Lady Picture Show
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Content Warning:

This entry contains heavy depictions of self-harm and suicide.

Rose was fine; she had a great life. After all, why wouldn’t she? She had a great family who accepted her even with her sporting a pink, white, and blue flag. To them, she was still the same child or sibling they’d always had. Of course, that’s not to say everyone was used to it; the occasional correction had to be made, but no one fought it necessarily.

To say she wanted to change was an understatement; she wanted to reform. She had dreamed of taking a kitchen knife and cutting off that god-awful appendage, of taking a look in the mirror and cutting off every single bit of skin that showed her old self. She wanted to rearrange and sew the flesh back on to her face to make herself beautiful. To hand-craft the perfect body, the perfect version of herself. She was not enough, and she never would be content.

A couple of years back, Rose had a little too much liquor, and she posted on social media confessing to her true self. She stated who she really was, and who she wanted to be. She woke up to messages from friends and family saying they would support her no matter what. Of course, she lost a few friends, but she felt that they weren’t really friends to begin with. After all, if they wouldn’t want her to be happy, did they ever have her best intentions at heart?

She tried to die that night. It was supposed to be the last anyone heard from her. She wrote the post with blood dripping onto the keyboard from her wrist, with a bloodied scissor blade adorning the bedside table. Tears made it so she could hardly see what she was typing, yet alone process it. When she awoke, she cried. In her sleep, she had accidentally wrapped a blanket tight around her wrist, acting as a bandage. She prayed to a God she didn’t even believe in to let this be a horrible dream. It was not.

Rose was starting to have a more feminine appearance, and had begun to wear dresses in public. She enjoyed them as they reminded her of who she really was. Beautiful colors on beautiful fabrics to match a (hopefully) beautiful woman. Skirts were also a source of comfort; some friends would give her theirs to try on. She never could hide a smile well.

Her family was ashamed. They tried to hide it, but she knew. She saw everyone staring at them; she saw her parent’s reaction they tried oh-so-hard to hide. Their gaze was as cold as snow and harsh as bullets. She knew exactly what everyone was thinking. How bad must you raise a child for this to happen? She tried to tell herself that it was for the best, that she was happy, but she couldn’t believe it. Every night, more scars would form across her thighs with tears filling every crafted crevice until she could not even recognize them as parts of her own body anymore. They were just a way to test a blade’s sharpness.

Hearing “Rose” being called from another room took a small amount of time for Rose to realize it was trying to get her attention, but she got used to it. Some things just take time. It gave her small amounts of joy, as she felt as though others were recognizing her for who she was. The first few times she could hardly respond, both out of habit and out of pure euphoria.

She didn’t know if she even wanted to be named after a flower; she certainly didn’t feel like one. Flowers were meant to be kept, preserved even. She, however, was abandoned by friends, tossed as if she was a piece of rubbish. She couldn’t recognize herself in the mirror; everyone treated her as a woman but her reflection begged to differ. It took her all she had to not claw at her face, hoping in some way for it to be rearranged. She wanted to gouge her eyes out to stop seeing this monstrosity in front of her. She wanted to change it, but the process of makeup made her feel synthetic. She knew real women did it, but she felt wrong doing it. As if she was manufacturing a big lie.

Rose was fine. Why wouldn’t she be?

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