Fluid (An Original LGBT+ Shortwrite)

Fluid

When they wake up they feel off. Something feels different. A slight difference they can't quite explain. They aren't the same as they were the previous night. Rising from their bed they take a gaze across the room, taking in the small dresser under the window, the homework desk pressed up against the door to the closet. With a brief reluctance they walk to the closet, opening it and staring in.

The closet is full of both "feminine" and "masculine" clothing.

It's not a choice. They know.

They stare into the closet for what feels like hours before finally collecting their clothing for the day. They turn on their heels to walk to the bedroom door, listening to the pattering of their brother's feet from down the short hall. There is a minor hesitation before they open it and step into the hall, moving down it with their head ducked low.

They don't acknowledge their younger brother when he asks whether they are "he" or "she" today. The worn wooden floor is suddenly a much more pleasing sight than their little brother. Though they take his comment as lighthearted teasing it also bothers them at a deeper level.

Does their brother truly accept them; does he secretly judge them? Will he tell their parents? Will their parents accept them?

The sound of their heart pounding in their ears forces them to think of anything else. There is a vague recollection of a party their friend had invited them to. That could be fun, right? Stepping into the bathroom they pull the door closed behind them. There is a small click as the door locks before they turn their full focus to the bathroom in front of them.

A small bathroom with a shower on the far wall, a toilet shoved between the shower and sink with a medicine cabinet mounted above it. On the wall next to the sink is a full length body mirror. Somewhere they spend more time than they would ever admit. A place they spend a lot of time arguing with themself. They remove their nightgown and step in front of the mirror.

The girl that stares back looks sad.

Why are they sad?

They tilt their head and the girl staring back follows the motion.

Every motion is reflected. Every movement. Yet the girl staring back isn't who they are. Not today.

The breasts, the curves, the woman. That isn't who they are. It wasn't something they chose. It was an awareness.

They reach out and touch their own hand in the mirror; the girl in the mirror continues frowning back at them.

"Not today." They say quietly before reaching over to the medicine cabinet and sliding it open. It's a thoughtless motion as they pull out the bag that contains hair clips amongst other products they would use on days like this. At times like this.

In the midst of setting their bag on the edge of the sink a voice fills their head, "Wait." Stopping in their movements they move their focus to their reflection, she has her arms crossed over her chest and her eyes are slightly narrowed. Defiance. "Get the clippers." Out of the corner of their eye they see their father's hair clippers resting in the medicine cabinet.

"What about mom and dad?" Talking to a reflection. Talking to themself. It's been done before. Never like this but they've done it. Usually in their head, the back of their mind arguing with them. Talking themself into telling their brother and their best friend. Convincing themself to care less about what others think.

"Who cares?" She asks them. "You know you want to. Just do it. Be you."

They reach over and take the clippers from the cabinet, staring at them. "What if I'm wrong?"

"We aren't wrong." The girl in the mirror responds easily. "Turn them on. Cut it off. Do it for us. If we don't like it. It's hair. It grows back."

They don't realize they're doing it until they've flipped the clippers on and are running it through their long blonde hair. A buzz cut. Such a simple cut. So much hair going.

It feels like a heavy burden had been lifted for every thread of hair that's cut and falls. For every string of hair that was cut was like severing another chain binding them to what society expected as oppose to what they really wanted. They felt more human. More like themself.

It's just hair but it means so much more. It's a simple sign of who they are.

"What if I'm you?"

"Then you are me. And you are you. We are both you."

When the hair is gone from their head they run their hand through the remaining hair. Staring at themself in the mirror again. At who they are. A smile. There's a smile on the corner of their mouth. The curves don't matter. Not today. They don't say who they are. They say who people think they are. It is never that simple.

They pick up their clothes. The masculine clothing. They pull on their boxer shorts, their slacks, put on a sports bra too small to flatten the curves on their chest. The button up shirt their best friend bought them. They stare at themself in the mirror. Smiling.

They don't see themselves the way they were seen by everyone else. They aren't a he nor a she, not explicitly. Not at once. Sometimes they are one. Sometimes they are another. It doesn't matter to them anymore. They will be who they knew they are. Today they are a he.

He runs his hand through his hair one final time before turning and walking out of the bathroom.