Prodigal

~2.8~

I spent all day, in my room, sitting on the floor, staring, not able to process anything, not able to think about anything but the pain. I’m broken. And I’m not the only one that thinks so. It must be true. I’m a disgusting freak.

Hours had gone by and I didn’t even realize it.

Without my permission, Dad came into my room.

“I’m sorry that I hurt your feelings.” He said. “I’m not mad at you, either. I’m mad at myself.”

Did he really think that saying that would make me feel better? If he was mad at himself then there’s something to be mad about. There’s some kind of undesirability in existence, and that undesirability would be me.

“I’m broken.” I said, half like a question and half like a statement.

“I don’t know what to do.” Dad said.

“You could support me.” I suggested. “You could treat me like a human rather than an indiscretion."

“Do you want me to…” He was clearly uncomfortable. “Call you a girl? Treat you like a girl?”

I was silent for a moment. “That’s exactly what I want.” I said quietly.

He was silent for a moment. He looked like he was about to get emotional. “And you want to start wearing those girl clothes?”

“Yeah.” I muttered.

There was another awkward silence. “Why?” He finally pleaded, loudly.

“I hate being a boy.” I said.

He looked like he was really about to loose it. “Okay.” He said as he walked out of my room.

And once we were out of each other’s presence, I knew for a fact that we both let it all out and started crying.

Notes