Chapter 1:

My mother is a beautiful woman. Her hair fell just to her neck, and she had these sparkly eyes that made you trust her. I wish more than anything to be like her. That was what was on my mind as mom, Kurt, Burt and I sat around the table in our dining room. Burt asked me if I was feeling alright, and I just absentmindedly shrugged. Mom and Kurt were concerned as well, but I just shook my head and picked at whatever food was still on my plate.

After another seven minutes of worried glances, and I was making up an excuse to leave the room. I think I said something about practicing for Glee. Mom and Burt bought it; Kurt did not.

"What's wrong with you today Finn?" Kurt questioned three minutes after I left the dining room. My tall, awkward body took up my whole bed, but Kurt still found a way to sit next to me.

"Nothing," I grumbled for the millionth time that day. Kurt rolled his eyes and poked my shoulder.

"Come on Finn; tell me what's going on. Is it girl trouble?" As much as I loved Kurt, I didn't want to talk about this. But I also knew Kurt wouldn't give up when he wanted to know something. Reluctantly, I nodded; in a twisted way, it was girl trouble.

"Is it Rachel? Or Quinn?" Kurt fired questions. I just shook my head and buried my face into the pillow. After a long pause, Kurt sighed.

"You know what Finn? You have the same expression I had the first time I came out. Is there something you want to get off your chest?" Kurt sounded like he really wanted to help, and for a half-second, I considered. But then I remembered that I was Finn Hudson, and I had to stop being like this. I had to get a genuinely concerned Kurt to stop asking me questions before I was ready to give the answers.

So I handled this the only way I knew how; anger.

"Fuck you, I'm not gay," I hissed, rolling over and shoving my nose into my pillow case. The pleasant mix of whatever laundry soap was used, plus my shampoo calmed my frayed nerves. A quick huff was the only evidence he had heard what I said. The creak of my bedsprings as his weight exited followed by warmth disappearing from my side was my indicated he left. A deep sigh slipped from my chapped lips and I rolled over yet again.

My eyes traced patterns on the faded white paint of my ceiling as I whispered, "I'm not gay," over and over.

But what was I, if not gay? I mean, I had zero attraction to any female I had ever met. Rachel and Quinn were just experiments that didn't go as well as I hoped. But I had attraction to males, or one male in particular- Noah Puckerman.

His muscular arms, wonderful abs, and beautiful face, my best friend Puck was any girls dream. I had a significant problem though; Puck was my dream, but I was not born a girl. Did this make me gay?

It wasn't normal to worship your mom, fall for your heterosexual same-sex best friend, and like show choir more than football. To be honest, I hated football. I only did it because the coach said they could use my 6'3 frame, and I wanted to fit in.

"Fuck this; I am NOT gay," I hissed. Standing up abruptly, I knew what to do.

There was a simple cure to feeling like this, I thought as I made my way to the bathroom. Hidden in the top right door of the sink was a broken razor blade, with an edge so jagged I required stitches from touching it. But then again, my upper thighs were lined with rough scars for a reason.

I took my pants and boxers off, rolling my eyes at my body and clothing. Why couldn't I look like Quinn, or Rachel, or even - wait. Why was I comparing myself to all of these girls? shouldn't I want to look like Tom Cruise, or Kurt, or Mike Chang?

And as I drug the razor across the tender flesh of my inner thigh, wincing as the pretty ribbons of red flowed, my answer came to me.

I was a girl, trapped inside a man's body.