By Toshiya Kamei

Still hazy with sleep, I dodged around half-unpacked boxes and headed for the bathroom. I stood in front of the mirror, and I tilted my neck to get a better look at my new tattoo; she looked back at me with beady eyes under familiar bushy eyebrows. 

The tattoo had once been an elaborate portrait of saffron in full bloom, something to commemorate my independence and recovery from self-harm, but I now stared at pre-transition me. Saffron distorted and bulging from her hair, the girl wrinkled our angular nose. Anxiety stirred in the pit of my stomach. 

“I’m starving,” she said with my old, girlish voice. “Can I have something to eat?” 

Did the girl have a digestive system of her own? I pondered this before concluding that that was beside the point. I ran to the kitchen, and with a trembling hand, spoon-fed her milk-drenched cereal. I asked the girl her name, but she said she didn’t have one, so I dubbed her Chris, short for Christina, my deadname. 

Despite being alarmed, I decided against seeking medical care for fear of attracting unwanted attention. What was ailing me? Was Chris some kind of mutation? I plugged talking tattoos and similar phrases into my phone, but my search came up empty. Chris never said anything about the subject, but when she thought I wasn’t paying attention, I caught the smug curl of her lips. As if she won the point of some game I didn’t know we were playing. 

To my surprise, though, Chris wasn’t terrible company. We were both horror aficionados, and she loved movie-theater popcorn. The kind with extra butter. It was nice, too, to have someone to talk to, despite the awkward nature of talking to my own neck. When Mrs. Barberi in 3B yelled at her husband in Italian, Chris and I laughed at his dry, monosyllabic answers in the face of her flurry of words. At night, staring up at the bedroom ceiling, I had almost considered us friends. 

As days turned to weeks, however, I became frustrated by the lack of privacy. I missed my alone time, for one, and her snoring deprived me of good sleep. Moreover, what would people think if they found out about Chris? I wore a scarf to hide her whenever I went out. 

I researched tattoo removal while taking a bite of my chicken taco on my lunch break. 

“Saline solution?” she said. “Oh, come on, you know better than that. You can’t get rid of me that easily.” 

“Why are you even here, Christina?” I raised my voice. “Why can’t you just leave me alone for once?” 

“I’m not going anywhere,” Chris said. “We’re stuck with each other.” 

I threw up my hands and sighed. She was right. I had no choice but to learn to live with her. 

 Soon after I began working at a little Chinese takeout place called Mr. Lin’s, I met Mateo, an olive-skinned young man with deep-set brown eyes. He stopped by like clockwork every evening. 

“Hi, Finn,” Mateo said as he walked in, wearing an easy smile, one that made my legs feel weak. He had a clean-shaven, masculine jaw. 

“Hey there.” I feigned a casual air, trying to ignore the fluttering in my stomach. 

Meanwhile, I kept my gaze on him, trying to read him. 

“The usual?” I said. 

He nodded, and I scooped chow mein and beef fried rice into a plastic container. I covertly ogled him, admiring his runner’s body. 

“Anything else?” I asked. 

He pointed toward the tray of orange chicken, and I scooped a large portion into the container and placed extra spring rolls on top of the rice. 

He smacked his lips as if trying to muster his courage. 

“Finn,” Mateo said as he paid for his takeout. “What are you doing Sunday morning?” He glanced at me before looking away. A faint blush reddened his cheeks. 

“Sorry, but we’re really busy,” Chris said in a muffled voice through the scarf. 

“Excuse me?” he said, surprised. 

“Nothing.” I nodded, urging him on. 

“Some friends and I are playing soccer in Johnson Park.” He smiled. “Do you want to join us?” 

“Sure,” I said before Chris could interrupt. “What time?” 

“Is nine-ish okay with you?” 

“See you then.” I’d never played soccer, but that wouldn’t stop me. 

When Mateo was out of earshot, I said, “Oh God, he must think I’m crazy.” 

Chris snorted. Saturday couldn’t come fast enough. 

* * *

It was a cloudless day, and Brandi Carlile crooned on the car stereo. A cool breeze caressed my face as I stepped out of the pickup and walked toward the crowded park. A half-dozen elderly Asian women in loose cotton pants practiced tai chi by the main gate, and several children set off running and overtook me. I smelled earth, flowers, and fresh-cut grass. 

When I arrived, Mateo and his friends were warming up on the field. He introduced me to everyone, including his sister, Isabela. 

“Mateo, who are you going to pick first?” Isabela said, and the rest let out jovial laughs. 

“Finn,” Mateo said, crossing his arms in feigned self-importance. Everyone hooted and cheered. I mock-flexed my bicep and high-fived the people around me. 

We played for forty-five minutes. There were no heroics on my part, but Mateo passed me the ball through the legs of the last defender and let me score an easy goal. 

Afterward, Mateo’s friends dispersed, leaving me and Mateo alone. I led him to an empty bench nearby, and we ate the brunch I’d brought from work. 

“I’m hungry, too,” Chris said. 

“What was that?” 

“Nothing.” 

“What’s going on, Finn?” Mateo’s voice was soft, and the concern on his face almost had me explaining everything. Almost. I kept quiet, looking at my shoes. 

“I didn’t know you were a ventriloquist.” 

I laughed. 

“Seriously though, you can tell me anything.” Mateo grabbed my hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “If things get serious between us—” 

“It’s a good time to let the cat out of the bag,” Chris mumbled. 

“Excuse me.” I got up, my cheeks burning. “I have to go.” 

“Wait!” 

I quickened my pace without looking back. My eyes stung with unshed tears. 

“It’s your fault, Chris!” I cried. “Who would go out with a freak like me?” 

“Just tell him the truth,” Chris protested. “There’s no other way.” 

“That’s easy for you to say.” 

“Pardon?” an old woman said as I passed her in the parking lot. 

“Never mind,” I said, waving at her. I climbed into the pickup and shut the door. Chris and I argued for the rest of the ride. 

When I arrived home, I took off my scarf and dropped it on the floor. I flew straight to the kitchen and grabbed a knife out of the drawer. I remembered how I used to cut myself. 

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Chris said. 

“Oh, shut up!” 

My phone’s ringing startled me. Mateo’s name flashed across the screen. 

“What is it, Mateo?” My voice trembled. 

“Finn, I’m down here, in front of your apartment. Let me up. I need to talk to you.” 

“Leave me alone, please.” I hung up. My heart pounded against my ribs. I heard Chris trying to talk to me, but the static in my head was too loud for me to make out any of her words. 

I slid down the wall until I sat on the floor, legs out before me. I was cold, shaking with cold, but torturous memories welled up inside me like hot blood: a chilly razor blade against my skin. 

A sudden knock on the door startled me. I waited, remaining frozen, until another knock thudded. The door swung open; I’d forgotten to lock it in my haste. Before I could put my scarf back on, Mateo stepped in, looking worried. I lifted myself off the floor. 

“What are you doing?” Mateo said, alarm in his voice, when he saw me with the knife. 

“I’m such a freak!” I cried. The walls suddenly closed in, and I could hardly breathe. My hand trembled as I tightened my grip on the knife. 

“No, you’re not.” Mateo’s dark eyes were still and steady. “Even if you are, it doesn’t matter. Put the knife down, Finn.” 

I remained silent, searching for words. 

Mateo stepped toward me, and I dropped the knife. He wrapped his arms around me and squeezed tight. I wished his embrace would last forever. 

Minutes passed, but it felt like days in Mateo’s arms. Eventually, though, I pulled away when Chris sniffled, breaking my reverie. Mateo’s gentle eyes soothed my fears. I’d wanted a tattoo to honor my survival. I knew I could survive this too. 

“Mateo, I want you to meet someone,” I said as I turned my neck toward him. “This is Chris.” 

 

About the Author

Toshiya Kamei (they/them) is an Asian writer who takes inspiration from fairy tales, folklore, and mythology.