Chapter 7--Flattery

Why am I woman, anyway?

I can’t stop thinking about that. Why am I a trans woman? It’s been bothering me lately. I like it, it sounds right… but as far as I can remember, I was always a woman. I was always a trans woman, as if I was born one. And I was never born and no trans person is never born as what they want to be. I’m phrasing the evidence wrong—like, all I know is that I just… appeared one day. And I was trans. That’s not something that happens to a real person! Most of the demons I’ve known realized they were trans much later, and changed accordingly. I know a lot of beings like me just come into existence because a task was needed… and my task was to be trans. I was needed to be someone else’s softness and their secret desires—one of them was being trans. Just because. I am something so meaningful for a meaningless reason.

But I was “born” as what I wanted to be: A woman! I didn’t have to do as much as others to get what I wanted. Sure, I had a penis and not all of my body is “womanly”… but I looked like one! If I’m not trans, am I not cis? But if I was, everything about me would be right, and this wouldn’t be an issue in the first place! The fact that this is driving me nuts is indicative of something. It feels selfish to say, but I don’t want to be cis. For some reason, it just makes sense for me to be that. I was created to be trans, and so I am. Even if it was for an awful job and it’s not really mine at the end of the day, I want it to be my own. I’d like to own a part of myself.

You can’t be trigger happy about it. At the end of the day, you were made for Thea’s fantasy, to be the thing she needed to become. It’s not really yours, is it?

I’m probably trans because Thea was.

I don’t like that.

Like I’m just some clone. Like if you took all my layers away, you’d see… there would be… I…

Lord, I’m begging to say it, but I can’t let myself do that.

I’ve been sitting in the bathroom for a while, naked. I shower pretty much everyday, rarely had an issue with it. It hasn’t been an issue after Bo moved in either! He hasn’t been weird about the fact that the bathroom door doesn’t close properly. It’s bad though; even when it’s locked, you can just push the door and it’ll open. I still haven’t figured out what’s causing that, and I don’t want to figure it out, at least for today. I always say that. I can fix dishwashers and sinks; why don’t I have the patience to fix a damn door?

That door’s been broken for a long time, actually. It wasn’t usually a problem because I lived alone. I didn’t even notice until Pepperman and Vigi came over and pointed it out. I was probably too embarrassed about a broken door than anyone normally should, so maybe that’s why I found their lightheartedness comforting. Pepperman’s got a nice way of talking. Crazy how she can go on and on about anything—and it means something! He used to just throw things at the wall until something stuck, but then he changed and now he’s good at it! And Vigi… she’s just as lovely.

They’re both cute, they really are. Their relationship seems pleasant, with them helping each other grow and all that. I’ve seen bits and pieces of it. Every day I see them they get wiser and wiser, somehow. They talk to each other tenderly. Pepperman lets Vigi rest on her shoulder, and Vigi helps her get out doors. They’re very symbiotic. Not conjoined—they chose to be there.

I liked helping them. Pepper would come for advice on makeup or where to buy some good feminine clothes. I helped Vigi voice train when she was early in transition. If I ever forgot that, I would die. God, that one always works me up; I shouldn’t ruminate.

I start the shower and wait for the water to get warm. The world around me is just a back-burner right now.

She was the only person I showed my true voice to—intentionally, at least. Funny how it was such a quick moment. I treated it as a joke and we both laughed, but Vigi’s face got really tender in that moment. Her face was always really tender around me. It was clear she felt vulnerable, and I hope she didn’t mind it. I know she isn’t crazy about her appearance, but there’s something about the way her form wrinkles, especially when she speaks all soft and she’s all coy and gets all flushed after doing a good job…

If she wasn’t asexual, I’d—but I didn’t like almost pulling my shirt down in front of her! Jerking off in their apartment didn’t feel good, even if I kept it private! Well—if she wanted to fuck me, I’d like it. But she’s married! She’s been married for twenty years! And I wish I was a part of their life like that, too, for both of them. But Vigi especially.

I step into my walk-in shower and close the door behind me. The water drenching me feels like a thousand anesthetized taps, fingers tapping on me that feel more ghostly than usual.

Sometimes I really want to worm my way into their lives: Just ignore their marriage and date them anyway. They could play with me, like I’m some kind of toy. They could seep into me or smother me in a bicep. I’d turn into a stupid rabbit and they’d like it, that stupid rabbit thing I like turning into. I’d knead them like dough and paint them onto the other; they’re fond of their art… those little peculiarities. And they like being weird, and they take pride in it. And I’m weird, weird in a way that nobody likes. And they have the patience to do weird shit to a weirdo like me.

And they’d flatter me. They’d flatter me good.

Don’t do it. You swore off masturbating years ago. Then you said you’d swore off masturbating months ago. I only did for a couple times a week… but I can jerk off for hours, y’know? I could rot away and I’d like it, it seems. Sometimes in those moments I think I’d prefer rotting away with a moistened hand—because at least I’d be destroyed by my own hand instead of someone else’s hand. Nobody would have to hurt anybody, and I’d wouldn’t have the chance to hurt anyone else besides myself.

I need it. Just this once. I hate saying this, but it’s clear I can’t move off until I… get it out of my system. But I can’t think of them! I can just think about the usual scenarios, or whatever. It’ll be okay.

I’ve never really masturbated in the shower before…

It should be fine. Just think nice thoughts.

I like it when ladies are quiet—guys too, but I like women more. I like quiet but cheeky ladies, ones that would push on my buttons if I wanted it. She’d rub my tired back if I needed it. Just those gentle, soft fingers soothing my back… and she’d stroke my clit real nice, like what I’m doing right now. Pull my pants and giggle lustfully at my laced underwear. Maybe she’d say,“what lovely lingerie. Where’d you get such nice clothes, bunny?” She leans into me, her blond, curly hair spilling onto me. She makes me embarrassed, just as much as I make her embarrassed, embarrassed in that nice way.

The whole thing makes me feel hot and puffy, and puffy feels pathetic, and pathetic feels embarrassing. She likes that—god, I like it too! Her face boils in horny heat as more and more pink, fuzzy hairs sprout on my body.

“You look goofy with that big red nose you got there. What do you even need to smell?” she comments. I touch my shifting snout with my chunking fingers to feel the nose in question. It sure is there, overbearingly so. I try to prevent to urge to whimper by laughing awkwardly, just an absolute band-aid solution.

“W-w-what are you talking about?” I retort. “Everything just feels a-okay to me!”

My current clothes don’t even fit me anymore. Fuck, then she gets a grab of my round tummy and counters, “what’s all this, then?”

Damn, I’m putting a lot of pressure on my hand.

I open my eyes.

And I’m now the anthropomorphic rabbit I fantasized about becoming. Wet and so stuffed inside my shower that I’m surprised I didn’t pop the door open. Heheh, I look really silly, don’t I? Silly and pathetic. Honestly, it does feel really good. I sorta miss masturbating from time to time.

You were thinking of her.

I was thinking of her.

And she’d hate that I was doing this shit. I mean, she isn’t here in the room with me and I’m not saying this all to her, but sure says something about me that I like that fantasy. That fantasy claws at my brain everyday I see them. I love them hollowly, as much as I say I don’t like it when these sexual urges come at me, I am still a goddamn pervert.

But I don’t like it! I hate it when I have those intrusive thoughts; they’re all just intrusive thoughts! I don’t want to hurt people. If I hurt anyone, I would rather die.

And he wanted the same. But I do something about it! I don’t just… cower! I got better bearings than the Noise ever did. If anything, I’m more capable of rape than he ever was.

I always say that. If things keep going the same old course, I’ll be bawling my eyes out, drowning in the blood that flows inside me from all the wounds I have collected all these years. Tortured by my own body, raped by it. And there will be some catharsis. I’ll be miserable, but god will I know it hurts. And when I know it hurts, I’ll want to tend to myself and feel a little innocent. Innocent just like the endearing little idea I was when I first formed. No longer will that comfort be for someone else and it shall be for me. I’ll be my own angel, my own woman.

I just have to hurt myself a little… that’s all.

I look down at my crotch. I concentrate and let my thick fingers become flaccid, then lead them into my vagina. They snake their way down there and grab onto that stiff evilness that still remains in me, and always will. Once they start hauling it to the surface, I start gagging for no reason. Transforming never hurts—I certainly feel something, but it never hurts. But it hurts. Something is attacking my brain in a horrible, horrible way, like there’s some kind of cancer in me. I gag and twitch my head. It hurts.

I fish it out. My penis all raw and bloodied, as if I was actually injured. And I try to hide from this when I know it’s inside me no matter what! I can always take it out; it’s irreversible! I start laughing senselessly. It doesn’t even matter! If I can take it back and change my mind, was I ever a woman, a transgender woman, no less?

I start to stroke it, and I automatically flail my body and slam my head against the tiled wall. With every gesture I make with my inhuman hand, I gag. Nothing comes out. I keep going. It’s horrible, having that shape on my body. It’s just a shape, not a form, not an organ. It’s nothing that could ever mean anything to me. It’s unnatural; just a keyboard for some monochromatic office job. A job that tortures you as much as you torture others.

You were a torturer. As much as you hate to hear it and didn’t want to do it, you had to keep her soft and vulnerable so she would never leave that tower—so she would stay in that fantasy, never getting better. It does not matter whatever good you left in your life: You tortured him. You tortured him by merely being yourself.

And you hide from that, Noisette—if that could ever by a worthy name for you. You have concocted similar sins that he has. But in what regard?

You cower. You harm yourself. You’re harming yourself in order to feel validated, to feel like a victim. And what can you even do to reverse working a horrid, horrid job? You can’t do anything. As much as you make promises, you can’t recover from this.

You were his idea in the first place.

ENOUGH!

I’m no longer a rabbit. But what does that change? No no, I gotta get out of this. God, I feel like I’m melting into oblivion.

I gotta look at myself. See my face, see that I’m still here—I have to be, right? Stay strong; when you see yourself, you’ll get some bearings back. Cope through the pain, cope through the pain—

I look in the mirror.

I’m shaped just like her. My face. No matter what I do, I look just like her. And my hair doesn’t hide that, not my wings, my horns, my tail, my hips, my breasts—all just makeup from somebody else’s skin. I feel sick. I am sick. I’m a sickening fucking thing. Just a terrible idea, a terrible idea that pretends to live for itself.

I am a trans woman. I am a trans woman because I am made of his… essence, his blood, his urges. And I am him. I am him. I am him.

Impulses crawl through my head.

I am him. I’m him. Good god, I am him, I am him!

And I have to live with that! And I don’t even just carry his body; I am just as horrible as him! I am him!

I want to move. Let me move. How much can I stand hearing this?

But it’s true. I am him. I am—

A reflex surges through me. I punch my bathroom mirror so hard I leave a crater in it.

My fingers are punctured with bits of glass, and my knuckles are oozing and seething with my blood, black as it always is.

It’s so black. It doesn’t even reflect any light. It looks flat, like it was just plastered onto this scene.

“Noisette?!”

I’m bleeding.

Tears well up in my eyes.

I haven’t hurt myself like this in a long time.

“Are you okay?!”

God, there’s no time to get dressed. Just tend to the wound.

I sprint haphazardly out of the door towards the kitchen to clean my injury. I’m still wet, so I end up slipping on the hardwood floor and use my injured hand to cushion my fall. I groan as the glass digs deeper into my fist.

“Oh my g-goodness! What’s going on?!”

Bo gets on the ground and grabs onto my head to push me upwards. I slugglishly make an effort to sit up, my limps sprawling out once I’m upright.

“Noisette, are you able to speak? I heard a crash from—”

Their eyes wander around my body and quickly constrict, shrinking so small that their pupils were practically invisible.

Their voice quivers into nothingness and their eyes become glazed as they collapse onto the ground. All I want to do is stare.

Why am I this reflection, anyway?