My grandmother often claimed I had pretty blue eyes, but even now, after her death, I’ve never thought it accurate. My eyes are a miserable, plain, flat gray, just like the over-thick country gravy she used to make, as the storm clouds she’d watch from her chair beside the window, as her corpse, laying there on the stainless steel table, the blue, cloudless sky outside unable to shed a single drop of rain in her honor. Even a week later on that day in mid-summer, the sun shone down on her lead-lined coffin in all its nuclear luminance as if to proclaim, "fuck around and find out, bitch."

It was an accident, they said. An experiment gone wrong, they said. It was one terrible mistake that ended seven lives in a single second. Of course, my grandmother hadn’t died then and there. Radiation is but a promise of death. Three weeks it took. Three weeks of both her body and mind slowly falling apart into an unrecognizable mess of off-colored blood and melting flesh controlled by an angry creature that was no longer quite human until, one day, she stopped. Two weeks later, there I was, cold gray eyes staring from a few dozen yards away as a team in hazmat suits lowered her cold gray coffin into the dry Arizona desert, the last of the seven, remembering the way she looked the last time I saw her, a shriveled up mound of a vaguely human-shaped cold gray thing. God, I wished I hadn’t seen her that day.

Somewhere twenty feet behind me stood a veritable army of onlookers behind a line of velvet rope as if it were the Grammys and not a funeral. But, of course, they were only here to see the final moments of the renowned ‘Modern Madam Curie,’ a title my grandmother despised. I only knew her as Matilda Matheson, a brilliant but distant single mother of four and proud grandmother. But they didn’t care about the person she was or the people she was leaving behind, only about the historic tragedy. Even from such a distance, the cameras, the incessant chatter, and the rumbling footsteps were overwhelming. They made me feel like a puppet on a stage while the man behind a curtain pulled my strings. I think that is likely why I heard her footsteps too late.

My mother's arms encircled me like the jaws of a bear trap, her ostentatious display of tears soaking into the shoulder of my ill-fitting army uniform. I’d have worn anything other than the old, ill-fitting thing, it was too tight almost everywhere, but it was the only formal wear I owned. If this had happened a year ago, I might not have had even that much to wear. I wished to take it and the twisted memories it carried off. I wanted to pull away from my mother more than anything, to run from her vile grip and sick words. Unfortunately, the pressure of the camera lenses rooted me to the spot. “It's just so terrible, Jenna,” she wailed. “It's a shame, all this. Such a shame.”

With a firm, but gentle hand, I did my best to push the woman away, creating some distance between us. “James,” I corrected her, not saying another word. I was too tired for her games. I always had been.

“Yes, your father should have been here too. So tragic. For her to lose her only son, only to die like this a year later. The world was too cruel to them both,” she said, crocodile tears streaming down her face. His death was a sword of frayed rope in her hands, and she wielded it against me without a hint of mercy. Even with my endless patience, it was a step too far.

Much to her surprise, I leaned into the embrace instead of away and whispered to her. “You know damn well what I meant. What the hell are you even doing here? She hated you more than anyone, more than I do, and I was relatively certain the feeling was mutual between you two.”

She gave me a humph, pushing away from me, her fat cheeks flapping with the sound. “I certainly didn’t raise you to speak to me like that, young lady. I-”

I cut her with a snort. “Look at me, Angela. I have a full-ass beard, a receding hairline, and twice as much muscle mass as you have fat. I mean, for fuck’s sake, my voice is deep than the Marianas trench. How can you still convince yourself that I’m a girl?”

“Well, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man with a chest like that before,” she said, raising both an eyebrow and the corner of her mouth as if she’d made an indestructible argument.

“Those are my pecs,” I said flatly. My mother raised an eyebrow, so I went on. “You know I had top surgery years ago. God, Angela. Why can’t you just leave me alone? We’re at my grandmother’s funeral, for fuck sake.”

Another humph. “Is it so wrong for me to worry for my daughter? I just wanted to make sure you were alright, is all.”

Rolling my eyes, I turned away from the woman. “Sure. Whatever. And I’m sure you’ll be pleased to hear she’s not left a penny for you.” The truth was my grandmother probably hadn’t changed the will since my father died, so there was a good chance my mother had a sizable check heading her way. I was only angry and looking to score a hit I knew would land. She’d always been obsessed with money, my mother. I suspect it's why she married my father in the first place.

She spluttered as I strode away to find a quiet space far enough from the rest of my family to stay unmolested by their curious stares and thoughtless questions. It used to be different before I joined the army, before I left and came out, and before my father’s death. I was the favorite son’s only child, held to high expectations that matched my supposed beauty. The army was the first disappointment. “What sort of self-respecting young woman even wanted to join the army?” They asked. “You’ll have to work out so much. You’ll put on so much muscle. What if they send you into combat? How will you ever find a man living like that?” I managed to mollify most of their concerns with arguments such as, “oh, it's just to pay for college. Grandma used to work with the military, and I want to be like her,” and the ever-so-powerful, “oh, it's just temporary.”

Testosterone was the second. I was dishonorably discharged, an issue that was only recently rectified somewhat, and sent home, only to find myself alone, save for my grandmother. She was the only one to open her door to me. The only one who reliably called me James. And The only one who didn’t judge me for my choice. She was curious, of course, as all cis people are, especially the scientifically minded, but she never crossed the line of respect. I watched from my lonely perch as they poured concrete into the grave, supposedly protecting the local ecosystems. I couldn’t help but wonder how much concrete it would take to protect myself.

From the corner of my eye, I spotted my uncle Frank approaching with the cadence of a cloudburst and idly scratched at my wrist, an old habit I was trying to break. “Hey, kiddo,” he said, rubbing the back of his head with one hand, the other raised in greeting as he forced a smile. “How're things?”

“Been better,” I said, forcing a smile of my own and giving him a shrug. Frank had never been one of the family members who gave me shit for my choices, but he’d also never quite figured out how to interact with me. “How are you holding up?”

A sigh escaped his lips as his smile softened, eyes tilting in that sad manner most people adopt when unsure of how they should feel. “I’m, well, I suppose I’m fine. She might have been my mother, but I barely even knew her. Always wrapped up in her research, she was. Though, I guess you knew that much.” I did, of course. My grandmother long had the habit of disappearing for days, weeks, and sometimes even months when on a breakthrough. This resulted in her spending very little time with her younger children and even less with her grandchildren. That changed after my father’s death, but for the others, it was too little too late.

“Hey, look,” he went on, reaching into his jacket and pulling out a thin e-cig, taking a hit before offering it to me. “I know we’ve all not been the best to you the last few years, but some of us are trying to be better about it. You know my kid came out a few weeks ago, right?” I took a quick drag on the vape and was pleasantly surprised by the earthy, almost grassy flavor as I shook my head and felt myself relax. I had not heard, not that it was much of a surprise to either of us. “Yeah, well, she goes by sky now. I thought it was a weird kid, but I’m here for her, you know? Anyway, what I’m trying to ask here is how about you stop by the reception later? I think it’d be nice for you to reconnect with everyone, you know?”

I exhaled, letting out a thin cloud between us, and shrugged, handing the vape back. “I’ll think about it.”

“Great,” he said, giving me another of his forced smiles, sliding the e-cig away without taking a hit himself. “You do that.” He made as if to go, paused for a moment, then turned back, adding, “honestly, I’d mean a lot to me if I knew you weren’t alone.”

Resisting the urge to roll my eyes, I gave him a thin smile. “Like I said, I’ll think about it.”

“Alright then,” he said, wiping sweat from his head. “I’ll, uh, just let you be then.” With a quick bob of the head, he was gone, leaving me with only a subtle hint of a high and a heavy sigh.

I thought about finding Sky, maybe saying hi, since it would be nice to not be the only trans person in the family anymore. A lonely, bitter part of my heart wished it were a brother, not a sister, but beggars can’t be choosers, as some say. But I did not search her out. No, I just sat in my sad little corner for the next hour, wondering if the next chapter of that isekai manga would be out that day or the next, until the media and the people were cleared away and the family and friends were allowed to leave.

Not having a car, I drove my grandmother’s truck home. The thing was made for a much larger person than me, which meant I looked ridiculous as I had to climb up the side with both hands and throw myself into the driver-side door. My grandmother had been taller than most and a full head and a half taller than me. I took more after my mother in the height department, unfortunately. The four-hour drive back to Scottsdale was, in a word, dull. There's only so much rocky desert and Johnny Cash, my grandmother's favorite, that one can stand before losing their mind. I think I’d listened to Hurt nearly a dozen times once I was finally pulling into the driveway, Cash singing, “if I could start again, a million miles away, I would keep myself, I would find a way,” as I cut the engine and the garage door closed behind me with an awful bang.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

With a grunt, I opened the truck door and leaped down, boots thudding against the concrete floor. I arched my back, my spine giving a satisfying crack, and sighed, leaning against the truck, arms folded across my chest as I just sat there staring up at the ceiling. After a time, the door to the house opened, and she strode out, red-dyed hair tied up in a loose bun, the stopper from her morning coffee stuck between her teeth.

“How’d it go?” She asked, settling against the truck beside me, her shoulder level with my head, and I shrugged.

“About as well as can be expected, I suppose. My mom was there, though I think it was more for the cameras than anything.”

“You look hungry. Come on.” And so saying, she grabbed my arm and half guided half dragged me inside, taking me past the family room and up the stairs to the kitchen where she pushed me onto a stool at the counter and set about pulling out my grandmother’s pots and pans. “Where do you keep the spices?” She asked, and I gestured wordlessly to the hanging cupboard by the fridge. “Ah, thanks.”

Caroline was a friend from school, one of the few other people like me I’d met early in my education, and the only one I got along with well. The others were all somewhat too extreme in their ideologies for my taste. It was as if they’d forgotten that there was more to a person than gender and sexuality. Complaining about the more extreme members of our demographic was how we bonded. It was a coffee shop in the middle of winter, winter in Arizona, meaning we could wear pants instead of shorts, and if we were lucky, we could pull out the occasional hoodie. She’d been typing away at her laptop, chewing on the plastic stopper from her tea, and she had a look of furious concentration about her that gave me pause. We, trans people, have a particular skill for finding one another, born of our many hours of research into hormones, anatomy, and behavior, and our ceaseless dysphoric outlook on ourselves, so I knew she was similar to me the moment I saw her. I ordered my coffee, extra black, because, at the time, I was trying extra hard to seem exceptionally masculine, and sat at the table across from her. I had only started hormones a month before, so I was still an awkward closeted queer who barely knew anything about trans culture, and so I said the first stupid thing I could think of.

“You’re growing nice. I’ll probably have mine off in a year or two.”

Slowly, she raised her head, straightening to her full height to tower over her laptop and me, giving me the most terrifying narrow-eyed stare I’d ever endured, which was saying a lot. “Excuse me?” She said, her voice deep but not even slightly masculine. Think, and you’ll be close. I opened my mouth to speak but only managed a squeak from the back of my throat as I sank into my seat. Her eyes narrowed further, then without warning, her eyebrows raised, and she laughed, a soft-sounding thing that reminded me of a slowly deflating balloon. “Freshly hatched?” She asked, now smiling knowingly at me. Red rose to my cheeks despite my internal protests, and I nodded, afraid to speak. She closed her laptop, ordered another tea, and we chatted for the rest of the day. And so was born our friendship.

A plate of fried greens and a pan-seared chicken breast broke me from reminiscing, and I let a genuine smile settle briefly on my face for the first time that day. She let me eat in silence, opening her laptop and typing away. When I was done, she glanced at me, closed what she was working on, and asked, “are you okay?”

I got up from the counter and poured myself a cup of water from the sink. Leaning against the stove, I looked down at my boots, idly cursing the dry dirt clinging to the otherwise spotless leather. “I don’t know.”

“What do you need?”

“You don’t have to do anything for me. I’ll be fine.” Mindlessly I rubbed at my wrist, a gesture her eyes locked onto for a moment, but thankfully she didn’t comment.

“I didn’t ask ‘what do you need me to do for you,’ I asked, ‘what do you need.’ There's a difference.” She crossed her arms beneath her small breasts and frowned at me, crossing one leg over her knee.

I sighed, sipped my water, and sighed again. “I don’t know,” I finally said. “I just. I don’t know right now.”

Without a word, she stood, closed the distance between us, and wrapped me in a loose hug, pressing my face into her chest, her chin atop my head. I can’t recall if I cried or shook or anything like that. At some point, she’d kissed me, and we fell into an all too familiar game of dangerous entanglement that neither of us had yet figured out and of which I will not leave a record here but to say that it happened and that it was not unpleasant or unwelcome. We lay in the aftermath, blissfully unaware of anything but the warm sheets of my bed and our closeness. A distant sound repeated someplace above us, but my mind was too fogged to recall its purpose. Idly, her hand brushed the scars along my chest, the other still tangled in my brown curly hair. Caroline kissed me one last time, then said in a soft voice, pitched higher than usual, “you should probably go get that.” And I realized with an almost petulant frustration that the repeating sound was the doorbell.

With another sigh and a grunt, I rolled out of bed, away from her comforting embrace. I’d made it halfway to the door before Caroline snorted from the bed, drawing me up short. “Pants?” She said, and I felt myself blush near deep enough to match my cheeks with her scarlet hair. Fully clothed, I marched upstairs to confront whoever was outside, pressing the doorbell with the speed of a woodpecker’s beak. I was honestly worried they’d burn the thing out or something.

Unfortunately for me, a glance out the peephole revealed the culprit to be none other than my mother, wearing a furious scowl as she incessantly jabbed one thick finger at the doorbell. I contemplated ignoring the woman and hoping she’d just disappear, but she was too persistent a creature for that to work, so reluctantly, I opened the door.

“What?” I asked, not pretending to be anything other than what I was, which at that moment was peeved.

“Don’t you ‘what’ me, young lady,” she said, practically growling as she tried to push past me and into the house, giving a thorough humph when my arm didn’t budge. “Honestly, Jenna, are you really going to keep your mother out in this terrible heat?”

“James,” I corrected. “What do you want?” I kept my tone flat, the wood of the doorframe tightening under my grip. Caroline’s unnaturally light footsteps came from behind me, somewhat easing my tension, and, at the same time, my mother’s eyes flashed a glance past me. I resisted the urge to turn my head, keeping my gaze on the woman before me as one might a lion or tiger.

“I see you have company,” she said disapprovingly, not that I much cared. “I’ll keep it quick then. Just let me in. It's damned hot out here.” I risked a glance at Caroline, and she gave me a ‘why the hell are you asking me’ sort of expression.

“Fine. But only for a minute.” I stepped aside and let her in, gesturing towards one of the two sofas in the living room. She gave another humph as she strode in, plopping gracelessly atop the finely upholstered couch. “So, what do you want?”

My mother rolled her eyes as I sat across from her, exasperation about her entire being. “The will, of course. Why else would I bother?”

“Oh, my god.” I drew a hand down my face, something hot and angry building in my chest. “Really? You couldn’t have waited a few days?” She matched my glare with one of her own. “You weren’t even related to her. Why the hell do you think she’d have left you anything?”

“Maybe not me, but we all know how forgetful your grandmother could be. I’m betting she never changed her will after James’ death, and since I’m his widowed wife, whatever she left him is mine.”

Caroline rolled her eyes, and I agreed. There seemed to be little that would stand in the way of my mother’s greed. “Angela,” I began, my tone hard and sharp, anger getting the better of me. “I need you to get out. Now.”

“Oh please,” she said with a half-snort and a dismissive wave. “Don’t be so dramatic. I know it might not be the most pleasant of topics, but it must be spoken of, and I think this sort of thing is done sooner rather than later. Now-”

“No. I don’t want to talk about this. You can’t just-” I sighed, leaning forward, elbows on my knees, pressing my thumbs into the backs of my eyelids, the angry words turning to bitter ash in my mouth. “Just go, please. I can’t deal with you right now.”

Arms folded beneath layers of fat, she humphed for what I decided would be the last time. “Not until you tell me what you know.”

“I don’t know a fucking thing,” I shouted in her face, getting to my feet in a flash. Both my mother and Caroline flinched back from my ferocity, and I felt a slight pang of guilt, but it wasn’t enough to quell my increasing frustration. “I don’t give a shit about this will, about what you want, hell, I don’t give a shit about you. Just get the fuck out.” I turned away without waiting to see if she followed my command and stormed off, heading back to my bedroom.

“James,” Caroline said as I passed, one hand grabbing my shoulder before I could take the first step down the stairs. I shrug her off and regret the action when I see her face harden in response.

“Sorry,” I offered her my hand, and she took it, pulling me into a hug and giving me a gentle squeeze and a tight smile.

“Excuse me, but we’re not done here,” Angela said, awkwardly flinging herself from the couch and marching towards us. I’m suddenly aware of the stairs behind us as she boulders towards us like a bowling ball. “I refuse to leave until you tell me what you know.” She slammed a flat palm into my chest, the force more than I’d expected of a woman of her age and health, and if not for Caroline’s gracing grip, I might have toppled backward down the stairs. Angela’s outburst, however, rekindled to flames of my frustration, and I pushed her back, my mother stumbling a few steps before catching herself on the wall.

“Both of you, stop this,” Caroline said, stepping between us. “This is ridiculous. Angela, he asked you to leave, so just go before I call the police.” She and I both knew we wouldn’t call them, there were too many horror stories for us to be comfortable with police, but it was still an effective threat to people like my mother. For my part, I felt a hint of shame rise up in me at her words, but my mother, apparently, didn’t understand the concept.

“Shut up, you whore. This is a family matter. You have no right to interfere,” she said, glaring at Caroline, who didn’t even flinch at the verbal attack.

Something angry and defensive replaced my budding shame, and I took a heavy step toward my mother, jabbing a finger at her chest as I got in her face, practically growling. “You don’t talk to her like that,” I said in a low voice. Caroline grabbed my arm, pulling me back from my mother with a gentle pull, saying something I couldn’t hear over the wrathful buzzing in my ears. Angela, apparently, was unfazed by my aggression.

“I refuse to be treated like this,” she said, once more barreling towards us as Caroline guided me away. I could see what she was planning before she’d taken more than two steps, but I couldn’t act. I stood frozen in shock, unable to believe she could be that stupid, as she gave me a hefty shove with both hands, and Caroline didn’t have enough strength to brace me for it. I fell from her grip, backward down the stairs, head hitting one step, then two, three, and darkness. I came too a few seconds later, the light too bright in my eyes as someone stood chattering above me, the sound obnoxiously loud and indecipherable. I could distantly hear crying and the faint sound of what I thought might have been arguing, followed by a thud as something large and heavy hit the floor beside me. There was only sobbing as I closed my eyes, felt my whole body relax in a shuddering wave, then heard nothing as I slipped into a cold dark gray emptiness.