Pretty Boy, Butch Girl

Chapter Four - Draco

"What's going on?" I asked quietly, still half asleep, seeing my father standing in my room. Garbage bags, full of something, littered the room. I sat up.

He pointed to a stack of neatly folded clothing on the nightstand. "You'll be wearing that, today. Go downstairs first."

"What? Why?"

He gave me an impatient look. "Because I told you to," he all but snarled.

I frowned at him, then cautiously got to my feet. "What are you-"

"Go. Now. Do not test my patience, Draco."

I walked slowly down the stairs, hugging myself. My feet were cold and bare, my toenails still painted. Mother saw me and motioned me wordlessly towards a still-empty second dining room, where a single chair sat in the middle of the room, a few yet-to-be-unpacked boxes littered about. I was about to ask what the hell was going on, when Mother gently rubbed my shoulder, leading me onward. "Come on, dear," she said softly. "You'll not be going to school today. We're going to spend some quality time together, you and I,"

I relaxed a bit. Mother and I used to go out together all the time. She was certainly only doing it now because she disapproved of- whatever Father was doing, but I wasn't sure I cared. She sat me down in the chair, and I closed my eyes, still very tired.

I heard a buzzing sound. "What-?" I started, just as Mother sheared part of my hair off, vibrating my skull. My mouth fell open, and I sat there, suddenly very awake, staring forward. I felt chunks of hair fall off onto my shoulders, onto the floor. Mother's small fingers were soft and gentle, her nails long and almost soothing as they moved my hair. It was in stark contrast to the deep, painful sense of betrayal I felt. From the first swipe across my head, it was too late to stop her. The damage had been done.

She didn't give me a buzz cut. In fact, she didn't cut the top of my hair at all. Wordlessly, numbly, I tried to respond to her gentle prodding to see if I liked it. I made my way back up to my room to get dressed. Father and the bags were gone. All of my Rave Faggot™ clothes were missing, leaving only Catholic Schoolboy. I took off my clothes and made my way to the nightstand, where the clothes were still waiting for me. I caught sight of myself in the mirror.

My messy platinum pompadour. My boyish face. My adam's apple. My broad shoulders, lithe arms. My flat chest. My thin hips. My penis and my balls. My hairy legs. My big feet. I started to sob, the sounds ripping out of my throat painfully. I collapsed on my bed, still staring at myself, horrified.

You're not a woman.

You'll never be a woman.

You're a monster and a freak. Look at yourself. Look at yourself.

Look at yourself.

I hugged myself, tucking my legs under me. I lay back on my bed, listening to myself. I sounded pathetic. I was pathetic. I tried to reason with myself- it's just a haircut. You can get new clothes- hide them if you have to.

But I remembered my father's angry face, stern instructions. I could almost feel my mother's soft, loving hands as she stripped away every ounce of femininity I had, not caring about what it would do to me.

Because they didn't care about me. They cared about how I seemed, how they seemed. With nothing else better to change into, I pulled on the boxer briefs laid out on my nightstand, my trousers, my polo, my socks. I slipped into the loafers by my bed. I glanced at the mirror again. I was no longer sobbing, but tears still flowed freely. I was still disgusted by the boy looking back at me, his face full of sorrow and disgust and hurt and anger. I could have been happy, he seemed to be thinking. If you hadn't stolen my body.