Page 13 of Pretty Dogs

Heswallows, frowning at the pictures one more time, then drops his forehead against my arm and closes his eyes. “Ipromise,Beck.Youalways get your way, don’t you?”

Iwant to tell him it’s not as fun as it sounds.Ifhe got his way,I’dbe going to the intervention meetings and they’d be working.I’dbe on board with this perfect future that everyone seems to be able to see but me.Gettingmy way fucking hurts.

“Letme in.”Ipull on the blankets, rolling off of the edge soIcan wriggle underneath into the soft warmth of his body heat.IfIdidn’t have this every night, like an anchor,IthinkI’dgo insane.

He’spicky and always has opinions on how he wants us arranged, but tonight for some reason he stays still and quiet, letting me choose.Insteadof getting myself all wrapped around him like usual,Iscoot over and rest my head on his chest.Instinctively, he starts carding his fingers through my hair whileIlisten to his heart beat.NowthatI’verun out of things to distract myself with, it’s too dark and quiet in here.Dallasgot cut and bruised today, and it feels like my fault, even though that doesn’t make any sense.Theloneliness of lying to all my best friends is starting to fuck me up.

“Idon’t want them to laugh at me,” he mumbles suddenly, already half asleep again.

Iskim a thumb along the raised ridge of his surgery scar. “Noone could ever laugh at you.Ifthey did,I’dwreck them.”Breakingshit might be the only thingI’mgood at, but at least it meansIcan keep my boy safe.Ifthat’s allIever had to show for my life,I’dbe pretty satisfied.Butthat doesn’t stop me from feeling small and sad asIstare into the dark and wait for all the shit in my life to catch up with me.

5

DALLAS

“You’veforgottenwhat color a sky is.Fuckingbrilliant, dude,”Imutter, propping my chin in my hand and looking from the smudged piece of cardstock in front of me to the tin of colored pencils in six million shades.Drawinga beach sunset for my mom sounded easy, butI’mfinding myself severely underqualified.

Thecute guy who cleans the popcorn machine at my movie theater job always looks so zen when he sketches, soIthoughtI’dtry it out.Momexcitedly dragged home a pencil set that was almost too big for her to carry, because she’s convincedI’llbe a genius at any hobbyIso much as glance at sideways.

Pickingup two random pink pencils,Icontemplate what on earth the difference could be between a “deco peach” and a “peach beige”.Thesunset blazes over our neighbor’s garage and right into my bedroom window every single night.Ishould fucking remember what it looks like.Butsometimes you don’t look for something until it’s not there anymore.

Huffingin frustration,Igrab every single pencil with the word “peach” in the name.Maybesticking to a theme will help.

Thedeafeningbangof my door slamming open makes me jolt and leave a scar of dark orange across the middle of my picture.Heartpounding,Istare blankly atHayden, my mom’s boyfriend–shaved head, thick muscle, and the charming baby-blue eyes that everyone adores.Rightnow, they’re so cold, like pressing a shard of ice against your neck and feeling it drip down your spine.

“CanIhelp…”Myvoice fades when he holds up a little plastic box, one that was supposed to be safely hidden in the bottom of my bathroom drawer.It’sempty, the two halves flopping open like a bird with broken wings, which means he found the syringes and needles.Theglass vial labeled ‘testosterone cypionate’.

Iopen my mouth, butIcouldn’t speak if my life depended on it.Whenhe takes a step into the room,Ishrink back against the edge of my desk, willing this to be a nightmare.EveryonelovesHayden’sjokes, his good looks.Hehelps out around the house and takesMomon the most romantic dates.ButI’vealways been scared of him for some reason, the small edges of something dark thatIcatch in passing moments.WhenItoldMom, she didn’t listen.Sheso badly wants him to be the one to step in and cherish her after eighteen years of raising me alone.

“Iheard about this on the news once.”Hethrows the box at me, andIflinch away as it bounces off my shoulder. “You’rea fucking girl, and you doped up and cut your tits off because you’re sick.”

Istumble to my feet, trying to make my voice sound manly and assertive. “No,I’mnot.”Itcomes out more like a squeak, thick with tears and panic. “Getthe fuck out.”

Hiseyes narrow, andIcan see a cruelty there that doesn’t have an end.Ishould never have let him in our house, no matter whatMomsaid. “Takeyour pants off and prove it.”

Selfpreservation overcomes the terror andImake a break for it, ducking past him and sprinting out of the room.Iskid on the hardwood and almost fall, clawing back to my feet. “Mom!Mommy!”Myvoice breaks asIyell for her, trying to figure out where she went.Iwas still naive enough to believe, in that moment, that she had the power to fix everything.

“She’snot here to protect you, little fucking pervert.”WhenIturn around, he backhands me.Theworld spins like a teacup ride at the fair asIgo falling and rolling down the stairs.Myhead slams against something hard, and the banister makes a cracking sound as my body bounces off it and lands in a bewildered, painful heap at the bottom.

“Thisis my house,”Iscream in a ragged voice asIstruggle to stand up. “Getout of our house.”Idon’t know whatIthink is going to happen.EventhoughIwas a trans kid,I’vehad a soft life until today–the medsIneeded, the surgeries, a school that accepted my name and pronouns.Ittricked me into believing that good was stronger than evil.

Hepulls a pistol out of his jeans and advances slowly down the stairs.Mom’sa pacifist;I’venever been near a real gun, or even a plastic toy. “Eitheryou get out and never come near us again, orIthrow your body in the river and tell herIhave no idea where you went.”

“Youcan’t.”Iwhimper, trying to hold my ground. “IfIgo missing, she’ll never stop looking for me.”

“Shewill when she realizes her precious, brain-sick baby ran away on purpose and is never coming back.”

Myheart stops as the barrel of the gun taps my chest.Haydentowers over me, crowding me toward the door. “I’mgonna count backwards from ten,” he says.

I’llalways feel guilty about the moment whereIsnatch up my sneakers and stumble outside into the wet grass.Hefollows me onto the porch and watches asIlimp to the sidewalk.Thisis a beautiful, safe neighborhood, but everyone’s at work in the middle of the afternoon. “IfIsee you anywhere in five miles of here, or talking to the cops,” he calls after me, “you’re dead.Myfriends andIwill hunt you down.Soyou’d better keep running.”

AndIdo.Ihave no idea how far five miles is, soIstumble along as bestIcan until the afternoon sinks into evening andIcurl up against the wall of a grungy pizza restaurant in a part of townI’venever seen before.Ispend all night there, staring at the dirty brick wall in complete shock.Thenext morningIfeel more dirty and cold thanIever have in my life, my stomach cramping with unfamiliar hunger.Ihave no idea how much worse it’s going to get.

Ileft my phone behind, andI’mterrified that ifIcall or look for my mom,Haydenwill hurt both of us.I’drather never see her again then have her harmed because of me.Ittakes me a week of sleeping on back doorsteps and eating pizza from the trash to work up the desperation to go back.

Ireach my street at the break of dawn, when both of them should still be asleep.NeitherMom’sredImpalanorHayden’sblack truck are in the driveway.I’mabout to leave and come back later whenInotice that the corgi-riding garden gnome that used to peek out between two rose bushes isn’t there anymore.Alight blush of deco peach–or is it peach beige?–spreads over the houses asIcreep across the street and up the grass.WhenIpress my face to the living room window, the place has been stripped–no more pictures of my grandfather on the wall or the little animal figurines mom loves to collect.

Tryingnot to hyperventilate,Icircle the whole house, prying at windows and trying to smash the lock on the back door with a rock.

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