𝐏𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐢𝐧' 𝐆𝐮𝐲 ➺ 𝐵𝓇𝒾𝒶𝓃 𝑀𝒶𝓎 & 𝒬𝓊𝑒𝑒𝓃

(34) 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘶𝘢𝘭 𝘭𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘳

Hi, babies! I'm back.

I do want to take a little bit of time to express that I am so thankful and grateful for your support on this book. I've never been so proud of anything I've written. So I thank you for that.

Secondly, whoever defended me on AO3 in the comments is much appreciated. I was not expecting that. Please DM me so I can thank you personally and directly. It really did mean the world.

Thirdly(?), I hope you are all staying safe out there. I know the world is a scary place at the moment and I wish I could do more to help. I support people of all creeds, race, genders and sexuality and no one group should be treated any less than the other based on what part of society they've been pushed into. This in particular goes to the black community and the LGBT+ community at the moment, with the rise of police brutality and Operation Pridefall. Please know my DMs on any of my socials are ALWAYS open if you need to talk about absolutely anything. I'm with you all to the end. Create, don't hate - as that lovely Snapchat filter says.

Be kind, be safe, and enjoy this chapter! It's short, but the next one is worth it!

Love you all,

C x

---

The tears dried up shortly after Brian left. I didn't really have much of a choice but to stop my eyes from sweating with disappointment and borderline depression from the state my mind was slowly entering. I think the only thing that kept me sane at that time was Brian and his company. It sounds awfully regressive, I am very aware of that, but I'm sure feminism could deal with the fact that I needed to lean on my boyfriend when I was on the brink of slipping back into my depression. Slipping back. Yes. Back. The thought of entering that again terrified me as I sat on the floor in front of the mirror in living room doing my make-up. My eyes froze, gazing into my half-lined eye, hand hovering somewhere near my face. It wasn't healthy thinking back to those times... But when you feel it coming back, you can't help but experience a little PTSD if it's bad enough.

September, 1963

I did it again. I fucked it again. I can't just keep my mouth shut and keep quiet. I squeezed my eyes shut as I walked down the leafy path, the coldness of the autumn air pricking at my tights-clad legs. Maybe I'd accidentally wander onto the road and get hit by a passing vehicle going eighty miles. Maybe I'd open my eyes and realise that today was just a horrid dream, and I'd wake up and vow myself not to do the same thing again. Maybe, just maybe, I could trick myself and others following me that I wasn't actually there and that I never existed in the first place.

            "Aww is the little fatty going home to mummy and daddy?"

            "I only hope they've restocked the pantry."

            "I don't even know why she's so fat. Her mum doesn't even look after her properly."

            "Maybe she should eat more, all she does is talk."

            "One little joke, and she acts like you've murdered your entire family."

            "She was staring at me in the changing rooms again. Dyke..."

When I opened my eyes, my vision was blurred. I hoisted my bag higher up on my shoulder and clung to the strap in hopes that the harder I gripped, the chances of me getting home faster would be higher.

I hated school uniform. It was always so uncomfortable to me, and back then, specifically at my school, the girls weren't allowed to wear trousers. Well, it wasn't exactly against the rules. It was just widely frowned upon if a female dared wear something historically created to keep boys' dicks from poking your eye. Not only that, but looking my best was always a great concern of mum's. But I never felt comfortable in those forty denier tights and that flowy black skirt that stopped just above my knees. Every time I walked past a car, a window, anything with a reflective surface, I could have thrown up in sheer disgust at my legs. It felt exposing. Exposing a part of me I was insecure about, and more kids could make fun of.