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He doesn’t speak. Not unless spoken to. He doesn’t dare fight back, because last time he tried, he couldn’t see out of his right eye for some time. Surya could only lay or sit or take anything given, even as he begged him not to. He knew what the word “molest” meant since a young age. Too young of an age. He knew the word, knew it was children. And Surya knew that he, too, was a child. With his father. An adult. He was loved. He saw the other kids with their family, their father, his father did that too, so it must be normal.
It wasn’t normal. Surya hated it, each night when his door would close, the lock would latch, and his dad undress him. He hated it. He hated it and wanted to forget every moment of it. He asked his friend in 3rd grade how he felt about his father, asked if he didn’t allow him to talk during “that time” either. Surya was sent to the guidance counselor, and suddenly he had a broken arm the next day and couldn’t go to school. His head ached and he wished this wasn’t his life, because it seemed he could talk about nothing. His father loomed over him, Surya was scared.
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He smiled for the school photo. He play with the other kids. He hugged his parents. He was happy. Truly. There was nothing wrong, except this void that only seemed to increase in size as he grew in age each year. His mother had scolded him about such feelings, “You aren’t like that,” “Nothing’s wrong,” “I know you’re fine.” Kylan knew. He did. He was fine. He got along with others, he was doing well in school. He was amazing. For the first 12 years of his life. Best 12 years he could ever ask for.
His nose bled, and he sat in the principal’s office. “I recommend your child seeks counseling. It seems there are some emotional issues-“ And the kid next to him asked why he was such a weirdo. Kylan curled in on himself. He never really talked in school after that, he sat alone at lunch, and this hole in him only got bigger. His mom yelled at him, asking why he ever did such a thing, why wasn’t normal, why she ever had him. Kylan stole a bottle of pills from the cupboard to forget about it, to sleep. And perhaps, when he woke up the next day, his mother might love him.
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She. That was the problem. The problem that “she” didn’t mean to exist. She was 5 when she asked why she couldn’t be with the other boys in the bathroom. Her mom grabbed her arm and never brought her back to that pool. She was 7 when she stared at the other boys in class and wondered why she couldn’t look like them. She took scissors to her hair in class and was sent home for the day. Her mother screamed. Hit her. Sent her to her room. She held her breath until she passed out that day and awoke in the hospital. She cried knowing that she was still alive.
She was 12 when she knew something was wrong. This wasn’t supposed to be her. She wasn’t supposed to be a “she”. That thing that was between her legs wasn’t correct. The red that suddenly stained her underwear and the pain that shot through her body was not supposed to be her reality. She told her mom she wished she was a boy. Her mom laughed, said that “you’ll get used to it.” She took a paring knife to her arm that day and tried to forget about the blood escaping her body elsewhere. This was wrong. Incorrect.