Aswe approached the last stop, I put my sunglasses on, and stood up against thewindow as riders queued for the exit. I caught my reflection and thought Ilooked very Kim Novak. The trip hadn’t been so bad. I just had to keep myshoulders back. A confident posture can sometimes help us pass.
Partof the shopping area by the depot was under construction, which made me thinkof the poisoned mouse. I didn’t know which housemate—Brooke or Debbie—had takenits body off the couch. If it had been Brooke, she’d probably flushed it downthe toilet. I would’ve buried it somewhere leafy and peaceful. I should havedone something to help it, to stop the suffering as it held onto life despitethe poison.
Hadthe mouse felt sad? Did it blame itself for all the bad things in life, and forwhat was happening to it? Did it want to say goodbye to its friends?
Mymom wasn’t there. I knew I wouldn’t look quite as recognizable to her. Itwasn’t that cold out, so I decided to wait, suddenly wishing I smokedcigarettes again.
Ablack sedan kept circling, which seemed weird because most of the others werejust idling for pickups. On its sixth turn, it pulled up closer to me. Out camemy mom, and the trunk popped open for my suitcase. I waved and took off mysunglasses. After a pregnant moment, she smiled at me with closed lips.
Wemostly rode in silence. After a few tries at small talk, I finally gave up andwatched the dull landscape go by. I missed the city already, and my tuck wascoming undone as I sat in the leather car seat. I hated that, most of all.
Wegot to my mom’s house. After the driver took my bags out of the trunk, my momswiped her card and dashed into the house without saying anything. She didn’tlook me in the eye ever again.
Noteven on Christmas.
3
Amonth before I was stabbed to death, Jennifer broke up with me.
“Whatdid I do wrong?” I asked her on the phone.
“Itisn’t you, it’s me,” she said. “I just need a little space. You know you can beintense.”
Itold her I’d try to calm down and be less so. I conceded I’d been having a hardtime with my mom and being unemployed, and so much of that drama was spillingover. Plus, my estrogen levels felt random and emo.
“Canwe at least talk about it in person?”
“I’mnot sure what you think that would achieve.”
Jenniferhad taken me horseback riding the previous summer—I’d never been on a horsebefore, and the world looked so hopeful and green from up on its back.
Jenniferhad kissed me deeply and blown on my neck as we lay together in the shade of awide oak. She had gotten me into new music. Sleeping with her felt so awesome.Finally, so much had begun to make sense.
Andthen—it was over.
Isat in the TV room a lot, the same place I’d seen the dying mouse. Debbie camein one time, sat down next to me, and smoked me up. We’d been talking aboutwhich Drive Like Jehu album was better or something when I suddenly asked her,“Do you remember seeing a dead mouse on the couch last summer?”
“Adead mouse?” She looked down at the cushion and shifted her body out a little.“Gross!”
Itold her what I’d seen that one time, and that I’d just left it alone, but thatit was gone later.
“Brookemust have gotten rid of it, then,” Debbie figured. “D-CON’s one hell of a drug, hey?”
Debbieand I had hooked up a few times before I’d met Jennifer, and I was still intoher, but she was dating this other trans girl Allison by then, and I didn’twant to stir any shit. So, we gossiped about other things. I think Debbie wasjust being patient with me. After a while, she headed out on her scooter, and I stayed in the living room.I watched the mouse cushion. Everything seemed peculiar there, a whirlpool ofenergy that pulsed around where the mouse had waited to die.
Iwanted me to die instead of the mouse.
Then,in a quick spasm, I attacked myself. I tore at my arms with mynight-polished nails. I hit my forehead with my balled fists. I kicked thefloor. I screamed at the ceiling.
Sorrowconvulsed me, so badly I began to hyperventilate. Oh my god—
—Ineed to die I need to die I need to fucking die…
Ireached the point where I lost all faculty of language and could only scream asingle word, rhythmically with each time I hit myself: DIE! DIE! DIE! DIE!—
Ionly stopped because I grew exhausted. I didn’t wipe at my tears. I wanted tolet them dry.
Itried to take deep breaths. It only helped a little. My throat and lungs feltso constricted.
Ifelt minus something else, though, like a crucial part of my being haddissipated from me like smoke. My eyes felt sunken. I felt terrified that Ireached this new level—how close had I come to finally killing myself?
Iwanted Jennifer back. I wanted my mom to love me again. I wanted the mouse tocome back so I could try to help it.
Later,up in my room, watching the night sky from a lotus position on my futon, Ithought I heard a scuffling in the wall. I perked right up and craned my head.But the sound didn’t come again.
4
Aweek before I was stabbed to death, my mom called me to say she never wanted tospeak to me again. She had opened some mail that had come from the library. Ihad an overdue book. She took one look at the title, and blew up at me.
“There’sno way you’re one of those creatures!” she yelled.
“Mom?”
Istood shaking in the kitchen, listening to her go off.
Waveafter wave of doubt and loss crashed through me. I felt like such a failure. Ihad done everything wrong—there was no other way to explain it.
“Mom,can I at least try to
