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“I’ve been feeling light-headed, since I lost enough weight to fit back in my skin. Flower petals and feathers tether me to the ground; pound for pound.”
A black suit jacket, a white dress shirt. It didn’t feel right, but it didn’t matter what felt right. What mattered was what looked right. For a man, since that’s what Nightmare was supposed to be. Even though they never felt like one.
.
“I wish I could be a girl…”
They’d always been jealous of the village girls with their flowing skirts and gentle hands. Gathering flowers and singing soft songs to the birds. How Nightmare wished that could be them.
.
“I’ve been feeling light-hearted, since I gained enough weight back to cover my bones.”
They were alone in their room; the doors were locked, the windows were shut, only a few lamps were dimly lighting the room. The mirror in the corner was uncovered for the first time in decades. This was it, this was Nightmare’s chance to see if they really were who they thought they were.
As they slid on the black silk of a turtleneck sleeveless gown, they were all too aware of their surroundings. The doors were shut and locked, sure, but they knew that wouldn’t stop the most…intense of their four subordinates, Killer. And while the lighting was dim, all of their boys could see in the dark quite clearly. Every step they took creaked against the floorboards. Each breath came quicker than the last. The fabric was cold against their bones, but softer than any other material they'd ever worn. It felt...nice. But that wasn't the point, the fabric of the dress didn't matter. It was how they felt in it, on the inside, that mattered.
When they stepped in front of the mirror, they couldn’t help but close their eyes. It took a solid minute of hesitation for her to slowly open one eye, then the other.
Yes, this was what mattered to her now. This person, this woman, in front of them, was what mattered. It felt like she was all that would ever matter.
.
“It’s been a point of contention between myself and this body that they stuck me in…”
Sometimes she wonders if this wasn’t who she was supposed to be. To this point in her life, no one had ever called her a woman, no one had ever acknowledged her femininity. But the way her chest gets warm and tight when she looks in the mirror feels more reassuring than dysphoria ever could.
.
“But I’ve been called worse, I’ve heard it all before, no this isn’t the first.”
“You look like a girl.”
“Man up, you act like a pansy.”
“That’s unnatural, you’re a boy.”
.
“I am quantum physics. My witness brings me to existence!”
“Come on, pretty girl, you ready to go?”
Running her hands down her sides with furrowed brow bones, she reluctantly called, “Yeah.”
Sensing his partner’s discomfort, Killer waltzed up to her, grabbed her face between his palms, and kissed her as many places as he could reach. Forehead, cheeks, temples, neck, anything he could find. A snort of amusement and a few giggles snuck out of her mouth as she jokingly pushed him off.
“All better now, princess?”
“Yeah, whatever.”
Her smile gave away that she wasn’t really as annoyed as she wanted him to think. She really did feel like the “pretty girl” Killer claimed her to be.
.
She could still hear the voices of the villagers who disapproved, the past "brother"s and "young man"s, but they weren't as loud anymore. The people around her drowned them out with their love and support. The pain and hate of dysphoria became nothing but a distant chatter in the back of her mind.