Hell Followed with Us(30)
He snorts and pulls down his mask to take a bite.
I stare without an ounce of shame. He has the squishy face of a teenager, like cookie dough that isn’t finished baking, baby fat that puberty hasn’t wiped away just yet. But there’s strength to his jaw, in the hard way his lips are set. Something that says, sure, he’s handsome now, but just you wait, just wait and see what he grows into, it’ll be worth it.
He doesn’t have stubble. For some reason, that surprises me. Maybe I’d just gotten used to it. Theo was starting to get patchy, awkward facial hair when I left, and he used to rub it on me to piss me off, leaving red burns on my neck and cheeks. I dig my nail into where my engagement ring used to be and shove more venison into my mouth. The flavors aren’t as strong this time.
Nick says, “All you have to do is give the signal and make sure the abominations don’t kill us.”
“I know.” We’ve decided I’ll be on lookout since it needs to be done anyway, and it’s the way to hide what I can do. As far as the rest of the Watch knows, my job is to find a vantage point, wait until the Angels are distracted, and fire the first shot. Easy enough for the new guy, and still more than most others are willing to do.
“See Aisha for your uniform before we leave.”
“Yeah.”
We’re silent for a moment together. Just eating, catching juice that rolls over our chins. Someone barks with laughter and claps a hand over their mouth in apology. The food settles in my stomach, and I feel warm. Not burning, but warm, like I’m somehow sitting next to the fire even though I’m all the way across the courtyard. Gentle. Cozy.
There’s so much bustle over there and inside the ALC. So many bodies, so much silent noise. It’s quiet over here. Just us, the food, the grass, and the sky.
Nick says, “It’s okay to be scared.”
I look up. “What?”
“Your hair is getting in your face again.” He digs out another set of bobby pins and hands them over. “Don’t lose these. I don’t have that many.”
It’s okay to be scared.
It hadn’t hit me until now that my teeth were grinding again.
At the core of every believer is a warrior ready for battle.
Every day, you engage in spiritual warfare against evil through prayer. But the LORD tells us: Warfare in our hearts is not enough. Angels, wash the streets red with blood.
—The Truth by High Reverend Father Ian Clevenger
In a place like the ALC, after Judgment Day, it’s easy to forget you’re trans. Or maybe a better way to word it would be, it gets easier for me to forget the pain of being trans. Being transgender is who you are, and the pain is what the outside does to you. The pain is what happens when you and the world go for each other’s throats. In the ALC, I almost forget that being trans can hurt.
But in front of a full-length mirror, it’s impossible to think about anything else. I never liked looking at myself, and that was before the Flood started showing up on my body. Aisha doesn’t see it, but I do. The way the skin on my nails has shrunken back, making them just a little too long; the dull dryness to my eyes; the fact that, when I bare my teeth while she isn’t looking, my gums have pulled away, giving me a mouthful of half fangs.
I settle my mask back over my nose when Aisha returns with a handful of black clothes. “These should be your size,” she says, pressing close to me in the cramped laundry closet. She’s in a better mood today, like she’s managed to pack away Trevor’s death and Calvin’s shit, but she’s coming unraveled around the edges. There are bags under her eyes and a tremor to her hands. “It’s all super masc, promise. Give it a shot. I’ll be right outside.”
I don’t have physical dysphoria the way the workbooks in the ALC office describe it, narrowing in on obvious sex characteristics like that’s all being trans is. I don’t care about my chest, and I’ve never once, in my life, wanted to have a dick. My period sucks, but it never made me feel like less of a guy. Still, as I’m taking off my shirt in front of the mirror, I have to turn away. My dysphoria comes from the way other people see me, and I can’t help but look at myself from the outside. Why do my wrists have to be so small? Why does every shirt have to sit on my ass like that? Why do hips and chest and thighs have to read female?
I won’t have to deal with it for much longer. My skin is only a temporary thing. I wonder if I would feel the same way if I ever had the chance to start testosterone, knowing everything about my body would change but being unable to grasp exactly how. I’ve caught glimpses of the previous Seraph martyrs, bodies of children shattered under the weight of the Flood, but only glimpses. A twist of rotten flesh here, a fang or feather there. I thread a belt through the loops on the black jeans and zip the hoodie up to my throat. This self won’t last me long.
I knock on the door to tell Aisha I’m done. She comes in and rocks back on her heels to inspect me.
“Roll up the sleeves,” she says, and I do. “Try these gloves,” she says, and I do. “There.”
Combined with the mask, I must look like the people in the ALC office photographs, like I’m about to throw Molotov cocktails through Wall Street windows. She turns me around to the mirror.
“What do you think?” she says over my shoulder. “Fit all right? Not too warm?”