a/n: if you are a trans teenager, please, never bind with ace bandages. it is incredibly unsafe and can cause permanent damage to your ribs and chest.
featuring: transgender cary vs dysphoria, improper binding methods, and the closet.
warnings: abuse mentions, bruises, dysphoria, smoking (tobacco/marijuana) mention. warning lists will be updated as necessary.
"a little indian brave who, before he was ten, played war games in the woods with his indian friends;
and he built a dream that when he grew up, he would be a fearless warrior indian chief."
"S'late, we better pack up. Mom can't have us staying over tonight."
"Hey. Charles. Um, I kind of have to . . . like . . . do . . . a thing, after this, y'know, so, can I, like . . . go . . . now? Or something?"
Charles didn't buy it.
He rolled up the plastic mat, unfazed. "No. You played the damn game, you put your damn pieces away like everybody else." He glared over his shoulder. "No special privileges."
"No, like. I'm serious. I have to do something. Right now." His left bandage - the only one he needed to wear anymore, for reasons unknown - was starting to fray around the edges. One of the metal clasps was missing and the knuckle was covered in marker stains. A fresh wrap was in order.
The tone of voice made it obvious he was serious. Cary was always self-interested, but it wasn't like him to pass up the chance to boss other people around; he was a fast kid, but not this fast. He sighed.
"Is it life-threatening?"
He gulped, paused, and examined the prospective issue before responding, uncharacteristically meek. He stuttered. His eyes shifted.
"P-potentially."
"A'right, then go."
It seemed like he wasn't so much waiting for permission, but for forgiveness. The 10-4 was all it took and in a caffeinated blur (must've been the three cans of Coca-Cola or something) his jacket was gone, and he was gone. The door slammed with an unsatisfying shunk.
A bored voice huffed from the couch. "Didn't take his pieces or nothin'." Martin tugged his shoes on. "Piece 'a shit."
"He had stuff to do." Preston stood up from behind the counter. "He usually doesn't walk out on us, he's one of our most dedicated players. He'll be back for his stuff tomorrow or something, cut 'im some slack for once."
Martin shifted to lay horizontally on the couch. "Fine."
"But I won't like it!" mocked a voice from the hallway two doors down.
"Will you shut up."
"Nah, you shut up," the voice laughed. "Pissbaby."
"I'm not a pissbaby! Don't call me that, you asshole!" He was about this close to dragging Joe out by the overgrown hair.
Martin didn't tell anyone he was lined up for three AP's and football next year for a reason.
"LADIES, ladies, please, you're both pretty. Now will all of you pissbabies wrap it up and help me out over here, I've been hauling ass for five minutes."
"FiiiiiiIIiiIIIiiIne." Joe finally trudged out of the laundry hall over to the card table set up in the middle of the living room and started tossing small plastic bags across the room.
"Martin?" He let it fall on the floor before flopping over to grab it with one hand. Sandwich-size, opaque plastic, blue-and-purple ziplock. Two army men and three six-sided dice - red, blue, black. Faded name written in black permanent marker.
"Preston?" It fell on the oven behind him, missing his perfected outfielder's catch by a few inches. Snack-size, smooth plastic, thin clear ziplock. Three diorama figurines, two six-sided dice, and one 20-sided die - blue and gold.
"That's mine . . ." Joe shoved the bag in his pocket. Snack-size, opaque plastic, blue-and-purple ziplock. One army man, one train figurine, one 12-sided die, and one 20-sided die - amber and white.
"Charles, you've got yours?"
"S'in the bag. Which one of you's seeing Cary next."
It wasn't a question - more of a demand, but it at least gave the illusion of choice.
"I will, I'll bring it to 'im on my way home." The only bag that couldn't get mixed up with anyone else's; sandwich-size, purple plastic, thin ziplock. Five army men, and no dice.
Preston caught it that time.
"many moons passed and more the dream grew strong, until tomorrow he would sing his first war song
and fight his first battle, but something went wrong; surprise attack killed him in his sleep that night."
The bathroom door nearly slammed shut, but he caught the handle in time to quietly pull it closed. There were dark rubber skid marks on the grimy tile floor he'd have to deal with later.
He threw his shirt in the hamper and winced. He'd hit himself up against the sink counter, right where the bandages ended.
A push on the heel against the slipping rug was enough to hold it in place, and slip his untied shoes off and to the side. He stumbled in his week-old socks across the tile, and faced himself in the mirror, staring at his greasy hair; his oily skin; his sunburned chest; the ochre bandages.
It was eleven o'clock at night and Cary Nelson was a mess.
It took several deep breaths and thirteen seconds of mental preparation before he tugged at the paperclip; he couldn't find his other fastener that morning, and it was the first day he'd bound before going to school. He sacrificed two for the gauze on his left hand - he had no scars on his chest, and it was more imperative to help the cuts on his palm and wrist heal before he could concern himself with his chest. A sharpened paperclip pierced three levels of bandage and fastened it well enough.
The bent metal fastener slipped off, and the bandages started to loosen.
They'd already lost their stretch over the weekend he'd worn them. Holding the edge between his index and middle finger, and unwrapping.
He shuddered at the knock at the door. "Cary? Everything alright in there?"
"Y-yeah, everything's fine, Lizzy."
"Y'sure?"
"Liz, I'm sure! Go away!"
His sister paused cautiously. "You takin' a shit?"
"LIZ LEAVE."
Liz left.
He took another deep breath and looked at his chest in the mirror. Sore red lines from the bandage's edges and a thick indentation on his right side from where the edge of the bandage wrinkled and pressed into his skin burned.
He let out a pained breath as he held his right side and leaned against the counter.
Faded bruises splayed over his torso.
It wasn't the first time he'd seen it – heavy bruising had been a near-everyday phenomena when his dad was still around. Belts and knuckles inadvertently taught the Nelson kids basic first aid.
He wasn't out to his sisters or his mother, and he'd never experienced this kind of bruising before. This was, after all, the first day he'd bound for more than a few hours.
But basic common sense told him Ace Bandages weren't supposed to hurt this bad.
Cary ran his hand under the tepid faucet, failing to wash away dirt, ash, and dried sweat to no avail. It wouldn't make the bruising go away any faster, and it wouldn't make it hurt any less.
He shifted and looked down before dropping to the ground behind the bathroom door.
Knees tucked under his arms, crossed over his aching chest, he shuddered and let his bangs fall in front of his eyes.
He didn't want to look at himself.
A small, hot tear dripped on his forearm, but he only squeezed his arms tighter in front of his chest.
Ace Bandages weren't supposed to hurt this bad.
"she drew her wheel chair to the edge of the shore, and to her legs she smiled, 'you won't hurt me no more.'
but then a sight she'd never seen made her jump and say, 'look, a golden winged ship is passing my way!'
and it really didn't have to stop...it just kept on going."
The phone rang in the middle of the night.
"H . . . hello?"
The familiar voice on the other end of the line was shaky and raw. It sounded red.
The familiar voice on the other end of the line was crying.
" . . . Preston?"
He rolled over to lean up on his elbows. "Cary? I-is everything okay?"
"Preston, I . . . I need . . . I need help . . . I need your help-"
He snapped awake. "Cary, what's going on, tell me, what's going on, are you okay."
"I . . . I'm . . . you know how t- t- . . . t-"
Preston waited patiently on the other end.
"You know how to . . . take care of . . . of bruising, right?"
"Yeah . . . yeah, I do, what's going on? What happened? Something with your mom, or . . ."
"No, it's . . . it's not that, it's . . . I- I- . . . I wore the . . . the bandages today."
He took a deep breath.
"Is that-"
"Yeah. That's . . . that's how I got . . . the bruises."
Preston took another deep breath. He was, unsurprisingly, the only person Cary was out to; they'd both gone through the same social services program, were forced to attend the same seminars, and were routinely sent the same contact request letters from the social workers.
They trusted each other enough to call each other in the middle of the night asking how to take care of bruises.
This wasn't the first time it had happened.
"Okay. Um. Where . . . where are they."
"All . . . all over . . . it- it hurts, man, it hurts."
"I know. Just . . . stay calm." He sighed. " . . . Where are you?"
"A-at home . . . in . . . in the bathroom . . ."
"Can you get to a fridge?"
Cary sniffled on the other line. "Y- y . . . yeah . . . "
"Okay. Then I want you to go to the fridge."
"O- okay. . . "
He could hear Cary stumbling, trying to stand up, setting the phone down for a second before picking it back up and walking to what he presumed to be the kitchen.
He remembered when he had to phone Cary about things like this.
One night he'd had to call him at six in the morning because he physically couldn't look at himself in the mirror. Preston stayed home from school that day. He told the school he was sick. He felt like he was, but he wasn't.
Cary knew why.
"Okay. Are you at the fridge?"
"Y-yeah . . . "
"Okay, grab yourself some ice. Or, like, a bag of peas or something. Something cold."
" . . . Okay."
A minute or two of rustling was spent fidgeting anxiously with the blankets and glancing briefly down his shirt several fidgety times before Cary picked the phone back up again.
"I . . . I have . . . a bag of broccoli, is that okay?"
"S'your call. You think it'll work?"
"It should, I mean . . . it's . . . cold and . . . malleable."
"Then you'll be fine. Just hold it over the bruised areas and wait for it to stop hurting. Go get some rest, okay? Find me tomorrow, I'll help you out."
"O . . . okay." Cary sniffed again.
"T-thanks, Pres."
"Get some sleep. 'Night."
They hung up at the same time.
Preston used to phone Cary about things like this.
"and so castles made of sand slip into the sea, eventually."
