Fan Fiction ❯ In The Mirror ❯ I need therapy... ( Chapter 4 )

AN: Bit of a change here, to improve the authenticity of the story. Here's the repost.

~*~

Well, that went a lot better than it could've gone. I trudge down the street to my weekly therapy session, mulling over the events of the last few hours. Nothing more than a few smoldering looks and a cold shoulder. Honestly, I think I deserved worse. I mean, I did kiss him back. I fucking led him on is what I did…

I run a hand through my hair and search for my pack of cigarettes. Muttering to myself, I finally pull out my cigs and light up, taking a deep draw off the carcinogenic stick. The rest of the walk goes by in a blur as I indulge in the calming effects of my nicotine.

I arrive at the therapist's office and snuff out my cigarette in the receptacle outside before walking in. The receptionist looks up from her work and smiles at me, waving. "Hey there Alex, no need to sign in. Dr. Moran will be ready in a few minutes okay, sweet thang?" She winks, then turns back to her computer. I've only been coming here for a few months, but Daniell always manages to bring a smile to my face. Feeling a little bit better already, I take a seat and wait for my appointment.

Dr. Lockridge was my first therapist. He was a really great guy. Emphasis on the "was". About 5 months ago, he had a massive embolism. I didn't go to the funeral.

"Alex?" The Doctor is standing there at his door, his previous patient walking out with a tissue held up to… her?… eyes… You can never be sure at this place. Dr. Moran adjusts his bifocals on his face, beckoning me into his office.

I slip easily into the comfy leather chair in Dr. Moran's office. He takes a moment to organize some files and get out some fresh paper for his clipboard. "So…" The Doctor sits, leafing through my file for what seems like the thousandth time. "It's been 4 months now since you started on the hormone therapy. Do you think there have been any noticeable changes?"

It takes me a moment to decide whether I have or not. "Well… I have been getting called ma'am a lot less."

He chuckles, the corners of his eyes wrinkling. "But, other than that, have there been any drastic physical changes?" His demeanor returns to his normal clinical seriousness.

Knowing joking isn't getting me anywhere today, I decide to cut the crap. "Yeah, more body hair. My voice hasn't started to lower yet, but…" I point to my chin. "I think I'm getting a little stubble here." I can't help but crack a smile at that. It's one step closer to becoming who I really am. Yes, it's a tiny step, but a step, nonetheless.

Dr. Moran nods, making some notes on his clipboard. "And how do you feel about the changes?" He doesn't look up, just keeps scribbling away. Sometimes I wonder if he isn't just doodling…

"Good, I guess. Better about the way I look." More scribbling. "I just wish they would come a little faster…"

He looks up with a slight smile. "That's understandable." There's a short pause as he lays his pen on his notepad and looks up at me expectantly. "Let's talk about when you first realized you couldn't stay the way you were."

I don't want to talk about that. "I don't want to talk about that." I turn my head to hide the blush on my face.

The doctor sighs, leaning forward in his chair and removing his glasses. "Alex, I know it's been tough having to switch therapists in the middle of this kind of process. I don't really want to push you into anything you're not ready for, but if you want me to help you on your road to becoming who you really are, you are going to have to tell me how you came to your realization, preferably sooner than later." His voice has risen slightly, belying his frustration.

Lately, I've been getting the same speech from him every time I come to therapy. But for some reason, this time seems different. Maybe it was the wording he used, maybe the urgency in his voice, or maybe I just need to talk about this. I don't want to remember. It's hard. But he's right. If I don't come to terms with it, I'll never really move on, will I?

At some point, I don't know when, drops of salty water cut paths down my face. They make a soft pat-pat noise when they hit the material of my shirt. I nod, feeling oddly detached from the display my body's making. "Okay. I'll tell you about it."

"Take your time. I won't charge extra if we go over today." I don't think I would've cared, but it's nice to know that.

Closing my eyes, I take a calming breath. A scene paints itself in front of my eyes and after a few moments, I begin to talk. "It was about ten years ago. We'd just moved because my father was restationed. It was a new school, so not only was I a freshman, I was also the "new kid". I tried to stay inconspicuous. Didn't want anyone to notice how weird I was. It was a rural school though, and I just didn't fit in. I was in advanced classes with kids at least 2 years older than I was. Even then, it seemed easy. I guess it was only a matter of time before I got cornered. It was right after geometry, and I had called attention to myself by solving a bonus problem in less than a minute…"

~*~

"Hey new kid," a burly voice calls out from somewhere not too far behind me. It's accompanied by snickers and conspiring whispers. I don't want a confrontation, so I act like I have no idea who the voice was calling to and just keep walking. "Nerd! Know-it-all," the voice and laughter grow louder. After a few more excruciating moments of ignoring them, something pushes against my back hard, making me stumble forward. "I'm talking to you," he says, now standing in front of me, blocking my path with his girth.

I recognize him as being on the football team, mostly because he's always wearing his jersey. His jock buddies have me surrounded, and I can't help but notice how deserted the hallway seems otherwise. "You think it's cool," he asks, leering down at me, "makin' the upperclassmen look dumb?"

I stand there, shaking my head. The rest of me is shaking too. Thing is, I'm not sure whether I'm scared or not. "I just want to learn geometry," I reply earnestly. And it's completely true. I went to school because I actually liked class.

He and his little herd of friends break out into overstated empty laughter. "What a lame-ass geek," he says to his buddies, like I'm not right there in front of him. I take the opportunity to glance around, seeing if there's an opening in the flock I can slip through. "How come the teacher keeps callin' you Alexis? You look like a little boy," he points at my hair, cropped short above my ears and parted in the middle. "You a dyke?"

In my naiveté I ask, "What's a dyke?"

The uproar is instantaneous. "What's a dyke, she says," he and his buddies are almost bent in half in their laughter, leaving me standing there not knowing whether I should make a break for it or stick around to get an answer to my question. After a moment to compose himself, Mr. Football says, "Are you a dyke? Do you bat for the opposite team? Do you enjoy the sport of muff-diving? In short, are you GAY?" His breath stinks of chewing tobacco as he gets closer to me.

Gay? No way. Even being a girl myself, I find it hard to relate to them. No, I am definitely into guys. I make a face and shake my head vehemently. "No, I'm NOT a dyke!"

They laugh some more. What's so hilarious, I have no idea. I feel my face grow red. "You like guys," he asks, getting too close to me. I back up against a locker. "Come on, you little dyke, prove it!" His big meaty hand grab at me, his body weight pressing me up against the lockers. He's touching my sides, and chest, his tobacco breath heavy in my nostrils. His lips are sloppy on my neck, making me feel funny.

I don't know what to do; this has never happened to me before. "S-stop it!" I push at him, trying to get his heavy mass off me. Trying to keep him from touching me like that. I don't like it. I push hard, and manage to get him away, but my glasses clatter to the floor, and suddenly everything's fuzzy.

"She's ornery, Jarod," I hear one of his flock say. "Want me to hold her down?" My insides feel cold. I know what they're going to do, but I don't want to admit it. I can't see!

"Nah, I got it," I can see him coming towards me. In his hand, he dangles something black. My glasses. "Want these?" I make a grab for them, but he drops them before I can get to them. The next step he takes makes a sickening crunch. His buddies are laughing, but the ringing in my ears drowns it out. I can feel a boiling coming up from my stomach, and as he grabs at me again, it's like I'm watching it happen from somewhere far off. A harsh cry pierces my ears, and after a moment I realize that it's coming from me. My right hand is held out in front of me, bloody and aching, like something unnatural. Jacob is huddled next to two of his friends with blood pouring from his face. All I can do is blink and stare at my broken hand.

"What on earth is going on here," yells a prissy voice. Right, I'm in a school… The teacher gasps at the puddle of blood forming at Mr. Football's feet. There's a soft din of wonder from her class, which has now gathered at the door, each peering over the other's shoulder, desperate to see what's going on. The teacher clip-clops over to me in her heels and business suit, keeping a safe distance from my dripping hand. "What's the meaning of this," she asks, looking rather pale for all the make-up she's wearing.

It takes me a moment to find my voice. "He broke my glasses," I say. What I want to do is find a hole to jump in. Jacob, the big jock, makes a choking sob as blood sprays from his nose onto his buddy's letterman jacket. The girls in the teacher's class all gasp and scream softly. Out of morbid curiosity I hold up my hand to inspect it, and find that one of the metacarpals is starting to poke through the skin at the back of my hand. And I laugh. Not a real laugh. But the kind of laugh you use to cover up something you don't want to deal with. The teacher in her royal blue business suit doesn't know what to do, so she ushers her students back into the classroom and presses the emergency button.

~*~

I finger the scar on the back of my hand idly. "Nobody really bothered me a whole lot after that. They would point and murmur about how I was the freshman who split open the star quarterback's nose. How I stood there and laughed at the bone poking through my hand. How I wasn't all there in the head. How I was just a weirdo bookworm dyke. I didn't care about any of it. It was sitting there in that ambulance, listening to the sirens that I realized what made me different. If I wasn't a dyke, but didn't want to be a girl either, what did that make me? I joked with the few friends I could find that I was a gay guy in a girl's body. It wasn't `till only a little while ago that I realized how true that was." There's a knock at the door.

It's Danielle, saying we've gone almost 15 minutes over, and the next client is getting impatient. Dr. Moran nods and scribbles a few last-second notes on his clip-board. "Thank you, Alex. We'll discuss this more when you come in next week. I feel like we made some real progress today." He claps me on the shoulder and tells Danielle not to charge me for going over. She winks and leads me out to the waiting room where I write her a check and step quickly outside. I need a fucking cigarette.