Saburo made sure his hand did not falter as he slid the silver blade along the pale skin of his forearm. Previous scars had begun to heal, leaving light pink streaks in their wake, yet he traced over them once more and reopened the wounds; the sting of pain slowly began to fill his fuzzy head and he allowed it to do so. After all, this wasn't the worse he could do.
He started this recurring activity about four months ago, the beginning of his first year as a high schooler. It wasn't like he expected things to go smoothly, but Saburo at hoped that, at the very least, he would've finally been able to make some friends; that dream was, however, short-lived.
Coming out is never an easy thing—he would say he's lucky to have such accepting brothers (even Jiro had wholeheartedly accepted him, which was a feat in of itself)—but Saburo had hoped that his classmates would react the same. Short answer: they didn't.
The school system is, frankly, screwed up beyond belief. It's not that they wouldn't let Saburo officially change his name and gender on their records, but the process to do such was so painstakingly out of the way—and it wasn't like they had pocket money to spend on the legality of it all—that he wasn't able to do anything about it in the end; thankfully, though, they did allow him to wear the boys' uniform. He feared he would've killed some of the school staff had they forced him to wear a skirt again.
"Nice to meet you all, I'm Saburo Yamada." His greeting was fine—flat, but it wasn't like he was trying to change himself to fit in; Ichiro constantly praised him for being so self-confident (which might have been a misunderstanding, but he let his older brother believe it anyway), so he did his best to fake it.
"Saburo?" The teacher glanced down at his attendance sheet; the classroom was scattered with perplexed expressions at how their teacher spoke and slowly a knot began to tie up inside Saburo's stomach.
Nobody said anything about the uniform—it wasn't too uncommon for some girls to wear boys' uniforms, after all (they would have their reasons, as he had his), but the only problem was that he wasn't a girl. Now, if these new classmates found out, he would have to explain himself right away.
He was praying for the teacher not to say anything more, to simply brush it off and move on, but his prayers were not answered.
"Did you misspeak, perhaps? It says here that your name is Sakura."
Saburo froze up, his hands clenching the close end of his desk. "No," he started, keeping his eyes glued to the polished wood, "it's Saburo. I'm—" His voice caught in his throat and the passing of seconds warped into the passing of years. There was no way this much anxiety had built up inside of him when he told Ichiro and Jiro, so why now? Why did he feel like vomiting? "I'm a transgender guy."
He wasn't looking, but Saburo could feel the eyes of his classmates boring into his skull. In an attempt to convince himself that they were more curious than disgusted, he inhaled sharply and straightened his posture, finally prying his eyes from the desk to face the teacher.
"So, you're like, mentally ill?" One boy asked.
"No, no! She's just a tomboy!" A girl across the room pointed out, and the class erupted with laughter. Saburo could feel himself shrinking beneath it all—he wanted to escape, but where would he possibly go? It was the first day, Ichiro would scold him for cutting classes and Jiro would only bother him nonstop.
He was stuck.
"Quiet down, now," the teacher grumbled, tapping his hand against the podium. "Sakura, you're allowed to wear the boys' uniform but please don't tell lies on your first day. It's harder on everyone."
Saburo clenched his fingers to the desk harder and harder until his knuckles turned white. He mumbled a weak "yes, sir" under his breath, but nodded to make sure he wouldn't have to speak anymore.
He had never wanted to cry. He got angry, annoyed, upset, jealous, and everything else, but Saburo had never been swept up by the overwhelming urge to bawl his eyes out.
Not until that day.
Now, with the small droplets of blood flowing into one another on his arm, Saburo noticed also that his cheeks were wet.
Yes, he had never cried before then, but now he cried almost every day. He never dared to let either of his brothers see it, especially Ichiro, knowing that they would only cause more trouble for him—he didn't need anyone else getting involved in his problems.
It was only common sense that they wouldn't accept him—how could they? He was crazy and delusional, believing that he was somehow a boy trapped inside the body of a girl. No matter how much he would become physically ill over his feminine features and genitalia, they all pawned it off as some kind of sickness.
He felt like a monster in his own body.
Saburo was finished then. He set the blade down and carefully wiped up the blood with tissue paper, occasionally wincing, before wrapping his limb in white gauze. He dried his eyes shortly after, then pulled his signature yellow hoodie over himself. It was easier to hide the mess when he was wearing it; he also liked the fact that it hid his chest quite well.
Plopping down into his desk, Saburo clicked on the small, table-side lamp and leaned against the palm of his hand. Math equations sprawled out on the paper before him became nothing but gibberish within his mind, no matter how long he stared at them.
He would endure it all again tomorrow.