Content Warnings: ableism, references to transphobia
The military ball had been a mistake. I’d been excited for nothing. The dress, the makeup, the hair. It was all pointless. If I’d known how miserable I would be, I would have never gone.
The second it was over, I left. I didn’t wait for the coach Celeste had hired for us. I didn’t care if it was rude.
When I arrived at the complex, I stomped up the stairs. I had no idea if Leslie would be home, but I wanted to see them. Even if I had to wait until morning.
I entered Leslie’s apartment and slammed the door behind me. I stood by the door, staring at the floor, shaking fists clenched by my side.
“What’s wrong?” came Leslie’s voice from the couch.
“Whenever I ask someone to repeat themselves,” I replied, “they just tell me not to worry about it.”
Leslie frowned. “Why is that upsetting?”
“Because it hurts!” I screamed.
Leslie’s eyes widened at my sudden outburst. I gritted my teeth, glancing away. This wasn’t their fault – I didn’t need to yell at them.
“Because it hurts,” I repeated. “And I’m sick of it. My defect was easier to handle when I pretended I didn’t have it.”
“Did you tell them that?” Leslie asked.
“No,” I replied. “I shouldn’t have to,” I said, the tears beginning to fall. “I shouldn’t have to tell people how painful it is when they dismiss me. Or how much it stings when they roll their eyes at me.”
I sniffed, wiping at the tears on my cheeks. “Why do I need to be the one to explain that it’s not my fault I’m like this?”
Silence. The sound of people in the street drifted in through the window. Even when it was dark, people were still out having fun. I could even hear the faint sounds of drums in the distance.
Leslie took a deep breath, then sighed. “I know how you feel, Dax.”
I glanced at them. “You do?”
Leslie remained quiet for a moment, staring at the floor. When they finally looked up, their eyes were watering. “Yes, I do,” Leslie said, their voice tight. “Illagu’s not perfect. Every time I meet someone new, I have to explain that I don’t have a gender. The responses aren’t always friendly.”
“That’s... not the same thing.”
The couch creaked as Leslie stood. “You’re right,” they replied as they walked toward me, “it’s not the same. But I know exactly what you’re talking about. The looks, the attitude.” Leslie paused, removing the red flower pin from my hair. They stared at the blossom in their hand as they said, “The way some people make you feel your very existence is wrong.”
Leslie met my eyes, placing a hand on my shoulder. “It’s hard,” they stated. “And I know how exhausting it can get, but you’re not alone.”
I wrapped my arms around their waist, burying my face into their shoulder. Leslie pulled me closer, their hand gliding across my back.
To be continued…