Skirt

They executed Joy last week.

Not for theft, or murder, but for what she hid beneath delicate layers of cotton and lace. Betrayed by a body she didn't belong in; a betrayal I know well. I held her skirt in my hands, salvaged from her discarded possessions after that traitorous body was left to hang. The scent of soap clings to the lavender fabric. They washed her possessions before throwing them in the dumpster. A final insult and erasure of her person. I bury my face in the soulless cloth. I could see her in my mind, the skirt like a twirl of petals with every twist of her hips. She loved them long and flowing, not for what they hid, but for how they made her feel free.

The mistake was wearing it on inspection day. When they lined up the skirts for an inspector's callous hand, thrusting forth, checking for validity. I told her to run, go home, change into sanctioned clothing, but I saw it in her eyes. The exhaustion from hiding, from existing in the cage of flesh the Controllers forced on us, a binary code to dictate the world. I understood her exhaustion from fighting a pattern drilled into our bones. My body is male, my soul is not, and the Controllers don't care for the failings of my flesh. I clutch the skirt to my heart, wishing to dye the lavender a deep crimson red to match the bloody beaten creature caged in my chest. I am beyond exhausted.

I stand, and strip off my regulation trousers, unveiling one of my secrets, shaven legs. A secret for the days the Controllers were nowhere near our sector. I slip on Joy's skirt, the folds of lavender sighing around me, patterned by the dark stains of my tears. My face isn't painted, my shirt is a standard plain button down. I don't care. This isn't about hiding or surrender. This is my walk with Joy. As I leave our once shared apartment, I can feel eyes on me, eyes traveling the flat lines of my body, the androgynous features of my face, and the clean, hairless calves exposed by the hem of the skirt.

Today the Controllers swarm the streets. In twenty steps, I am slammed against the side of a building, hard enough to bruise my cheek, bust my lip. My own neighbors watch, their expressions hollow, as they haul me away. The skirt drags in the street, lavender streaked with dirt.

"Tranny."

The whisper is passed among them, the dark dirty secret we shared. They have seen both my faces but now can't meet my eyes, save one. Our gazes catch; the connection fizzes. I see the furious unshed tears in his face, lingering at the edge of the crowd, wide brim hat hiding feminine features, overalls and flannel concealing curves. Don't come forward, not today.

Not today.