"Who You Are"

Work: the Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert
Characters: Adam/Felicia
Genre: Angst
Rating: R

You can run from all the memory
But never get that far
For in the end they'll find you
For this is who you are
-Trans-Siberian Orchestra

I feel like such a bloody fool. Tick is yelling, reinforcing the fact in exasperated tones as my mascara runs. I hardly hear what he is saying, but it only makes me feel worse. At long last he finishes his tirade and leaves, slamming the door behind him.

I'm not sure why I did it. Too cocky, I guess. I never was afraid to go out in full getup. After all, I'm Felicia, the gorgeous les-girl who brings home a new piece of ass every night after the show or a night on the town. I thought I was untouchable. Stares and shocked looks don't bother me – they're just jealous they don't look this good, I used to tell my friends with a smirk. Names used to hurt, but not anymore, not most of the time. Faggot, queer, bum-puncher – so sorry, doll; heard 'em all and more; you'll have to do better than that to get to this girl. I like to think they just roll off me. After all, aren't I always the one with a quick, scathing comeback to whatever they throw at me? But I guess it all builds up after a while, each hurt too tiny to notice until they all add up and you fall apart. Now they've become too much to contain, and I can hear the voice of every fucker who ever said some shit like that to me, all of them dancing around in my head like deranged clowns, all of them self-proclaimed Mr. Normal. I remember the sneers, spitting, cursing. I held my head high then, blowing a kiss and flipping the bird. I locked the memories away, but what happened tonight has brought them all back.

Bob warned me against it. Tick and Bernie told me not to get in any trouble. I just couldn't listen, the arrogant little queen that I am.

I thought I was going to be killed, castration aside. Those filthy pigs with their beer-only bar and their scrutinizing eyes – I thought they were going to beat the shit out of me, make me a eunuch, and give me a couple of jabs with their rusty knives, and then Felicia Jollygoodfellow would be no more. I was so fucking scared...

I sob quietly, sitting on the edge of the bed and feeling so low and worthless. For a moment I almost feel ashamed of the dress I'm wearing. Fucking queer, that's what I am; they're right, they're all right... But then Bernie – Bernadette – settles on the bed behind me and gently places her arms around me, like a mother. She was something back there; she gave that cocksucker Frank a little surprise. I admire her nonchalance, her calm, as if it would take a hell of a lot more to work her up than some shitface from a beer-only town telling her to fuck him.

She says to let it teach me, toughen me up. I guess she knows better than anyone about being slapped in the face like this. I wonder if deep down all the shit she has to face every day hurts her, if behind that serene face, no longer male but not yet quite female, she's crying too.

I run a hand over my wet eyes; it comes away smeared with black. Am I any tougher? I don't feel like it; my jaw hurts like all hell, and my thighs ache from being forced apart. I know that bastard's cold face will be a memory I'll never lose.

But I guess I'll be okay. I'm not untouchable, but this is who I am.