He sat down, stood up, walked over to the door, shook its handle to make sure it was locked, paced the bathroom floor, sat down on the toilet lid again and put his head in his hands. The door was locked. He was trapped. But safe behind the door. Where he could be himself instead of trapped inside this body of his.
He walked over to the bathroom cabinet and pulled out some shaving cream. From his pocket he pulled a brand new shaving brush. His brother had bought it for him. He ran his fingers gently over the tips, feeling the slight roughness and falling into its silkyness. The foam was applied and rubbed until his checks were covered. He looked into the mirror and sighed. Such sadness.
He grabbed a face cloth and started to wipe it all off when a loud banging started on the door. It become louder and more frantic and a voice shouted out that it knew chamomile was in there. The boy panicked. He started to cry, his face turning red and his eyes leaking words the heart cannot say. He was pleading when the door opened beneath the strain of the other side. He was on the floor when she came in. He fell to the floor when she started to kick him noticing the bottle of shaving cream in his hand, held as a flame of defeat.
A women who would show no mercy, who would rather have a dead daughter than a live son.
