"Em!" A voice boomed. I kept my mind oblivious. "Emily. Emily! Look at me when I'm talking to you. Look at me, right now!"
I turned around very fast, holding tight to my baggy coat.
"I told you not to call me that." I growled at the man standing over me. He was large, built up like a statue. His rusty blonde hair slicked down to the nape of his neck in greasy strands, unshaven cheeks thick with stubble. He wreaked of food and alcohol, beer stains splattered across his white, ripped shirt. I remained stock still, staring him down with the green eyes we shared. My lip was shaking, my hands angrily shoved in my jacket pockets.
"I'll call you whatever I like." He pressed darkly, baring yellow-stained teeth, cigarette smoke on his breath. I scrunched up my snub nose and tried not to breathe in his scent. Ow. His words hurt like knives. It pained me so to share blood with a man this terrible.
"I have asked you a trillion times, dad, not to call me that, and you never listen to me!" I snarled. His forest-toned orbs grew aflame, and I cursed my eyes for seeing myself in him; sandy-colored hair, strong jaw, freckles (his were long faded and hidden under a smothering of facial hair) and a ferociously uncontrollable temper.
We used to share more in ourselves. We used to share trust, we used to share people we love, and we used to share happiness. But when I started to become 'problematic', as father put it, mother had high-tailed it right out of the picture, leaving only the father, brother and his so-called-daughter in the remnants. Dad tried (slightly) to get himself together, but eventually gave up and took up drinking and smoking and generally neglecting his to-dos. There was rarely food in the dirt-coated refrigerator, there was always a shortage of those so-treasured green rectangles of paper (but no shortage of cigarettes and other things he bought with money used not for necessities). I hadn't had a friend in the run-down house in nearly four years. Mother had been away for almost that entire time. Now, with my fifteenth birthday steadily approaching, things began to take a turn for the worst.
I pushed my choppy-cut hair out of my eyes. Tears coated the glass of my square black frames, making it hard to see. I was breathing hard, whipping my cheeks furiously with the back of my hand. My chest pulsed, flat against my tee shirt.
"You can't just storm off like that." My father said strongly. I tried to pull away towards the darkened staircase up to my room, but his thick-fingered hand shot out and latched onto my forearm like a viper bite. I winced, turning back around and looking him in the eyes for a few seconds before turning away. His cheeks were a dark rouge.
"I didn't want to be there with you…you…" I couldn't get the words out. He growled. I hid my face. "If someone tells you that you have a very polite son, you don't have to correct them." I finally breathed, trying to relax my muscles. I spoke slowly and steadily through gritted teeth. "There isn't any need to make a point of things like that in such a public place."  
About half an hour earlier, Dad had taken me out to the supermarket. As we were checking out, an old woman dropped her wallet and spilled all of her coins. Naturally, I got down and helped her pick them up. Being that I was a kid with short hair, wearing a tee shirt and jeans and generally 'boyish' attire, she had turned to my father and informed him that he had a very polite son. This had set him off into telling her that I was not, in fact, his son, and actually his daughter (managing to leave out the fact that I had told him many a times that my name was not Emily and I was no longer a female), causing the simple interaction to escalate into a screaming fest between my father and I in the supermarket. This conflict, after a good five minutes, ultimately resulted in us being asked to either tone it down or leave, and me storming out of the supermarket and running home by foot, leaving my father alone at the store with the shopping and this dead look on his face. After a few moments, he realized he needed to go after me, and just now burst into the house.
"It's not my ---- fault that you're so confused!" He said loudly. I bit my lip. "If you're such a man, why are you crying? Huh? Look at me, ------- it!" I looked at him through a mess of hair, sniffling and blinking away tears. He tightened his grip, shaking my arm a little as he talked. "You're a girl, and your name is Emily Tyler. It's the name that we picked for you when you were born, and that's what it'll be until the day you die, if I can help it, and I can, so shut up and go wash your face. Crying makes me sick." He let go of my arm with a shove, setting me stumbling back a few paces.
"My name isn't Emily! Don't ever call me that!" I advanced on him quickly. His jaw tightened, his fists balling.
"If you are in this family, you do as I say!"
"But I don't want to be in this family! I don't care what my birth certificate says; I am not a Tyler if my bloodline leads to you!"
"Now you listen here." He growled, marching towards me and catching my wrist. "You don't know what the ---- you're talking about. You were born a girl and that's how you'll stay!  So long as you're living under this roof, you do as I ask!"
"This isn't living!" I countered quickly. He didn't answer for a few seconds, his eyes piercing me up and down before he let go of my arm and stalked off towards the wine cabinet, picking up a half empty bottle of rum and pouring himself a glass. His back was turned to me.
"Mom wouldn't let this happen." I muttered quietly, making my way to the stairs. My tears were nearly dried now, for the most part, eyes slightly red and irritated from crying.
I heard something smash, then shatter. I spun around on the second step up the stairs, staring, like a deer in headlights, at my father. He stood, chest heaving, looking like a wild animal. I didn't move. Glass littered the dirty carpet, rum dripping down the wall. He didn't look like anything I'd ever seen; menacing and ruthless, bloodshot eyes hooded and without mercy. Fear ripped apart my mind.
"What did you say?" He growled. I could barely hear him over the sound of my breath speeding up. I could feel the panic beginning to fizz up in my throat. The pressure. His eyes. I didn't want him to yell. I didn't want him to touch me.
"Dad--" I began, in all attempts to calm him before things got bad.
"Don't ever say that! You hear me!? Don't ever say you want her back! She left us! She doesn't give a ---- about this family!"
"You don't give a ---- about this family!" I spat back. I could feel it coming. Hot, white noise burned my ears. I could feel the walls closing in on me.
My father advanced, faster than I could turn around and head up the stairs. He lumbered quickly, a giant, towards me, grabbing me by the collar of my tee shirt. I struggled to get away, attempting to pull myself out of his grasp. However, the older man tugged tightly on my shirt, pulling me to the ground. I landed on my knees, my glasses knocking to the edge of my nose. My whole face grew hot, embarrassed and ashamed tears welling in my eyes. I wanted to cower under a sheet of hair, blinking my blurry vision away. I wanted to curl up on the dirty carpet and sleep for a million years. I wanted it all to be quiet.
But, instead, I felt myself being gruffly pulled to my feet, standing in the face of my opponent. He looked ready for a kill, while I looked, and felt, ready to just drop dead.
"Get up." He spat in my face. I turned away. The pain ached so hard in my chest that the philosophical agony pulsing through my heart almost tormented me physically. I breathed hard, attempting to calm myself, but the tears were flowing uncontrollably now. Emotions I couldn't even place stung my whole body, making me numb with misery.
"You want to be a boy?" My father asked again, demanding. "How many times have I told you to look at me, huh? How many times!?" He grabbed my jaw roughly, turning my chin to face him. All my bones felt stiff. I stared at him, and he stared back, mighty anger showing crystal-clear in his irises. I debated, waiting for it all to be over, wanting to say something, wanting to hurt him and make him pay for all the pain he caused me. Wanting to scream, and have a reason to teach him what it feels like to live under his standard of living.
"What's your name, then, boy?" He questioned once again. "Eh? What would you call yourself? You don't look like a boy. You'll never pass for one." Ouch, ouch, ouch. That one stung.
He was teasing me. Testing me. This was a game he just loved. Teaching me what I would endure if this is who I wanted to be. Telling me I wasn't worth it. That I would never be who I wanted.
"You know that, don't you?" He sneered. He was waiting for me to crack now. "It will never happen. You'll never--"
"Shut up." I muttered quietly, tucking my chin to my shoulder, turning my cheek towards him. I didn't want to see his face.
He hesitated, as if my words came as a shock to him.
"Excuse me?" He asked after a long pause.
"I said," I repeated, just a little louder. "Shut up."
He stared at me. I had turned to stare at him now, straight in the face, waiting for his retaliation.
And then, he slapped me.
A clean, clear slap straight across my face, knocking my glasses clean off. I let out a quick breath of air, feeling the sting of his heavy hand vividly on my cheek. My eyes welled with all-new tears, the sting settling and the pain beginning to burn over my skin. I couldn't breathe. I could barely see through the layer of red now filtering my eyes. I heaved a breath, blinking away and focusing my blurry vision ahead.
It wasn't the pain in my face that bothered me. It was the pain in my chest, the embarrassment, the hopelessness. There I was, half-blind from lack of spectacles, crying like the baby I was. It was ridiculous; part of me even began to wonder if he was right. Would I ever be who I wanted to be? Would I ever get out of this place and leave him? Would it ever be the same?
"Fight back!" He yelled. My energy was low; I didn't have the stamina to do so. "Fight back, ya hear me? If you're such a man, fight back!"
I swung around, tearing my way up the stairs before he could even move.
"Hey!" I heard my father yell from behind me. "Get back here! I'm talking to you. Hey!"
I ran up the stairs two at a time, my heart beating with adrenaline. I could hear him thumping behind me as I rounded the corner and ran down the hallway towards my bedroom.
"Emily!" He yelled. I burst into my room and slammed the door behind me, desperately looking around the cluttered space for a place to hide. I could hear dad's shoes on the carpet, stomping as he flung open the door.
"What the ---- are you doing?!" He demanded, staring at me. I had nowhere to run. I was trapped. The walls. They were closing in again. Panic was filling up my mind. I couldn't see. My face hurt. Oh, my face burned. The pain of things was setting in, now, reality bursting across the sound waves of my mind. This was bad. This was really bad. I hated this. I hated this reality. Everything hurt. Ow; it hurt more than any pain I'd known previous.
And he was advancing on me, increasingly faster as I backed away. The walls…
All I could see was the window, the light flashing through the glass at my tear-muddled, blind eyes. It was wide open, calling me. I ran for it, dodging my father's thick arms as he tried to stop me. Adrenaline pumped through my veins as I dove through the window and slid onto the roof outside my bedroom. I slid a couple inches on the hot shingles, my fingers gripping onto their tar surface. It burned from the hot summer sun that was now setting in the horizon. There I laid, still, holding tight to the grooves in between black pieces.
"Emily! Get off the ------- roof. You come back here!" I looked up. Dad was leaning halfway out the window, hollering at me with all his might. His face was red as a tomato. I nearly snickered, even if the situation was far from funny. Maybe it was because everything was so crazy, it was almost hilarious. "Don't make me come out there, kid! Ya hear me? Eh?" I smirked this time. Quite obviously, this roof was not made to hold my three-hundred pound father. Knowing he wouldn't follow, I slowly backwards-army-crawled down to the edge of the roof, looking down. If I hung onto the gutter with my hands, I could jump down to the walkway leading to the front porch that the roof covered, and make my way away from the place. My heart beating fast, I slowly shimmied to the very end, sticking one foot, then the other, over the edge, until most of my lower body was hanging in the air.
"What are you doing!?" I heard from above. "Don't you dare jump off this roof, Emily!" I rolled my eyes. Using what little upper body strength I had, I pushed the rest of myself off and hung by my fingers for a few moments. The ground seemed so far away, looming beneath my dangling sneakers. My fingers were getting numb from holding on, and my head began to hurt again. I looked up quickly. He wasn't at the window anymore, which meant he was coming to get me.
I eased my hands away from the gutter slower than I would have liked, letting myself fall. The air blew up from beneath me, feeling myself fall fast, fast, faster, towards the pavement. The ground came rushing up towards me, the distance between the two of us becoming less and less before I made contact, clashing my feet to the pavement. It stung my heels and shocked my bones all the way up to my knees.
I heard the front door swing open with a bang. ----. Look who's back.
"Don't you dare move!" Dad roared. I swung around, wiping my eyes once again. "This has gone too far. Get in here. Git! Come on, move!" I began to slowly inch down the walk and towards the street. "Hey! I know you hear me right now!" Faster. If you run fast enough, he can't catch you. "Em, get in here!" I was sprinting now, oblivious to his screams behind me. It became apparent that I would not be hearing that name for quite a while, if I was lucky.
I hitched my jacket higher up on my shoulders, the rubber of my black canvas sneakers pounding on the ground as I ran. My vision was blurry, making it hard to make out the sleazy little town with run-down tenement-like houses. Broken faces peer through the ripped-up mosquito netting covering opened windows. Every house was the same; grey to the eyes and transparent to the touch. Paper thin and falling apart. Plastic. Every life similar; living cheap, looking for a meal or a winter coat. Waiting for the broken glass and smashed doors to stop leaking in fall air. That was how it was for blocks upon blocks; plastic homes with sullen, porcelain doll people living inside. A mean life, but the only one I knew. My little plastic high school was full of all of the little dolls, walking stiff and tired, faces wiped of any hope and motivation. It was a reality I had known all my life. The only thing saving me from becoming a little doll was the fact that I wasn't the little girl doll I was born as. This set me apart from the rest in a way that made me both very different from all the others, and, as a result, made me very venerable.
I checked behind me. Father wasn't after me any more, meaning I was safe. Almost hesitantly, I slowed to a walk, rounding the corner at the end of the block. Cars rushed by. The sky was clearly visible now in this part of town. It was a dark shade of grey, splashed across the dome overhead from horizon line to horizon line.
Main street was a large avenue just separating my neighborhood from the next. It was a noisy street, two lanes wide with cars rushing in and out. It was a directly off the exit from one of the major highways cutting through the land where I lived, so little porcelain travelers of all kinds passed through my plastic town daily. People from everywhere.  When I was little, I would come down to main street, sit at a table by the window in one of the shops and watch the people pass by. I'd try to peer into the windows of their cars, see their faces; the ones with luggage strapped to the hoods of their minivans. Wonder about who they were. The ones in shiny black Range Rovers, the ones with their phones pressed to their ears with one hand on the wheel. The ones with their dogs' heads hanging out the open window, or listening to music blasted loud. I would think about where they were going, and wish I was going there with them. I'd wish myself away from my plastic town, to cities of metal, cities of stone, and cities of sand, where their people were made up of skin and bones; people with thinking minds and working hands. Minds that could produce thoughts that tried to understand why the porcelain girl wanted not to break, wanted not to shatter while falling. The little porcelain girl who's porcelain mind didn't quite agree with the rest of her body.
I turned into a greasy old pizza shop, letting the glass door swing closed behind me. I kept my head down towards the peeling marble-printed plastic slabs tiling the floor as I sat down. I felt weak, like all the energy had been drained out of me. The cracked fake red leather padding on the booth I sat in was squeaky and uncomfortable. I removed my coat, then sat cross-legged at the table, looking at my hands. The sleeves of my shirt reached all the way to my knuckles, and I played with a loose string until a man who smelled like pizza oil and cigarette smoke asked me if I wanted anything to drink. I ordered a Coke and a plain cheese pizza and sat back. Cars rushed down the street out the window next to me. A draft of cold air rippled in through a small crack in the glass. The reality of the events passed began to cross my mind. I shivered. I probably looked like a mess, hair sticky with sweat, face slapped with a handprint or a bruised cheek or something. I brought a hand tentatively to the side of my face. It felt raw and tender. I shook my head, pulling my hand away. What was I ever to do when this moment ended and I had to go back to how things were?
My pizza and Coke arrived a few moments after. I chewed thoughtfully, eyes trained to the streets. People passing by; they all looked more porcelain and black-and-white than I had ever seen them; walking stiffly, teens with music blasting their brains.
I took a sip of Coke. The taste of summers in the back yard and the little blow up pool burst across my tongue. Back when mom would tan on the lawn chairs, leaned back, a large pair of aviators perched on her tiny nose. When I would come up to her and say that I didn't want to wear a girl's bathing suit, and I that I wanted to wear swim trunks, like my brother. My brother would laugh and say that I was not boy and had to be a lady. However, mother would shush him, turn to me and say, "Babygirl, you can do whatever you wanna with your life, and don't let nobody tell you otherwise". That being said, my mother then turned to my brother and hollered; "Mikey, get your sister a tee shirt and some swim trunks from your room. She's a strong woman. She wants to wear man's clothes, to ---- with it. Let her wear man's clothes." I remembered that specifically. July 7th. I was five.
Back then, my mother let me be as boyish as I liked because she thought it was just a phase. She always said that I would grow out of it, and that I should just do as I pleased. She was a kind woman, thready white-blonde hair and amber eyes. She was petite; her tiny waist, frail and bony arms and slender fingers. Every little detail, I saw clearly. Her hair laced up high, fake lashes, red lipstick on her lips. She had a passion for design, and had hand picked every aspect of our house. The woven carpets, the vibrant blues and reds and creams on the walls, the wooden furniture chosen carefully from antique stores. Everything was colorful with her. Everyone in our perfect plastic house was painted and bright. The smoke from her cigarettes was a rainbow, the wine in her glass was a sun ray through diamonds. The fabrics in her closet, the cheap jewelry in her drawer.
But as I got older, she began to see that it wasn't just a phase I would grow out of. That's when things started to lose their color. The alcohol turned grey, making it hard to see how much she'd drank. Her smoke gradually lost it's rainbow and turned into a mighty cloud that hung over her head. The paint on the walls faded, tanned the faces turned cold like everyone else. Not even the lipstick stain on the rim of her glass looked like anything anymore.
And then she left. And everything turned completely black.
I felt a sharp draft, and looked away from the window. Behind me, the door to the pizza parlor eased shut. An old woman stood in the foyer.
I recognized this old woman. She was dressed casually, in a black North Face jacket zipped up to her chin, jeans, and those old-lady sneakers that they all wear. Her hair was a long, silver cascade down her back, which struck me as odd, because most of the old people I had known in my life had short hair.
She spotted me then, and I quickly looked away. She had been the lady at the supermarket that had started it all. I felt utterly embarrassed, not only for probably terrifying her with the intensity of our argument, but for confusing her with my father's strong disapproval of my gender identity.
"I saw you today at the Price Chopper today, didn't I?" A voice asked. I turned slowly. The old woman stood beside me, looking down fondly. I hid my face. "Barely recognized you without your glasses."
I looked away awkwardly.
"Yeah, I left them at home." I muttered. She smiled, then proceeded to sit down across from me at the table.
"You were in quite the squabble with your father back there, weren't you?" She said slowly, like most old people talked. I nodded. "Now, what was that all about? You look like a boy to me."
I smiled, this statement making me feel kinda fuzzy inside.
"Yeah, I guess." I averted my eyes to the table.
"You guess?" She pressed. "So what are you?"
"I'm a boy." I replied firmly, with less thought than I would have usually put into it.
"So what's the big idea, then?" She raised a hand. "You boys were having quite the disagreement back there, I might say."
"Yea." I gulped.
"Where's the man now?" The old woman continued. I bit the inside of my cheek.
"At home." I said quietly.
"A child like you, out on his own?" The woman said in distaste. "Kids today. The streets are no place for a child nowadays. I'll tell you, life outside your house is much more dangerous now than when I was a kid."
I laughed a little.
"I'm fifteen." I told her.
"Oh!" She exclaimed in surprise. "My, you have such a young face, you could pass for a child."
I gave her a look.
"Thanks?" I said, huffing a little.
"I think it's the cheeks that give it away. Or maybe your hair. You should cut your hair soon, my boy. It's growing like weeds! My hair does not grow half as fast as it did when I was your age, let me tell you."
"Thanks for the brutal honesty." I muttered, a slight scoff. I had yet to look at her in the eyes.
After a pause, the old woman continued.
"Your father must be a drunk or something, then. You look quite like a boy to me."
"Yeah, I know." I said.
"So, explain to me, boy, why your father is so keen on calling you his daughter?"
I debated telling her he was just crazy. It felt right, to just tell people I was a boy and make that the end of it. After all, it was none of their business. However, this woman didn't deserve to be kept in the dark after such an argument.
"Well, um, I was born a girl." I said, my voice sounding frail and quiet. I looked up at her from under my lashes. Her mouth shaped into a surprised O. "But I'm a boy. I was, like, born in the body--"
"Does your father know that you are now a boy?" She asked, cutting me off.
"Yeah, but he doesn't care." I said bluntly.
"Well, he should!" She exclaimed. "You're his child, aren't you?"
"I guess." I said. "He only calls me Emily."
"Have you told him what you want to be called?"
"I…" I stammered. I really hadn't… "I didn't think he would care…he's never listened to--"
"What is your name, really, then?" She pressed. "Do you have one picked out?"
My eyes darted from side to side. Of course I had one picked out. I had a name picked out since I was ten. It was kind of ridiculous, how in love with this name I was.
"Yea…" I lowered my head even more.
"Well, let's hear it, then." The old woman said. "Come on, boy, do tell. I'd love to know."
"It's…" I bit my lip. "I like the name Finn…I guess, or…yeah. I like that name, but--"
"Would you like it if I called you Finn from now on?" She asked softly. I looked up at her. She was smiling ever so slightly, pale white shin canyoning with a ripple of wrinkles. Her bright blue eyes shone out against her complexion.
"I'd…I'd really like that, but…yea, I would. It's just that…my dad…"
"To ---- with your dad!" She exclaimed. "You're human, aren't you? And you want to be who you want to, right?"
"It's just that…I'm not a boy…" It made me feel so bashed, hearing it come from my own mouth. I'm not a boy. But I was. It was undeniable. I looked like one, I felt like one. The only missing piece was others feeling the same.
"Well, you seem very sure you're not female, don't you?" She leaned forwards slightly. "What makes you so sure of that, eh? You were putting up a pretty good fight with your father, so you obviously do fancy yourself a boy. But why do you feel this way? I'm old. This is new for me. I'd love to know how you think."
I looked her in the eye, holding her blue gaze for a few moments.
"It's kind of like…" I struggled with the words before I found my thread. "I feel like I'm in the wrong body. You've probably heard that before…but it's true. I feel like I'm trapped as a girl, and there's another me, somewhere, and that person is who I want to be. And he's a boy. It's like…I constantly have this voice in my head shouting at me. That I hate these dresses, I want to cut my hair, I want to look more masculine, I wish my chest was flat, what if my voice wasn't so high…"
"I think I understand what you're talking about." She said, folding her hands on top of the table.
"You do?" I said, my voice sounding shrunken and small. The voice in my head told me, 'No she doesn't. Nobody does.'
"Yes." She smiled. "You see, when I was a little younger than you are now--seven or eight, I'd say--I cut my hair short and ran around trying to be as boyish as possible. My mother wanted to stuff me in a pink frilly dress, and I told her, no, ma'am, no dresses for me. All I wanted was to have all the boy's toys and boy clothing. This went on for nearly a year! Of course, I soon grew out of it and settled for dresses and makeup when I was old enough to see all the other girls getting older and dressing up for the dances and parties and what not. Obviously, this is not a phase you have grown out of, and I doubt that you have yet to grow out of it, but…what I'm saying is that if you want to be someone, do it. Dress like a boy, become Finn…and if your father does not agree, then you'll just have to make him!"
"It's not as simple as that…"
"Is it?" She asked. I didn't answer. "Do you know what I see in you, Finn?"
I smiled at the use of my preferred name, but shook my head.
"I see a child who knows who they are. And then, I see the rest of the world not understanding. Has your father ever told you that you are confused?"
I nodded.
"Well, I do not think that it's you that is confused. I think it's them!"
I gave that some thought, then realized she was probably right. I knew exactly who I wanted to be. My dad just didn't.
"I guess that's true." I said.
"It is!" The old woman exclaimed. "Look, I might be old, but I'm learning. I learned quite a bit from you today. I didn't understand why people cannot be content with who they were born as, but now I see that it is nearly impossible!" She looked down at a small silver watch around her wrist. "Would you look at the time? I've got to be going! I meant to order something to eat, but time does fly. I had to pick up my dog from the groomers five minutes ago!" I laughed as she proceeded to rise and walk towards the door. "Busy, busy, busy. Well, I am off! I hope to see you around. If you ever need me, I live at 225 Jackson Road."
I waved at her as she left into the plastic city again. My stomach felt fizzy and kind of warm. It was nice to know somebody sort of got it.
I looked up at the sky. The grey expanse of clouds was beginning to break up, like milk in citrus tea. It had been grey and sun-less for days, without rain or action of any sort. But now, to my surprise, the grey was leaving. Through the spaces in the clouds, I could see sun rays, and little bits of color. Vibrant, bright and sweet, the color of a blueberry, or the walls in the kitchen. It made me think of the past. However, the color was so bright, it made me think of the future as well. A bright blue future, far away from my plastic town, away from my breaking porcelain family. Somewhere, to find a place where Finn could run in a field of brightness, and no longer be black and white. Where he, I, could finally watch the sunset in technicolor sunbeams, where the walls would dance with rainbows of paint, where the eyes of people I had yet to love would be my world of greens and browns and blues. A future where I was soon to see in perfect color.