Unapologetic (LGBTQ+ Trans MxM)

Chapter 9

I was dreading getting back home, facing my father. Having to listen to his opinions, his judgement. Hearing him tell me that it was all my fault, that it was always my fault. Because that's what he always did. He'll take Brodie's side over his own son's. Because his love for me is not bigger than his hate towards anything different than the norm. He will always choose his own selfish ideas over his own blood. And all I can do is sit and watch. With the knowledge that my parents will always think of me as their little girl. Always their daughter, never their son.
'What trouble did you get into this time?' Dad asked angrily the moment me and mom stepped through the door. It had been raining outside and my wet hair covered my eyes. I had put my bandaged hand inside my raincoat so it wouldn't be soaking wet. Dad was waiting for us in the kitchen. Beer in hand. His thin oily hair sticking to his skin.
'What's that, broke your arm?' He scoffed when I took my hand out of my coat.
I tried to ignore him and walked up the stairs. There was no point in fighting, it wouldn't get anywhere. But he still wanted my attention. He wanted me to say something back to him, to get angry at him. But whatever I said, it would just come out wrong in his ears. I didn't have the mental or physical energy to deal with that. So I walked away, just like my therapist said. And my parents didn't stop me.
In my room I went to sit on the bed. My fingers automatically reached for my guitar. It always comforted me when I was sad, or angry. I could lose myself in the music. Playing a soothing melody, or an angry one, anything would be fine. But when I touched it, I realised that I couldn't play. Not with my hand being heavily bruised. I took a deep breath, hoping that would comfort me. But there was too much noise in my head. Too many voices telling me that it was all my fault. I needed to do something, I needed to play something, anything. I put my guitar on my lap. Maybe I could play with one hand. That should help, right? The fingers of my left hand touched the strings, they were trying to find a melody, a rhythm, something to get lost in. But one hand wasn't enough. It was an empty melody, an inaudible melody. The guitar constantly moved around, dangerously close to sliding off my lap. I tried to hold it down but a sharp pain shot through my arm. I let go and my guitar landed on the floor with a loud klang. I grabbed my pillow from my bed and took it to my face. I screamed, the sound muffled by the fluff inside of it. I stopped and put my pillow back on my bed. It had helped a little bit, but it wasn't enough. It still wasn't enough. I felt the rage building up again. I turned to my pillow and hit it. I hit it as hard as I could. I hit it again, and again, and again. The feeling, this frustration that is boiling up, has to come out. The voices need to stop. It's burning through my skin. Coming out through my mouth. I needed to hit the pillow. I needed to get it out. A sound escaped from my throat. A loud screeching. I threw the pillow through the room, a thud and it landed against my mirror in the corner of the room. I took a deep shaky breath. The feeling started to fade away a little. I looked at the pillow. It was just lying there, like a depressed sack of potatoes. My eyes shot up to the mirror. The one I've had my whole life. I stood up and walked towards it. I looked at myself. At my hourglass figure and the hideous bumps on my chest that people like to call boobs. My clothes didn't quite hide my figure and My boobs stuck out like a tumour. They weren't supposed to be there, they didn't fit there. I tried to hide them with my hands. But it wasn't enough. They didn't belong there, they weren't right. They had to go. I tried to push them in, I don't even know why I thought that would work. Something within me wanted to scratch them off. Like that would work better. It'd just hurt and when I took away my hands they were back. They always came back. It haunted me. They were never gone, and they won't magically disappear. That is another reason I don't believe in god. He never answered my prayers.
Someone knocked on my door. I put my phone away and stood up from my bed. To open the door.
A girl with long blond hair stood on the other side.
'Isabell,' I said, 'W-what are you doing here?'
'I came to check up on you ofcourse,' She smiled as she walked past me.
'Is it bad?'
I looked at my hand, it still hurt a lot. The doctor said it would be as good as new in six weeks. But that was way too long.
'It's not broken, atleast,' I said reassuringly.
'That's good,'
I stayed silent. As she went to sit on my bed. I didn't know what to say. I was happy she was here, that she checked up on me, that she cared. But a part of me was scared. What if she just did this out of pity? What if she didn't see me as a guy at all, but she is just nice to me because mom told her to be? No, stop it. Stop thinking.
I went to sit next to her. Neither of us knew what to say. It was a sad situation, I wasn't in a cheerful mood.
'So how are you doing?'
'I forgot to tell you! I have a boyfriend!'
'Oh my god! Really?'
'Yes! His name is Jake and he is so hot, I swear to you, you've never seen anyone more attractive!' I could name one person.
'I'm so happy for you.'
'I'm actually meeting up with him so I have to go,' She said, 'Will you be alright?'
I nodded, but I knew that I wouldn't be. I would be alone with my thoughts again, and that is a deadly combination.