The mirror lied. The mirror distorted and altered, changing beauty to horror. The mirror was the enemy, a dark, secret enemy that threatened, day in and day out, to seek out the blackest truth hidden deep within the soul. The mirror was always there, threatening to tear apart the boundaries between truth and fiction.
People always tried to hide from the mirror. But what could lipstick hide? The same with eyeliner, blush, and wigs? When handled with skill, those tools could cover nearly any imperfection, even the imperfection of masculinity. The careful strokes of experienced fingers could paint and blend until the facade became the truth. The colors warmed and smoothed the skin.
When handled with skill.
Unfortunately, that special skill eluded him throughout his life. So, instead of gentle, feminine lines, and soft glowing features, he was greeted in the hateful mirror by a reflection distorted. Caught somewhere between man and woman, filtered through a freakish twist, his face was always a harbinger of hatred. No matter how much he tried, every attempt would bring him to the same conclusions—depression, confusion, and rage.
His body was no better at hiding his tragic flaw, the masculinity he struggled to suppress. With the help of cinchers, girdles, gaffs, and corsets, he was able to tuck and force his figure into pseudo-submission, but the embarrassment of knowing what lay beneath would inevitably become unbearable, and the floodgates of rage would be released.
He stood in the middle of his rented room and looked into a full-length mirror. What he saw was not what he felt. Where he felt a feminine princess, he saw a masculine ogre. His head and tears fell. Sorrow turned to anger, which gave way to a powerful hatred.
The mirror lied. The mirror must suffer. He ran at the rectangular glass with a full-blown head of rage. The glass cracked and shattered. Shards of mirror pierced his arms, face, neck, and legs. Adrenaline kept the pain at bay for the moment. Now, he had even more scars to mask. The bile he felt threatening to cross the border of his lips was borne of self loathing.
He would never be what he wanted, but he would never stop trying. No matter how many times he purged the feelings and the tangible evidence of what he longed to be, it would always find its way back into his life. No matter how many months passed as he tried to live his life with some bit of normalcy, the overpowering desire to transform would return. Along with this desire came the empowering need to help those in his same state to transform forever into the object of their desire. He was their messiah.
He stood in front of the shattered mirror and held out his arms in a crucifixion pose. “I am your Christ. I am your salvation.”
He began to cry, like the little boy lost in the arms of his dying mother, who had been beaten to the point of expiration by his own father. He fell to the floor and curled up into a fetal ball.