denial’s in style (so take off your clothes)

TW INCESTUOUS SEXUAL ASSAULT OF A TEENAGER, LIBERAL USE OF SARCASM AND DENIAL THAT SAID ASSAULT IS UNWANTED, DISSOCIATION, PTSD FLASHBACK OF SEXUAL ASSAULT, MENTIONS OF MENTAL HEALTH ISSUES, SELF HARM, SUICIDAL THOUGHTS, PHYSICAL CHILD ABUSE, TRANSPHOBIA, AND VICTIM BLAMING

Denial is a pretty weird coping mechanism if you think too hard about it: there's a seemingly unsolvable or at least unsolved problem, and rather than use those problem solving skills human beings are very well known for, you instead just deny that the problem exists. Pretend that if you don't address it, it'll disappear. Sometimes, denial works; certain problems disappear just through the passage of time, like dressing for the weather you want rather than the weather you have - eventually, winter will return. You just have to not die of heatstroke until then. Of course, the reasons one might insist on only wearing pants and long sleeve shirts don't disappear when the clothing and temperature are compatible again.

Is it denial that keeps your fists clenched around your sleeves, or just self preservation? The easiest way to not hurt yourself is to not have a self. If no skin is exposed except your face, maybe you'll only have to kiss him. You like kissing, what teenager doesn't? Lips against lips, until a tongue slips through, and then… At the very least, having layers on means he has to put effort into touching your bare skin. Not that you're complaining about being touched. In a loneliness epidemic, that would be blasphemous, you think to yourself, as your clothes are manhandled. As his hands slide past the barriers you put in his way, you think about denial. Is the problem actually solvable? You don’t know. Your skin crawls, like an infant climbing towards building blocks; his hands are heading beneath your layers. Not that you’re complaining - you like this, your skin’s crawling in excitement; the infant wants to play! 

You slip into it - denial, that is - in spite of your prior thoughts on the weirdness of it. None of this is real. Not the tongue in your mouth, that hand beneath your… if you don’t think, you’re not really experiencing anything - siblings don’t do that. This. What you’re doing. You don’t exist; not when naked, showering while he watches, while he…

No, you're just stylish, and that style happens to involve flannel and cargo pants. You’re not hiding anything beneath the clothes, not like certain dramatic friends of yours do. Hurting yourself on purpose is such a performance when nobody gives a shit. It just means they have to lie when children see them in short sleeves. It just means onlookers can read mental health issues on their body instead of by getting to know them the way they'd have to to know your issues.

You sometimes get asked about your clothing choices. A teacher or classmate questions “aren’t you hot?” You are, of course, but half the time you instead joke as if they were referring to your appearance. You’re hot, obviously - otherwise you wouldn’t be in the situation you’re in, the one you’re in denial over the other half of the time. You have been sent to the guidance counselor a few times, questioned about your parents, told if you don’t remove your jacket, show some proof that you weren’t hiding injuries… you did, let those eyes stare past you, see your flesh and nothing else. Adults are so easy to trick; to make them think you’re just extremely dedicated to maintaining your aesthetic. The purple hair and pierced ear helps, as does the medical diagnosis of gender dysphoria you can point to when pressed on the issue. The conditioning to never flinch also helps, though you still give stand-offish, don’t touch me vibes. 

You know you’re protecting your parents even though they don’t deserve to be protected, except… Well, they kinda do. They let you transition at age fourteen, four long years before adulthood - you have friends whose parents won’t call them the right name, one even says his dad calls him an ‘it’ and laughs rather than use ‘he’ for a “female”. Your parents do more than the bare minimum - they let you get a double mastectomy at sixteen, a feat that happens to be illegal in many places now. Your parents love you, that much is obvious - they just loved your brother first and he’s always needed them more. 

You know, deep down, what happens is wrong. You didn’t always know and you’re not entirely sure where or how exactly you learned it, but you often wish you were ignorant. He’s ignorant, too stupid to know what social taboos he’s violating, too interested in what he wants to care about what you want. He’s always too interested in what he wants, whether that’s to ride the bus independently or to bug your parents into taking him out for dinner or to be his own guardian, which will never happen. If he was his own guardian, he would be able to be held accountable for his actions. Criminal responsibility requires more of an understanding of right and wrong than he’s capable of. You know that, when your parents die, you’re going to be his guardian, which terrifies you more than anything else in the world because you’ll be seen as a monster if anyone ever finds out what you’ve done. You may be a monster, you sometimes think. You’re capable of consent, while legally, he never will be. He’s twice your size, was twice your age when he first kissed you; you know no court in the world would condemn you, yet you feel guilty.

You don’t acknowledge what you want except sometimes when you’re awake at night, unable to stop physically remembering his eyes and hands. You want him to stop. You want the eyes to look away. You want to be untouchable. Sometimes you want everything to stop. Permanently. You don’t, can’t, dwell on that thought. 

Instead you control what is yours to control - how you spend your time. At school, you doodle your teachers’ caricatures instead of taking notes, occasionally jotting down notes if the teacher says something interesting. You sometimes skip class to hang out with your friends, listen to them complain about how shit their parents are and console them with the fact that you’ll all be adults in university soon. 

One of your friends takes a break from complaining about homework to mention how he had been walking through your neighborhood.

“And you'll never believe this, guys. Eli over here,” meaning you, “has been keeping a secret from us. A secret boyfriend.”

“What? No I haven’t.”

“No? So I didn’t see a bizarrely tall guy making out with you through your living room window?” Bizarrely tall would be an accurate description of your brother. His main chore was closing the blinds, which meant they were always open. You could still lie your way out of this, though. You hoped.

“No. That would have been my brother, the tall guy; his boyfriend also has purple hair.” You lied. Your heart was beating in your throat. This couldn’t be happening. School was supposed to be safe, especially hanging out in the courtyard with your friends, but you could feel the memory of his tongue in your mouth, his hands where they had no business being, his arousal obvious as it was pressed against you. 

“Two queer guys in one family? Your brother’s boyfriend also wears long sleeves in April? I know what you look like, E, you can’t just pretend I wouldn’t have recognized you.”

“Maybe,” fuck, now Mika, Ms. Gossip Sensationalist, was suggesting something. “Maybe Eli was making out with his brother. Is that why you look so embarrassed, huh E?” You can’t just sit there. You can’t let Mika know she’s right, that factually that was exactly what happened, that - Sam, who had brought the topic up, raised an eyebrow. Ava laughs, the concept ridiculous. 

“No. No. No. That - that’s insane! Mika must be reading too much fanfiction.” You choke out, some hysterical laughter slipping through.

“No, actually,” Sam starts speaking again as you curl into yourself, knees against your chest. “That would explain a lot. You always act like you hate your brother, but maybe thy lady doth protest too much.” You can’t be hearing this. This can’t be happening. Your breathing speeds up. They’re all laughing, the whole idea so outlandish. Maybe you’re just a joke to them. If your friends don’t really love you, all that’s left is…

“No. No, please.” Are you crying? Your eyes burn. Someone says something about you, about consent, and then someone’s hand is on your shoulder just like his was when it wasn’t in your underwear, sometimes one hand would be on your shoulder holding you in place while the other made you respond against your will. Words fall from your mouth against your will. “Please don’t touch me. I don’t want this. I don’t! Please!” A hand enters your line of sight and it’s held up in surrender. Both of Sam’s hands are. You can see them, meaning he won’t touch you. Mika pulls Sam’s hands down. Mutters ‘idiot’ at him. Ava, who is next to you, isn’t touching you anymore, just looking extremely concerned. 

“Look, maybe we’ve all been talking about this all wrong.” Mika states, prompting glares from the other two for stating the obvious. You’re shaking, overheated, and you remember the backpack you have on has a water bottle in the side pouch. You drink. Pour some on your face so you can pretend you’re wet from that and not crying. “Just, nobody here will do anything you don’t want us to, okay? Nobody’s going to touch you.”

“You laughed at me.”

“We’re not laughing now.” Ava reminded you, but you don’t know if they’ll believe you. You don’t entirely believe you when you think things like I don’t want this. You tolerate him, after all. Tell yourself shit like ‘You like kissing, what teenager doesn't?’ You do like kissing, you’ve kissed Mika before, back in freshman year. That was so long ago now but it, compared to what your brother has done, was magical. 

Sam spoke carefully. “Just - what was going on in your head just now when I placed my hand on your shoulder?”

“Nothing.”

Mika piped up, knowing you best. “You’re lying, E. Were you also lying when you said you weren’t the person Sam saw through your window?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know when Sam started peeping through windows like a creep.” 

“I was a creep, doing that. I admit it. I shouldn’t have done that.”

Ava tries to get the conversation back to where you don’t want it to be. “Is your brother a creep?”

“He doesn’t stare through our neighbors’ windows, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Mika glared at you. “We all know that’s not what she’s asking. Like two seconds ago you were begging us not to touch you. Why?”

“I don’t - I -” you stand up, unsure what your plan is, unsure what you want to do. Tell your friends, who can’t, won’t understand; who mere minutes ago thought you might be in a consensual incestuous relationship, as if those exist. “I have - I - you’re right, okay! Sam saw me kissing my brother. Just saying that makes me want to die, okay!”

“Why?” Sam asked, still flabbergasted at the revelation. You surprised yourself by saying it.

“It’s gross and disgusting and wrong and I don’t want to be doing it, but he’s been doing it for so long! And our parents know. They don’t care, approve of it practically since it means they will never be receiving another call from the police that James assaulted a stranger in the bathroom again. Instead he has me.”

“So, James sexually assaults you.”

“Yeah, kinda. I try not to think about it like that because I have to live with him, but yeah.”

“I’m so sorry.” Ava says, while Mika nods in agreement, too overwhelmed to try to be comforting.

Sam states simply “You don’t deserve that.”

You don’t deserve the kindness your friends are showing you, but you accept it greedily, hoping someday you’ll be able to believe them. Someday maybe they’ll be your family.