For a moment, I couldn’t see anything. I was existing in a world of pure darkness, the floor feeling like ink upon my feet. I tried to walk around, but my body didn’t move the way it normally did. It felt like there was a weight off me, on both sides.

When I finally approached a light after what seemed like years, I saw one of the most terrifying things I could think of.

A mirror image. Of the person I used to be. Of the man I used to be.

This motherfucker detransitioned me.

I desperately wanted to scream, to call for help, anything that could help me figure out where I was and why I was there. I looked around, learning that the darkness had left and I was in my old bedroom at my parents house.

“Okay, good. This is the past,” I said to myself in my pre-transition voice, which already sounded pretty androgynous, “gonna have to get used to this for a bit, I guess.”

I walked over to the door of my bedroom, but when I opened it, everything shattered. Literally, a vase exploded behind my parents as they watched over me. My dad just stared at me, with his resting “you’re a nuisance” face.

“Michael, you’re going to be late for the train, hurry up.” My mom, crazy, narcissistic bitch that she is, said to me in the most condescending voice possible.

I really wanted to say something to the effect of “wow! You’re deadnaming me again? What, is it tuesday?” but what I actually ended up saying was “Yeah, thanks for the ride mom.”

I wasn’t sure what was happening. My movements and language stopped being my own. I don’t even think this was any form of memory, cause I’ve never gotten on a train and I damn sure wouldn’t be thanking my mom.

My body hugged my mom and then slowly walked over to another door. When I opened it, I saw a very recognizable moment. Coming out to my parents.

“This isn’t in God’s Plan, Michael! You are a man, that’s all you are, and that’s all you ever will be!” My mom yelled at me, as I watched through the doorway into our living room, which didn’t make a whole lot of sense as my room was in the basement and the living room was above me.

“The sex on your birth certificate doesn’t change just because you feel different!” my dad screamed at me.

“What will your grandfather think of this? You know how traditional he is.”

“I will not accept a tranny as my son.”

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“I thought you’d be a drag queen at most.”

The slurs and transphobic attacks started coming from all directions, as the room slowly melted around me. My body unchanged.

“You’ll never be a real woman.”

“Your biology cannot be changed.”

“Your existence is unnatural.”

The voices got louder and louder. It became insufferable, and drove me deeper and deeper into the darkness, pulling me into the ink that had once again become the floor. Once I was submerged into the pitch black ink, everything stopped. Nothing. Silence. Nothing but the voices that remained in my mind.

It lasted for I don’t know how long. When I finally came to, I was in a bunker of some sort, strapped to a table. I tried to jiggle my hands, but the straps were very tight and I couldn’t move them much. All I could really do was wait.

After a while, a man who looked a lot like a scientist came into the room. He looked around on a table near the door, and picked up what looked like a case file. He then spoke in a calm, raspy voice similar to the man who kidnapped Mylo & I, “Michael, nice to finally meet you.”

I could feel that my body had returned to its normal, post-transition state, so now I know he’s just being transphobic on purpose. I have no idea how he knew my deadname, though. I changed everything he could possibly have access to.

“I bet you’re wondering how I know that name.” He spoke again, as if he could read my thoughts.

“I don’t really give a shit how you know my deadname, Ms. Frizzle. Where the fuck am I?” I snapped at him.

“Oh, but if I told you that, it would ruin the story, and the public loves a good story.”

I paused for a moment. I know I’ve heard his voice before. I couldn’t place where, but I knew what his voice sounded like. Patriotic. Hateful. Hiding Something. Like a podcast host. Or a news anchor.

“Now, Michael, what would you rather we do first? We have a lot of ways to treat a person such as yourself. I’ll give you a choice, you can either..” he starts, flipping through pages in the file he’s holding, “... get trampled by a horse, or...” he continues, flipping through a few more pages “get stabbed in the spleen by a close friend. Oof, tough call.”

“Yeah, neither, fuck you.” I replied.

He walked over, looked into my eyes, and said “fine, dealer's choice.”

The next few hours went by incredibly slowly. The more he looked into my eyes, the more pain I felt. I knew none of it was real, but getting trampled by a horse really fucking hurts, and it didn’t even end then. The nightmare kept going, with the torture in question getting worse and worse. Sometimes I’d be getting hit over and over with a disintegration ray, respawning after each strike. Other times I’d just be hit in the head with an anvil, almost cartoonishly. In various ways, he was killing me. Over and over and over, and each time, it felt personal. It felt more personal with each death. He was enjoying this. Eventually, it would stop, and he’d leave the room. But I couldn’t.

After a while, they removed my restraints. Let me eat. I tried to escape, and they put me back in the restraints. Day after day. Night after Night. Torture after Torture. I couldn’t remember anything after awhile. The same scientist came into the room to torture me for as long as he wanted, and for awhile, there was nothing I could do about it.