Don't own RENT, nope nope. Just Mr. & Mrs Scunard.
X.x.x.x.x.x.X
The wig was on, he-or she now-had gotten it in a costume shop. It was way to brassy, the blonde against his-her-skin made her feel like a prostitute. A confused, broken down prostitute. She had taken the clothes from various friends, shop-lifted the heels (she couldn't bare to buy them. Not yet.) And the makeup was from an Eckerds, also stolen. Mascara applied to his-no, her, he was a she; always have been-eyes, poking them more than once. The lipstick was way to bright, made her look like everyone else. It was the eighties; fuchsia was popular, as was the black spandex leggings, furry cheetah miniskirt, and a baggy orange sweater. A cheetah-print choker to hide the hideous Adam's apple, and fake nails (freshly applied) a teal that could blind a man. She looked ridiculous. She looked perfect. She was ready.
The heels were a few inches two high for someone's first pair; she wobbled down the stairs, tripping down the last three. Readjusting the wig, the pigtails getting pulled tighter over her short, cropped ebony hair. Parents were watching the idiot box, some show with boys she wanted to fuck, and girls she wanted to be. Their backs were to them. They had no idea what was coming until she cleared her throat (trying out a higher octave) and said, "Hey. Mom? Dad?"
Their heads turned around, eyes blinking, glazed over from the TV. It took a few seconds for them to react, during which she turned a bright pink (almost as bright as the badly applied lipstick) and begged herself not to look away. She didn't defy herself; she was a deer in the headlights. Silence wasn't broken until his mother laughed, and told "him" to take off that "ridiculous costume," that it was a funny joke, by why doesn't "he" practice his drums?
"Mom. This is me. It's not a game. I'm-I'm a girl."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
Her dad got up and crossed the room, yanking off the too-blonde wig. She cringed against the furnace as her mother shrieked, "Morty, no!" But he didn't listen. The first punch was on the shoulder, sure to leave a bruise for days. She cried out, but didn't move, felt too broken. Each punch, to the eye, to the stomach, the clothing that made her look like a whore, that she had worked so hard on assembling, ruined. Pulled up by her ear, sweater ripped to shreds revealing a bra, stuffed with tissues. It wasn't until Morty Schunard stepped away did she realize she wasn't crying. It surprised her, and she stared at him defiantly, eyes burning, one black.
"I'm still Angel. I'm just…I'm being who I was meant to be. Just, call me Angel. Treat me like the daughter I really should be. But if you don't accept it, than I really don't know what to say."
She didn't wait for a response, wobbled up the stairs, a heel snapped in half. As soon as she hit the second landing, the tears started. But she expected this; she knew her parents and their views on cross dressers. It was the same as their views on homosexuals, or anarchists; simply not tolerated. That was why she had packed a duffel bag, and was leaving. That was what she would do if they didn't accept her. She'd leave.
Angel Dumott Schunard would show the world the world who she was.