A New Heart
Prologue
Ever since Francis was a young boy, his parents always knew there was something different about him. When all the other boys his age were playing football, Francis wanted to take dance classes. When all the other boys asked for the latest action figure for Christmas, Francis would much rather play with a Barbie doll or play dress up with his mother's makeup. Of course, his parents weren't very happy about this. His father was always pressuring him to like what "normal boys" liked, and constantly signing him up to play on summer sports teams. His mother became a heavy drinker, and she would find herself crying, asking herself where they went wrong with her son, and why couldn't he just be normal. Francis didn't think there was anything wrong with him, though. He knew he was different, yes, but different didn't mean wrong.
Despite all of his father's effort and all of his mother's tears, Francis never changed. He was born in 1960, in Nice, France, and he never felt like he belonged in his body. When he was a teenager, he grew his hair out, styling it like a woman would. He would sneak a tube of lipstick or a palette of eye shadow from his mother's makeup drawer, and when he would get to school, he'd apply the makeup in the boy's bathroom. Francis was always sure to wipe this makeup off before his father came to pick him up from school. He knew there'd be hell to pay if his dad found out he was wearing makeup. The year was 1978, and Francis was only a couple months away from turning eighteen, when he forgot to wipe this makeup off one day. With his lips painted a soft pink, his eyes decorated in a nude shimmer, black liner, and lashes elongated with black mascara, he waited outside of the school for his father's car. Francis had very few friends. Most of the other students made fun of him and thought he was a freak, so he was destined to hang out with the other freaks, which consisted of a few other boys and girls who were of the same persuasion as Francis. Today, Francis stood alone as he waited, the few friends he had having already left. Francis's father pulled up about twenty minutes after the school day was up, and Francis still had his mother's makeup painted on his face. He didn't even give the makeup two thoughts as he walked to the car, opening the door up and throwing his bag into the backseat as he sat down. He didn't even get a word out before he felt his father's glare, and then it hit him. His eyes widened and he bit the inside of his painted lip.
"What's on your face?" his father snarled. After a few seconds of hesitation, Francis spoke up.
"It's… makeup, papa."
"Why are you wearing it? Makeup is for women."
"I like it!" Francis blurted out. He knew he was in for it now. "I think it looks good, papa! And it makes me feel good!"
"I don't care!" his dad snapped, anger present in his eyes. "I'm tired of this, Francis! You are a man, not a woman! I did not have a daughter, and I didn't raise a queer! This is the last straw." He has dealt with walking into his son's room and seeing him dressed up in skirts and dresses, trotting around in high heeled shoes, and he felt like he couldn't deal with this anymore. Now he's discovered his son was doing this in public, at the young age of seventeen. Francis sunk into the seat of the car. He had never seen his father so angry, and he didn't know what punishment awaited him. His father sped off from the school parking lot, driving off in a direction not towards their home. Francis was confused at this point, and he stared out the window with a furrowed brow.
"Papa?" he asked, "Where are we going?" His father provided no answer. He simply drove in silence. They drove and drove, Francis's fear growing as they pressed on, only to stop upon arrival at the train station.
"Get out." his father said with a low growl. Francis stared at his dad in disbelief.
"But…why?"
"No son of mine is going to dress like that. Here," he pulled out his wallet and handed Francis some money, "buy yourself a train ticket. Go wherever you like, but you are not welcome in our home anymore. Look at what you've done to your poor mother…" He put the car in park and unlocked the door, not moving until Francis got out of the car.
"But…but papa, I can—
"Non!" his father shouted "Get out of the car, Francis!" Francis's eyes were wide with fear at his father's demands, but he got out of the car, grabbing his school bag. Instantly, the moment all the car doors were shut, his father sped off, back in the direction he came, not even looking back. Francis didn't know what to do. Tears built up in his eyes as he stood at the entrance to the train station, afraid and confused. He hunched over and began to cry, not knowing what else to do. Where was he supposed to go? What was he supposed to do now? He sat against the wall of the entrance, watching people as they passed through the terminals, his mascara streaming down his face with his tears. He sat there for hours until it got dark, and then he came up with a plan. He didn't need his parents, they never supported him anyway. He had always thought about running away, getting on a ship and living in London. He knew London had a huge fashion industry, and he had always wanted to be a model. So why shouldn't he do that now? There was nothing for him in France, nothing to hold him here, so he should just go. And just then, as if it was a sign of fate, a bus pulled up, and parked, opening its doors. It would be cheaper than a train ticket, and it would get him to where he needed to go, so Francis got on the bus, paid the fare, and took a seat, wiping the black lines away from his cheeks as he began his journey to the English Channel.