Okay, so he lied.
He does that a lot nowadays. Not on impulse. Always planned.
People would be horrified to know how his mother actually died. Not by her own hand, like he had said in the report, but by his own. It was funny how easily they believed them, even when they could clearly see something was wrong with him.
Humans.
He's in an orphanage now, small and dirty and catholic. (He swears all those crosses are going to kill him.) He's not sure who told the rest of the children about his mother, but they avoid him like the plague (Bubonic, not Flu (it's so much funner to say)). He's sure it's also because of his appearance. A girl in man's clothing. How cliche, yet not.
He's debating on getting surgery, maybe some hormones, but he doesn't want to be in debt at age fifteen. So, what to do, what to do.
Cut them off. Himself.
Yeah, it sounds crazy, but if he's numbed up on drugs he'll barely feel it. Yeah, this could work. He's trying to justify in his own mind so he doesn't chicken out. He can't chicken out. This is his chance. His one, singular chance.
He's in the mirror and he's naked. He's got his supplies laid out, and everyone is asleep.
He takes a knife.
He takes it.
He tak–no stalling.
He freezes and cries, whimpering pathetically.
And he impales his left breast.
It hurts so fucking much. But he saws. And saws. And saws. Until he's flat. He's flat.
Next is the right breast. He muffles a scream. Then the sawing. Back and forth and back and forth until nothing. He is flat. Officially.
He looks at himself in the mirror, his chest covered in blood and raw muscle. He looks past it. He sees his true self. A man. A boy. Or something else entirely. He is finally Michael.
The door opens beside him. It's one of the nuns. Elizabeth. She shrieks at him and he smiles.
The blood is warm on his stomach. He's in agony, but he loves it. Agony. Such a beautiful name. He wonders where it came from, the art of the phrase.
Agony. He could live with that. If he wasn't dead already.
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AMBULANCE
HorrorEvery day could be a nightmare for him if he wanted it to. He could snap his fingers and he would cry out from pain. So why doesn't he? Cause we are not the same And we are all to blame