The Right To Live... And The Right To Kill...

Everything was phantasmagoric. Plastic sheets adorned the floor and walls, blurring the office room’s décor and shrieking under his leather boots. The metallic smell of rust, with a tinge of sweetness, hung in the air.

Worst of all: the soft whimpering the 24-year-old vicenarian on his stomach crawling forward in an attempt to distance himself from his attacker. His peach-colored shirt and denim jeans were painted in the blood that seeped from the four wounds artistically placed on his body: under his rubs, inside of the right high, back of his left leg, and on his shoulder.

Dropping the dagger with a clank, he leaped forward and tugged on the college students’ legs. His footing was off, and he crashed to the floor on his bottom. Despite that, his fingers remained clasped around the boy’s ankles. His feet flanking the boy’s chest, he pushed with his heels. The force drove the stubborn boy back, his fingernails picking at the ripping the screeching plastic in desperation, leaving behind thin streaks of red.

I watched the struggle move farther into the room toward the office desk. The sheets were ruffled under the two fighters. The boy grunted and pleaded, his voice cracking from a mixture of terror and wrath. Our eyes met, and the light blue pearls behind the tears bore holes in my soul.

He twisted around and kicked his legs wildly, but to no avail; the man retaliated by wrapping his legs around the boy’s core. With his ridiculously powerful grip and hunger for murder, the victor of this fight was no brainer.

The boy’s flailing arms knocked into the office desk, causing several items to fall on his face: the penholder, some pens, and a small pair of scissors that missed his eyes by a few centimeters.

He cursed. More things he’d have to clean to remove evidence.

The boy clasped a pen in his bloody hand and stabbed the underneath of his foot. A deep howl escaped. It sounded as if from a wolf about to rip apart the meat of its dead prey. Furious, he jumped to his feet, reached for the dagger, and sent it diving into the boy’s side. Then, he pulled it out, splattering the surroundings with even more blood. Some even got into his mouth.

He licked his lips and swallowed it. Then, he frowned in disgust.

“Even your blood,” a sandpaper-like voice hissed, “tastes foul.”

I gasp for air as if just resurfacing from a vast ocean of demons attempting to drown me. My wife, Ella, dabs at my sweaty forehead with the back of her hand. We’re in the living room, I on the couch and she kneeling next to me.

“I found you collapsed in the hallway again, Rick. You really ought to listen to me and stop going into your office!”

I take a few moments to swallow the taste of iron in my mouth, leaving behind the bitterness of my medication. Once my breathing levels, I pull Ella into my chest, placing my head on her shapely shoulders. I wait for the comfort she had to offer, which she does by way of running her fingers through my hair, the nails tickling at my scalp.

“It all looked so real, El, but at the same time…not. I felt disconnected from myself and this world and and and –“

“That’s why they’re called visual hallucinations, Rick. Nothing happened there, love. We even called the police, and there was no murder. Every time you see things, just remind yourself there was never a murder there."

She presses her cheek against mine before pulling back. Concern shows on her parted lips and wrinkled forehead. “What happened to you that night?”

Two weeks ago, when Ella went on a business trip, these hallucinations had started. She assumes it might have something to do with an old letter we found. The sender? My mother. The woman who cradled me in her arms at night. Only at night, when she felt lonely. Because there was no other male in the house.

I was only seven when I understood what a “normal family” entailed, but by then my body had already experienced too much.

“Let’s talk to doc about increasing your dosage, shall we?” Ella’s words put me at ease.

She has a small cup of water ready next to her. I take my pills and wait for them to dissolve in my mouth before dousing it down. I slightly relax because I knew they’ll allow me a few hours of peaceful sleep.

“Thanks…”

I notice a small lego box behind her shoulder, in the center of the living room in front of the TV. “I must’ve interrupted your de-stress-sesh.”

“Don’t worry about it, love. I’m going to shower, but I ordered pizza.”

“I’m ravished.”

She chuckles and switches the TV on to distract me. The news. The only thing either of us ever watched.

Anchor Jim is sitting behind a desk too large for him in a suit too small. He’s describing the police investigation into the disappearance of Alexia, our neighbor from two houses away. She was a college student whose friend reported her missing four days earlier, albeit she was assumed to have vanished, or run away – as the police suspected – a week ago.

I shudder. “We should visit her parents when they come into the country. Send their daughter overseas to go to university only for her to go missing. Imagine what they’re going through...”

I’d never know, of course, because Ella was infertile. The thought takes me back to my own mother, and I remember how the ordeal was terminated: she became the polestar of the village when her cross-dressing habits were revealed. That was what drove their attention to her crimes against me under the sheets.

Ella believes it was wrong; everyone has the right to dress and behave however they wish. But, I believe women should behave like women. That’s why they’re women, aren’t they? If they were meant to dress up like men, they would’ve been born as men.

A sickening feeling greets my stomach, and I almost ask Ella to stay with me a little longer. But, she’s already on her way to the washroom. With a sigh, I decide I need a de-stress-sesh, so I move to my feet to get to Ella’s bucket of legos.

I step on a stranded piece and let out a yelp. That hurt way more than it should have. Damn legos are going to commit murder one day.

I reverse to sit and examine my foot. That’s when I see it. A circular wound. The surrounding skin has already turned an ugly shade of purple with bits of dried patches of blood here and there. I feel my chest cave in.

What Jim announces next rings in my ears:

“An anonymous report received by Chief of Police, Ethan Hawke, brought Alexia’s transgender attributes to light. Chief Ethan has now directed the effort of his team into locating a 24-year old male rather than a female. The public are…”

Jim’s words fade, and a vague memory flashes through my mind.

“You were born as Alexia, not Lex. This world doesn’t need women who don’t dress appropriately. I need to get rid of those like you and Mom."

~

A/N: This story isn’t meant to degrade anyone in any way, and I have nothing against the LGBTQ+ community, which I’m whole-heartedly an ally of.

Everyone’s unique; forcing people to change in order to fit into the restrictive norms of society is nothing short of cruel.

You do you. ❤️