“WHAT THE HELL IS THIS!?”
Upon coming to my senses, a feeling of wrongness suffused my body. Everything I could feel was setting off alarms in my head, everything was out of place or misshapen, and the suddenness of the feeling — combined with its pervasiveness — caused bile to climb up my throat.
“I THOUGHT WE’D TAUGHT YOU BETTER THAN THIS!”
The protrusion of my shoulders, the swelling of my digits, the deformity of my hips, the inflation of my waist, the coarseness of my skin, and the tentacle extending from my groin. All of it gave rise to a sensation of discongruity that — before today — I could only imagine existing in eldritch horror.
“THIS IS EXACTLY WHAT HAPPENED TO HANNAH!”
As I shifted in revulsion, however, the sensations were only amplified. My hair brushing against the sheets, my displaced center of mass, and my scrotum sticking to my inner thighs all rampaged through my mind like a cacophonous shriek. Immediately, an all encompassing anguish started clawing its way to the surface, as I nearly found myself believing that I was the subject of a Junji Ito story.
“WHERE DID YOU GET THIS THING!?”
Throughout all of this, however, was a consistent undertone of loss. I had always heard that we only know to appreciate the good times because of the bad, and in this moment I knew the inverse to be even more true. Only now — after I had experienced what it was like to love my body — did I know how much I was suffering. Know how shit my life is. Know what I had been missing out on ever since my birth.
“ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME YOUNG MAN!?”
Finally, the stabbing pain of my mother’s way of addressing me managed to pierce my discordant brain, and my attention was pulled to her.
“WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO IF SOME FAGGOT TRIES TO GET YOU, CHRIS!?”
Unlike the sickly, thrumming pain of reality in my current body, the means by which she addressed me in that moment was like an ice-cold spear being rammed through my skull. Although the action served to worsen my already torturous emotional turmoil, it also — mercifully — started severing my connection to what I was feeling, injecting me with a shot of apathy.
“I’M GOING TO DESTROY THIS THING! I WON’T LET IT HURT YOU!”
“Wait. Mom, wait.”
“WAIT FOR WHAT!? YOU TO BE CORRUPTED JUST LIKE HANNAH?!”
“No. I’m being careful. I won’t, I won’t turn out like Hannah.”
“Why Would You Even Want To Use Something Like This!?”
“I’m… I’m trying to get Hannah back.”
Seemingly not expecting that response, my mother takes a moment to process what I said before asking “What do you mean ‘get Hannah back’?”
After taking a moment to brace myself for my continued lie, I swallow my saliva before saying “I mean,” — my voice cracking as I finally process what I sound like — “she, she can still repent right? It’s not like she can’t be…” realizing exactly what I’m saying, I rapidly shift from assertive to diffident, “can’t be fixed. Right?”
Likely interpreting my hesitance as either fear or uncertainty, my mother starts attempting to reassure me, “oh baby, of course she can. But it’s really dangerous for you to use something like this, Chris. I’ll tell you what. How about I use it to try and help Hannah? I am her mother after all.”
“No, but, um… you, you can’t. Because… I’ve, I’ve tricked her into, into thinking I su-support her.”
“Why would you do that, Chris?” she asks, her genuine confusion shocking me.
“Because, uh, people don’t, I mean, they have uh, they have convinced her that only other queer peo- uh, other queers are trustworthy, and she needs to ignore everything they say no matter what.”
After only a brief moment my mother sighs, and says “I guess, but, Chris, why do you need to do this? Surely someone else could.”
If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
“But… if I suddenly disappeared, don’t you think she’d get suspicious?”
“I know, it’s just… I’m worried about you sweetheart. This thing is what did this to Hannah and I don’t want you to get hurt the same way, Chris.”
“I know Mom. I’ll be careful.”
After a brief moment of her looking into my eyes worriedly, suddenly she seems to get an idea and my anxiety spikes as she says “I know! How about you teach the evening classes at church? I’m sure teaching those kids about the glory of Christ will help you keep your head on straight.”
“Um, I-I’m not sure I really have the time…”
“Oh please Chris, I’ve seen how quick you get through your homework, and plus I’m sure that this will help convince all of your friends that you’re not some faggot.”
“But, I, uh, don’t really think I’m the right person for something that important.”
“Nonsense, Chris. Just the fact that you’re doing this for your sister is proof enough that you deserve this privilege.”
“Well, is the church ok with me doing it?”
“Of course! They’ve been looking for someone young to help out for weeks now!”
With all of my excuses shot down, I finally resign myself to propagandizing to some kids every night. While I hate the idea of helping the church indoctrinate children, surely it doesn’t really matter. I mean, if it’s not me it’ll be somebody else. Right?
Seeing my nod of agreement, my mother smiles at me and walks off to finish getting ready for the day.
Looking at the clock on my bedside table, I see that it is currently 7:30am, meaning that I have a half-hour to get ready and get to school. This is more than enough time, especially since I have a major incentive to spend as little time naked as possible.
Unfortunately, when I make it out to the garage — only 10 minutes after waking up — I’m stopped short by the sight of my still flat tires.
Turning around and heading back inside, I call to my mom — who is currently making scrambled eggs in the kitchen — “Hey, can you drive me to school?”
Without even turning to me, she asks back “why can’t you drive yourself to school?”
“All of my tires are flat.”
“All of them?” Finally turning to me, she places one hand on her hip before asking “Chris, how did this happen?”
“I told you yesterday, the other kids at my school slashed them.”
“Chris, you most certainly did not tell me. Why would they do that?”
Choosing not to remind her about the rumors of my homosexuality, I said “I don’t know, but they slashed my tires, so I need a ride.”
Turning back to her eggs, she asks “why can’t you just take the bus? I’m quite busy you know.”
Instead of asking her how a stay at home mom is too busy to take her kid to school — or pointing out that riding the same bus as the people who slashed my tires isn’t a great idea — I decide that this conversation has already proven too tiring and I don’t want to get stuck in a car with her. So I just say “right, I’ll do that” before walking out the front door.
----------------------------------------
Luckily, the Highschool Hivemind™ had already moved on from my supposed interest in men and as such I was — for the most part — left alone.
This, of course, did not apply to anyone who I was friends with before the rumors. Which meant that I was still subject to some gum in my hair, feet tripping me, and the F-slur — honestly, I don’t know if it’s a mormon thing or a highschooler thing, but these kids aren’t very creative — throughout the day.
None of it was planned or anything, it’s just that anyone I was familiar with before yesterday would now bother me whenever they saw me. Meaning that it was — for the most part — easy to avoid, since I knew all of their schedules.
That said, this did have the fairly major benefit of making it so I was actually very rarely misgendered or called my deadname throughout the day.
Outside of when the teachers were calling attendance, everyone that spoke to me just used the F-slur instead of my deadname, and honestly that was much preferred. Hell I’m not even gay — I had actually figured out that I’m AroAce back when I was researching LGBTQ culture in hopes of better supporting Ethan — which meant that after the 10th time the term was used to refer to me, it almost became a funny nickname.
When the final school bell rang, however, I still couldn’t head home, because during lunch my mother had messaged me that the church would be expecting me after school.
Luckily — or unluckily I suppose — for me, the church was right next door to the school, and I was able to make it to the class on time.
When I arrived, I was met with 11 kids and an old priest. The priest introduced himself as Father Jeremiah and then went on to introduce all of the kids.
Apparently, the class he would be teaching today had been changed to a Q&A session, where he would let the kids ask me stuff so we could get to know each other.
Honestly, that was a relief to me. It meant that I could answer any religious questions with ‘well, you’re gonna learn about that soon,’ and then move on.
“What’s your favorite color?” Blue
“What’s your favorite animal?” Koi Fish
“What’s your favorite food?” Yakitori
Ok look, my preferences may have been shaped by my time in Night City. But there was more I talked about.
“Favorite book?” Paradise Lost (the priest wasn’t very happy with that choice)
“Favorite TV show?” Phineas and Ferb
And so on and so forth. There were a couple of times I had to pull the ‘you'll learn about that later’ card, but it was going smoothly. That was until…
“Why are gay people evil?”
“Well, you’re going to learn about that later.”
“Actually,” Jeremiah said. “Why are gay people evil?”
Ah yes, it would seem that this asshole has heard the rumors about me. Or maybe my mother even told him about me playing VR. Either way I very much doubt that I’m gonna be able to get out of answering this one.
“Well… You know, I’m not super sure myself, but if Father Jeremiah would allow me to say what I think,” looking over to the priest, he gives me a nod of his head and I reluctantly continue, “umm… Well, God says that gay people are evil so that’s why.”
One of the older girls — around 11-12 — immediately asked “but why does he say that they’re evil?”
Noticing Jeremiah giving the girl a death glare and beginning to reply, I quickly interrupt. “Well, it’s just like how sometimes your parents will tell you to do something even if you don’t really want to. We humans — as children of God — have to listen to what he tells us, and the people that don’t get punished.”
Looking desperate, she shouts “but!” before I stop her by holding up my hand.
“Look, what typically happens when you do something your parents told you not to?”
Now uncertain, she said questioningly “I’m, grounded?”
“Right.” Putting a finger to my lips in a subtle shushing gesture while smirking I say “when your parents catch you, you get in trouble,” quickly I dart my eyes to Jeremiah, her eyes following mine, “and we don’t want to get in trouble.”
Seemingly understanding what I mean, her eyes widen slightly and I quickly move on to the next question before she can ask anything else.
Eventually, an hour passes without any further stress and I’m able to head home, slightly reassured that maybe I can make a difference.