This chapter was inspired by the song 'Thank God I'm Pretty' by Emelie Autumn, which is a very important song. It just is. It challenges the thought that a woman should be grateful when a man finds her attractive. It was also inspired by a friend of mine who is more comfortable cross dressing but still identifies as their assigned sex. Somehow, instead of being accepted into multiple communities, they are excluded and misunderstood. Which is heartbreaking.
Thank God I'm Pretty
Matthew smoothed the wrinkles of his pinafore with shaking hands and swallowed the tears threatening to cascade down his face. The thunder and lightning rolled through the clouds, heated and dangerous, and it wormed through his petticoats and lace and his bones as he stood in the back lane. It seemed so loud. So all encompassing.
He did not like it. It hurt.
His stockings were ruined, his garters were tattered. He was missing a shoe.
He hiccupped, lost and hopeless, and his fists curled in bitterness. Fuck. Fuck, shit, piss. He needed to calm down. Matthew spread his fingers and smoothed the wrinkles. Rinse and repeat.
It was the same story over and over again, the same disappointment; the same unhappily ever after. He always ended up alone, and humiliated, and disgraced.
He bowed his head and his headband slipped forward, pulling on his matted curls. His fingers clenched.
He loosened them again.
He did not understand where he had gone wrong. The evening had started so well, with laughter and compliments and offers to dance. "You're so pretty," they said. They touched his hands, his face. His waist. They plied him with champagne.
And then they had found out he was a man. And then… Well…
It was not as if he had lied to them; they had never asked. No one had thought to ask the most obvious, glaring question. They had just assumed.
And when they found out… When he let it slip…
They reacted. Badly.
Matthew sniffled, tugging on the hem of his torn skirt in desperation. He knew that he did not fit in, that he went against the grain, that he was different. He dressed like a girl but he felt like a boy. It confused people, he knew that. But he had always felt more comfortable in dresses and skirts and ribbons. It made him feel attractive. Pretty. He used to wear his mother's lingerie and high heels, her pearls, around the house.
She had said that it was alright. She had said that no matter what someone wore on the outside, it was what was on the inside that counted.
But maybe she had been wrong too.
"… What are you doing out here? It's starting to rain."
Matthew looked up and the raindrops splashed against his cheekbones, cold and wet. It hurt. It hurt, it hurt, it hurt.
"Look, are you okay?"
He tried to focus on the man in front of him, rocking back and forth underneath the flickering streetlight and checking his wristwatch. He was pale and gaunt in his studded collar and leather jacket. It was old fashioned with wide lapels and covered in badges and pins. His jeans were worn with bleached whiskers and his boots were two sizes too big for his feet.
He was going to get blisters, tromping around like that.
"No," Matthew snarled, "no, I am not 'okay'."
The stranger sidled up and looked him over, lingering over his ripped stockings and skinned knees. He whistled, low and worried.
"What happened?"
"I'm a boy, that's what happened! I'm a boy and I'm stupid and I'm wrong!"
He chuckled, but his laughter was warm and comforting instead of cruel. Matthew blinked, surprised.
"And..? I'm a boy too. Never slowed me down."
"But you look like a boy!" Matthew stomped his foot in exasperation. He did not get it! "I don't! I dress like a girl!"
"So?"
"I don't fit in!"
"Trust me," he pulled out a cigarette and lit it, holding it between his lips and breathing through his nose. He knocked the back of his head against the brick wall. "You don't want to fit in."
They were quiet for a couple of minutes as he sucked on the cigarette. The rain continued to colour the pavement and their clothes. They were soaked.
It hurt less.
"… They called me names…" Matthew whispered.
"They were dicks," he snorted. "Obviously. Do you like the way you dress?"
"… Yes."
"Then it doesn't matter. They don't matter. C'mon, I'll walk you home."
He snubbed his cigarette on the bricks behind them; half finished, and tucked it behind his ear. He pushed off and held out his hand.
Matthew stared at it. His fingernails were ragged.
"… You don't care?"
"I couldn't care less, really," he shrugged his shoulders. When Matthew continued to hesitate, he sighed and reached forward; threading their fingers together. It was oddly intimate.
Matthew blushed.
"Thank you," he said, and he meant it.
The man started dragging Matthew down the street, muttering under his breath and flushing when Matthew squeezed his hand back. It was sort of cute.
"Don't worry about it."
"Uhm, I… Uh… I don't even know your name…"
"Gilbert," he grumbled, embarrassed.
"Gilbert, you're, uh… I live in the other direction."
He turned on his heel, bright red, and started dragging him up the street instead. Matthew giggled.
"Sorry."
"No, it's my fault, I should have…"
"How could it possibly be your fault…?"
"But I could have…"
"But you shouldn't have to…"
They paused and stared at each other; slow, awkward smiles stretching across their faces. Gilbert sheepishly swung their clasped hands between them. They started laughing.
"My name is Matthew," he said, brushing the sopping curls back from his face with a smile. He felt so much lighter. It was the first time in a long time that someone had accepted him, just as he was, without disbelief or teasing or snide comments.
It stopped hurting altogether.
"Matthew…" Gilbert let his name slide over his tongue as if he were tasting it. "That's a pretty name. I like it."
Matthew grinned.
"Yeah, me too."