a nice loving person. One that fell into a trap, forever imprisoned by marriage. She did feel some love for me, and it was visible enough for me to see it. Not enough to hug me, but enough to prevent dad from punching me. I guess I should be grateful for that, but I can’t help and feel sad about it. It doesn’t excuse all the times she let dad do it. Even though I know it isn’t her fault, I felt angry at her. And my therapist told me, when I feel angry, I should try to escape the situation. So I ran upstairs, up to my room, and slammed the door behind me.

Tick, tock, tick, tock. The clock ticked on forward. The sun was shining through the big windows of the office. My therapist was sitting on a chair in front of me. Notebook and pen, ready to write some notes. I was looking at the plants on the shelf. Classic houseplants. There were also some books on the shelf, about psychology. Titles like: Positive Psychology, the secret to happiness! and: The beauty of Neurodivergence.
We weren't talking and the silence was deafening. We had been sitting like that for seven minutes and twenty three seconds. Well… Twenty six now.
My therapist cleared her throat.
'What happened?'
I looked up from the ground.
'What?'
'You are hurt, what happened?'
I took a deep breath.
'I um, I might have gotten into a fight, at school,'
'I see,' She drummed her pen against her cheek. 'Can you tell me how it happened? And what were you feeling at that moment?'
She smiled warmly at me.
'This kid, his name is Brodie, was saying some stuff about me, to me.'
She nodded.
'What did he say? Do you want to tell me that?'
'Uhm,' I was scared that if I told her I’d burst into tears. I saw the white curtains in the room. And on the wall there was a poster with the text: “Remember, this is a safe place, nothing that happens in this room leaves this room without your permission” Maybe it was just a ploy to make you feel you have control, but it was enough for me to answer the question, 'He said that I don't have any friends because I cut my hair short,' A tear rolled down my cheek. That is when the crying came, 'and that I will never be a boy,'
I was looking at the ground again. Trying to hide my face. My therapist stayed silent. Consumed by her thoughts. Untill she asked me a question.
'Are you a boy?'
I didn't know what to say, no one had ever asked me something like this.
'What?'
'Do you feel like a boy? Trapped in a girl's body?'
'Uhm,' I hesitated, how would she react? 'I, um, I think so?'
She nodded and wrote something down in her notebook.
'Do you have a name yet?' She asked.
I looked at her confused.
'Well' she said 'Madelyn doesn't sound very masculine, does it?'
I smiled.
'Nick, that's my name.'
'Okay then I'll call you Nick, and shall I use he/him pronouns?'
Tears rolled down my cheeks while I nodded. They weren't sad tears though, they were happy ones. Something I had never felt before. I expected my therapist to be transphobic, to hate me for who I am, just like everyone else. To call me sinful, weird, freak. But she didn’t.
'Ye-yes, I'd like that.'