Madeline Stuckwisch

You can no longer tell where the dead man ends and the warehouse begins. His limbs, glowing in the dark, now carpet the floor in overlapping zigzags. Spirals of fungus grow out of torn skin. The room smells dank and moldy.

The closer I get to shelf K37 and 38 the denser the limbs become. They loop over and back on each other creating mounds of flesh. I climb up, stumbling every few steps. My foot gets lodged in a hole. I yank it out. The alarm I tripped on my way in continues to ring. I’ll be done before anyone can stop me.

The limbs begin to recede. They become more structured, woven together. Then, I see it. Right below K37, the limbs have formed a casket.

I lift the lid of arms, legs, and elbows. My father’s body sits inside, glowing fluorescent green. His head has regrown correctly this time. Dense moss forms his goatee. The scene feels almost religious. The moonlight streams through the limb-strewn shelves like a stained glass window.

I set down the cans of kerosene, and pry his mouth open with my hands. I pick one can back up, unscrew the lid, and pour it down his gullet till it's empty. I do the same with the other can. Police sirens begin to blare outside as I strike the match and flick it into my father’s mouth. His body is immediately consumed, and his limbs are like fuses. The fire eats them up with a hunger leaving behind ashen butterflies floating down from the shelves. I sit down on the charred ground where my father’s casket was and smile at the ceiling. A butterfly lands on my nose.

I’m free.

s/He

Madeline Stuckwisch

I opened my eyes to the early morning, my forehead dampened with sweat. Most of the anxiety was gone, leaving just a small fire that continued to burn within my skin, but was always there. The more I thought about it, the greater it burned, so I tried my best to push it out of my mind. It couldn't have been any later than 6:30am, but with the days beginning to get colder and shorter, it was as dark as midnight. My back ached from having fallen asleep on the floor. She and I were both covered in a thin blanket. Both dressed in the clothes that we wore last night because we all had drifted off to sleep unexpectedly after having much too deep of a conversation about the texture of the carpet with my sister. Perhaps we were much too high. I got bored of waiting for her to wake up after a grueling ten minutes of lying on the floor in silence. It was nice, at first, the quiet. I got up as quietly as I could to not disturb her from her sleep. I was already surprised she hadn’t woken up from a lone arm hitting her side, a result from my thrashing movements in my sleep as I tried to escape the nightmare. I walked around the kitchen wondering if my parents were home. Most likely. I don’t know where else they would be, though the quiet house seemed so abnormal. Usually, it was filled with berating and arguing. That was another thing I envied about her; she had all the freedom to live her life without worrying about constantly not caring enough, not being enough. My parents would never. It was never ending micro-parenting. It made me anticipate the year where I could get out of this hell hole and never look back. It wouldn’t be much longer now, only about a year or two, though then I’d have to worry about applying to colleges, and before that I’d have to graduate. Neither are things I could picture myself doing. I’m not sure why, the pictures just weren’t there. I made my way to the bathroom, turned on the lights, and stared into the mirror.

“Hello there.” I said to the girl staring back at me. Truthfully, she didn’t look like a girl at all. Broad shoulders, flat chest, short brown hair

that barely made it past my ear, and brown eyes that looked dull as dishwater. I was also much taller than most of the women I know, officially meeting six feet as of freshman year, and my hands were large, making me look like Rachmaninoff’s heir. There was no denying I looked like a man. Maybe that was the point. I do this every morning, talk to the reflection and expect it to disagree with me and call me beautiful, dissecting each part of my body like a middle school science student studying each part of the dead rat placed in front of them. Fitting analogy, a dead rat. She never does say anything though, understandable considering she was my reflection. “How are you doing?” I continue, starting with a simple question. “Not very well.” I titled my head to the side and so did the girl in front of me, mirroring my movement. “Why is that?” I had to think about the question. “I’m not sure, I kinda always feel that way. It’s just a staple in my life at this point.” “I don’t think that’s normal.” “No, I don’t either.” “Maybe you should see a therapist about that, get some actual help instead of talking to yourself.” “Spill my guts out to a complete stranger and let them judge me and tell me all the things that are wrong with me? No thank you, that sounds like a waste of my time and money. I can do all of that by myself, and for free.”

“Trust issues much?” “Actually yes.” She rolled her eyes. “Suit yourself. Just continue talking to yourself until the day you die, or the day your mother walks into you talking to yourself and books an appointment for you, without your knowledge.” “I doubt she would care. She probably already thinks I’m screwed up in the head.” “You are.” “We are.” “No. You are.”

“Maybe, but not for that reason.” This voice didn’t come from the reflection, but rather right behind me, a voice much quieter and higher than mine. She was awake. I turned around to face her, beautiful as always, almost my complete opposite. She had blonde hair, blue eyes, and a symmetrical face in general (not to mention a nose that was much more appealing to look at than mine and a jawline that was much softer). “What’s so wrong about talking to yourself?” she said. “It’s just a way to process your thoughts. I’m sure many people do it.” Though I wasn’t sure about that last statement, I didn’t respond, not having the energy to argue with her. Instead, I followed her out of the room, back to the living room where her sister was still sleeping on the couch, and sat back down on the floor covering myself with the thin blanket, still as a rock. She was still too, both of us silent as the night. She lay on her back and her eyes were closed for such a while I wondered if she was sleeping, or if she was just lost in her own thoughts. The only sound that surrounded us was from the rain, drizzling from the grey clouds outside, and the waves of the lake slowly receding and then creeping back closer to us inside. Not long after I had the original thought, I got the answer to my question as she opened her eyes and stuck her leg up towards the ceiling. Her dress fell towards her waist as she pointed her toes towards the small discoloration staining the ceiling, likely from water damage. She faced towards me, staring her blue eyes speckled with solid gold flecks right into mine. “Let’s go.” She said in a voice no louder than a whisper as she motioned her head towards the general direction of the shore. I grabbed her arm as she got up to stop her but she disregarded it and headed for the door anyway, opening it while letting cold air melt inside, leaving me shivering and alone with her disregarded, half-smoked joint lying on the blanket on the floor. I quietly got up and followed her outside. She didn’t seem to care about the late fall, early morning weather though, stripping her dress off as she slowly bounced down the wet path towards the water, lazily cartwheeling on the sand and falling into the water that flooded over her. I envied her and her confidence. She was never afraid to show her skin, and if I lived each day in her body, I'd be just as confident. Instead I stayed fully clothed to cover up my wide yet somehow scrawny body as I slowly stumbled into the cold water.

The goal was to lose track of myself. My thoughts, my feelings. Let them drift away from me, blown by the breeze that runs over my skin and sends chills through my body. No matter how cold it got, I stayed standing knee-deep in the water, unable to bring myself to move a muscle. I almost felt heavier out here, anchored to the cold, wet sand. The reflection of water was beautiful when combined with a rising sun. It looked like tiny crystals floating around. The breeze felt like ice when accompanied with the cold and my body stung with each second, even through my sweater. But I didn’t care and she didn’t either, half in the sand, letting the water pour over her legs submerged in the frigid lake. It’s not like the feeling was anything new, as each day passed I felt myself falling farther into corrupt thoughts. If I closed my eyes the only sound left was the chirps of the birds, but even that became painful to my ears. Sharp. Loud. I clenched my eyes even more in an attempt to force my mind to focus on the darkness, the numbness, but it didn't work. Everything around me became more violent. My own senses turned against me, a punishment from my prison. The wind picked up, a gust suddenly whipping my short, blonde hair from one side to another, until it seemingly receded again and everything went back to calm. The fire burning through; a sensation clawing its way throughout my body. As I watched her lying on the ground, staring at her figure that lit a thousand candles burning my body from the inside out, I envied her more than I ever had. Perfect, feminine, beautiful. It made me want to claw myself away, and I would if I could. Everything was painful. This weather doesn’t exactly help the feeling. My legs. My chest. My face. I wanted it all gone. I wanted to scream. My body was screaming.

Instead of disturbing the peace I just walked back inside, shortly followed by her maybe ten minutes later when she began to cook breakfast for herself. She asked me if I wanted something but the pit in my stomach stopped me from ingesting anything. I knew it’d just come back up if I tried. Watching her sit down and begin to eat, oblivious from the nerves freaking out inside of me, awaiting the time when it was best. My heart was racing so fast I could hear each beat echo in my head, but I have to tell her. If she didn’t already know. “I think something’s wrong with me” She continued eating. “No shit.” “Thanks.” I muttered under my breath, but she heard anyway.

She giggled. “What? You’ve got a few screws loose in your head for sure. We all do.”

“I mean I’m transgender.” That’s when it all became blurry, a result from the embarrassment, from saying it out loud. My nose started to sting too, but at this point I was used to the feeling. I cried too often, too much, even if I hid it from everyone else. Men aren’t supposed to cry. When she saw the tear crawling it’s way down my face, she stopped eating and just stood there staring at me. I guess she was intending to keep listening to what else I was going to say, but I was speechless and for the first time in years, thoughtless. I didn’t have anything else I could say, I couldn’t even bring myself to apologize. It’s what she deserved, an apology for dealing with this, so instead of speaking I hung my head low to the ground, awaiting the laughter, the pointing fingers, the hisses I constantly see in my sleep. We’ll never accept you as one of us. You're a freak. A walking sin. A broken record. That’s what I expected her to do and say but she was still just silent, most likely too repulsed to talk. Scum of the Earth. But after a long period of quiet, she broke her silence. “Ok. That’s ok.” I looked up to find her not face not repulsed but…. Accepting? That may have just made it worse. Does she not see how wrong this is? “Do you want me to call you something else or is there anything else—..”

“No.” I cut her off with a sharp response. “I don’t.” “Ok. Do you want to talk about it anymore?” “What’s wrong with you?” “I’m sorry?” “How are you just okay with this?” “What do you mean? I’m your friend, of course I’m okay with it. Why wouldn’t I be?” Her tone sounded as if she was debating her whole existence.

I scoffed. She really didn’t understand it. “Because it’s wrong.” “Why? It’s not something you can control it’s—” “Wrong. It’s wrong. I was born male. I was meant to be a male.

That’s what God planned for me to be.” “God?” She furrowed her brows. “What are you talking about, are you even religious?” Not anymore. I used to be, but after a while it became easier to pretend like no such deity existed, as to save me from constantly worrying about what I was going to face at the end of all the misery, even if I could feel her eyes judging me as each thought passed through my brain. I tried to repress them. I really did. “Hey!” She snapped, grabbing my attention. “Listen to me, there’s nothing wrong with you. It’s okay to be trans. Don’t listen to all those old privileged fucks who claim it’s wrong. Who gives a shit what they think anyways? You’re just as valid as anyone else so stop with this, seriously.” “I can’t.” This wasn’t even just self-hate. It was despair. I melted to the floor, bringing my knees to my chest, buried my face away and everything got quiet again. The thoughts slithered back to feed me more poison into my brain and I let them eat away. “Is there anything I can do?” “Leave.” She didn’t have to, she could have refused, but she abided by my wish and left the room. Left me crying on the floor. Weak. After a while of sitting in my own self pity, I left too, just walking straight out of the house, away from the water, it’s own kind of poison, in the opposite direction. I just walked, walked, ran, and ran some more. It was to no avail. I couldn’t run away from my own mind and as hard as I tried, I couldn’t run away from her. No, I’d see her again. I have to. The fire was growing larger. I recognized the expiry of my mind. Slowly I was more and more drifting off into a mentality of sin, obsessed with the beauty of another human being. That was her. I loved her, but even more I hated her for being perfect, being okay with me. It hurts to have someone else accepting something about yourself that not even you can. Yes, jealousy was thickly spread within my veins, but it always was. Even if the feeling was there, I still was ashamed of it. She didn’t do anything wrong, that was all me. It wasn’t even her whom I truly hated. It was myself. My body. I can claw my skin over and over again with no avail. I’m stuck.

I let out a sigh, back at the lake again. Each time I leave I know I’ll return, and here I am. I’ve returned. It was a sight for sore eyes, the lake, now frozen over. If you listened intensely, you could hear it singing.