Ginger Fox

During the first twenty-two years of my life, I knew I was living a lie—a cruel lie, as painful as being imprisoned in the darkest, most torturous cell. I was trapped in a body that wasn’t mine, in a doctrine that didn’t align with my dreams. But I tried. I tore my soul apart every second, moment, day, and year that I pretended to be something I wasn’t. That skinny, bony body wasn’t mine. I wasn’t James, the youngest son of Reimond Roy, and at the same time, I wasn’t anyone. I had no face, no voice, no name. Around the age of five, while crying in pain because I wasn’t allowed to play with a doll, Aunt Charlotte yelled at me, thinking it was just a childish tantrum and not a manifestation of my transgender identity. I screamed at her with all my might: “I’m not a boy, I’m a girl.” Then I hid away, locked myself in the deepest, loneliest corner of my soul, becoming reclusive. Anxiety and social phobia became my friends during adolescence, growing stronger in early adulthood, and with them came their companions: alcohol, cocaine, controlled medications, anything strong enough to keep me numb. I could only see myself from a distance, through the sparkle in my eyes reflected in the mirror, watching that melancholic man staring back at me. I lived imprisoned within him. It was a theater, a tragic play, where the show began every day I opened my eyes, and the curtains only closed when I was back in my lonely bed. I hid, killed myself just to fit the expectations of others. The starched suits, the girlfriends who never went beyond a kiss or two, the engagement I dragged on for three years, really trying to be what my fiancée expected me to be. The only thing that connected me to Lorane was our shared vices. But I couldn’t do it—it was a suffering that surfaced from the depths of my being, begging to be set free.
Set me free, let me go... Please, don’t kill me.
That’s what I screamed at the body that imprisoned me, praying someone could hear me before it destroyed us. It was killing me along with itself, just because it was too weak to face the truth before its eyes. Gas station prostitutes, paid for a quick screw, were as cold as the pleasure he felt, just to prove he was a man, that he was Reimond Roy’s youngest son. He didn’t sleep, didn’t eat, didn’t live—just survived in the degradation that dragged us down. Until those blue eyes, filled with pain, returned colder, full of loneliness and silence. He was the only one who saw me, the only one who knew what James hid from everyone because, even when we were just kids, he was the only one who understood me. But something inside him had changed, something his eyes wouldn’t reveal. He never said, even though I knew the truth he concealed, just as I hid mine.
"What do you want? To die? Overdose on drugs in some rat-infested alley?" His voice is cold as he looks at me, hands in his pockets.
I can’t respond; I don’t know how to show him that this isn’t me. His hand withdraws from his suit pocket, opening the drawer of the office desk. The chrome of the pistol glistens as the light hits it. He exhales silently, staring at the gun, then walks towards me. His deft fingers spin it in his hand, placing it on my lap. I feel the cold sweat beginning to drip down my forehead. My trembling, tired fingers, scarred and bruised, grasp it tightly.
"Go ahead, it’s loaded. You just need to point it at your head and pull the trigger." He looks at me without pity or sympathy. "If you want to die, go ahead; no one’s going to stop you."
A teardrop glistens on the gun as it falls from my cheek onto the metal. I look at the puncture marks on my arms, the needle marks that have pierced my skin countless times, just to silence me. But I don’t want to be silent anymore; I don’t want this life of lies anymore—I want to be free.
"I don’t want to die..." I look up at him, sobbing through the pain.
His square face shifts as he crouches down, coming to eye level with me.

"Who wants to live?" His question is calm, analyzing my expression. "This vicious form you’ve become, or what hides behind James’s cowardice?"
"Where is he?" The office door is opened by Aunt Charlotte, who is nervous. Her eyes fall on me, reproaching me with her expression. "That selfish, spoiled brat! Do you have any idea how many days we’ve been searching for you?"
She walks towards me, but her steps stop as Roy stands up, turning to face her. Aunt Charlotte’s rapid breathing tells me she doesn’t recognize this man confronting her either.
"Roy... You’re back... God, you..." She opens her arms to hug him but doesn’t complete the gesture.
Jonathan takes two steps back, merely nodding in acknowledgment, staring at her.
"How did you find James?" She turns her attention back to me, her fearful expression growing as she sees the gun. "What is that in your hand?"
"Aunt, please be quiet." Jonathan silences her, turning back to me.
"Answer my question." His hands rise, crossing over his chest as he stares at me. "Tell me, what is your true desire?"
I look at the gun and then at my aunt. No one has ever asked me what I wanted, no one has ever seen me for who I really am, only seeing what was convenient.
What do I desire? I know the answer, I’ve always known, and I don’t want to stay silent anymore.
"I want to be free, Jonathan... I want to be my true self."
"That’s madness, blasphemy! You are James, that’s what you are..." I’m tired of lying, exhausted from enduring this character I’ve created.
"That’s not me, Aunt. Why could you never see me? Why would you rather have a drug addict than let me be free?"
"Why? Because you’re sick. What you think you are..." She extends her hand, pointing at me. "It’s wrong! God made you a man, James, you are a man."
"I was never a man, AUNT!" I stand up amid this empty shell that is my body, looking at the gun trembling in my hand. "I was never a man."
I extend the weapon to Roy, letting him take it back. He places it at his waist, looking at me seriously. His expression is stern and enigmatic.
"You’re sick, that’s all. Don’t you see that this will be another scandal for the family? Another way for these vultures to feast on our misery?" she shouts angrily. "It’s that degenerate’s fault, she’s the one who made you like this..."
"Aunt!" Roy speaks just once, and it’s enough to silence her. The woman’s red eyes fill with tears as she looks at him in disbelief.
"Don’t tell me you’re agreeing with this, Jonathan? It’s abominable! It will make him a freak. And James’s fiancée? What will you tell her? The people in our circle?"
"I’ve made my decision, I just needed to know if James had made his."
Jonathan doesn’t look at her, nor does he turn to me when he leaves the room, leaving me there. This time, I didn’t leave the decision to James; I had already chosen for both of us.