Happy Pride awesome friendos!!!!
Here's a short
To celebrate, cause yknow.
Cause gay.
Also cause I think we could all use some cute right now. Not that I'm, like, yknow,,,,, words,,,, making it less than it is, because both the protests and riots and COVID-19 are serious issues affecting a lot of people very negatively, but like, yknow. Here's some happy (ish) to cheer you up.
——IMPORTANT——
Also, this part contains homo- ad transphobia, so if that triggers you definitely don't read it cause the next part is worse. Also, if abuse/violence are triggers for you you might not want to read this cause that'll be in the next part.
Mhm yup that's all, enjoy! Happy Pride once again!! 🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈❤️❤️❤️
-smo

~~~~

The signs. The signs around me are the worst part of it all. I try not to focus on the words, words like sinner and abomination, all the things my parents and their friends and the people they side themselves with, everything they all think I am.

Of course, they don't know I belong on the other side of the street. They don't know, when they raise their posters that the words they shout are just as much about me as the people on the other side, with their love and their right bodies and their beautiful flags and colours.

They don't know I'm trans.

They think my name is Michael, and they think I'm the beautiful little boy they know and love, they think I don't stand in the shower hating everything I am, they think I'm the cishet homophobe and transphobe they tried to raise me to be. But no matter how hard they try, they'll never make me a boy.

My name is Lyla, and I don't belong here.

Fuck. I need to go to the washroom. Fuck. I glance around, praying there's a single-stall washroom, a non-gendered outhouse, anything that doesn't scream I am a cisgendered male, but there's nothing. Only the two park washrooms, male and female, behind all the Pride protesters.

I tap my mother on the shoulder and tell her I'm going to the washroom. She nods and I hand her the picket she and Dad made me carry. It makes me a little nervous - even though I know she won't pay any attention to what's on the other side of the Bristol board, and even though I know I wrote those words in the invisible ink from one of those pens I used to love, with the ultraviolet light. I know there's no way for her or anyone to notice the fact that, all over the Bristol board that reads, "QUEER IS A SIN" it also says "I'm a girl," in tiny, invisible ink letters, but it makes me nervous either way.

I head to the men's washroom reluctantly, keeping my eyes downcast. I hate public washrooms. I hate presenting myself as what I know I'm not.

Which basically means I hate my life, to be honest.

I head into a stall and do my business, and when I come out, I catch sight of a man standing at the sinks, washing his hands.

"Hey, kid," he says, smiling gently. I force a smile back, stepping beside him to the next tap over.

"Hey." When I'm done washing my own hands I start to leave, but the man steps in my way and puts a hand on my shoulder to stop me. My heart starts beating quickly and I try to walk around him, but his grip is firm and he's more than a head taller than me - I have no chance.

"I saw the words on your sign." What? He can't have. Those words were written in the little invisible-ink pen I got at the dollar store years ago. Those things work like magic. He can't have seen it.

Then I realize those weren't the only words on the sign. He probably meant the ones my parents are so fond of, the ones I wish I could cross out. Queer is a sin. This man probably comes from the right side of the street. The one I should be on.

"Oh, uh, yeah, I, um...My parents made me carry that. I don't, uh, believe them." Then I realize he might not be from the right side of the street, that maybe this man is a protester like my parents and he's going to take me to them and tell them what I just said and I'll be in such deep shit -

But he doesn't yell at me, and he doesn't coddle me like he might if he were from the right side and realized my parents had forced me onto the wrong one.

He says, "No, kid, not those. The ones you tried to hide." Shit. What? How? No. Shit...

"What? But - you can't, I—"

"Listen, there's a lot of stuff I can't do, but reading invisible ink isn't one of them." What the fuck is this man saying? "You're gonna think I'm some crazy psycho when I say this, but then you're gonna believe me because that's what you need to do to stay safe. Listen, kid, I'm a demon, alright? I can read the invisible ink on your sign and I know you're a girl and I'm terribly sorry for the shit that must put you through with your family, whether you're out or not, and I'm here to help you. You just have to let me."

"What? What the - no, you're crazy, you just made a lucky guess, you're not a fucking demon, that isn't possible. Leave me alone." I try to leave again but the man's grip only tightens.

"Crazy part over with. Good, now you just have to start believing me, because I am a demon and I can help you, and I can prove it." Before I even ask how, the man's eyes glow suddenly red and his hand holding my upper arm heats. And heats. And heats. And then it's so hot that I have to sharply yank my arm away, rubbing the spot he was touching. I attempt to rush out yet again, but once more he stops me. "Believe me. You want my help."

"Oh, really?" I say, doing my best to be tough. I don't know what the fuck this guy wants, but it's clear I don't have a choice but to listen. I can only hope someone walks in here before he starts beating me or god knows what else.

"Really." He pulls a notepad and pencil out of a back pocket in his jeans and starts writing. "Use this to summon me. I can beat the shit out of your parents, kid, and take you somewhere safe. All you have to do is follow the instructions and I'll be there as soon as I can."

He hands me the paper and I see it's covered in symbols from some strange language. My first thought is that it's bullshit, it's all bullshit, but then I remember my still-burning arm, the way he gripped me so tightly with just one hand, and then I think maybe it's not bullshit.

"Uh, okay," I say, taking a deep breath and wondering if maybe I'm just insane. But no, this dude is 100% solid and real. This demon, as he says.

As I head out of the washroom towards my parents on the wrong side of the parade, I wonder if maybe the fact that he's a demon should serve as a warning to me. But hey, they say gays go to hell, don't they? So maybe the demons are on my side.

~~~~

At home that night, as I stand at the sink washing dinner dishes, I can't help it. After the conversation with the apparently-magical man - still can't get used to it, or the idea of a demon - I feel kind of...empowered. Like I could do anything, and he'd be there in a flash if I needed him.

And so I do.

Mom is putting away the leftovers and Dad has already migrated into the living room to watch the news, so as soon as I'm finished the dishes I head to the couch beside him, asking Mom to come with me. "I have something to tell you guys," I say.

Immediately Mom's face fills with concern, and I know she's thinking I got a girl pregnant or some shit, even though I'm literally thirteen. Dad leans over his knees and says, "Shoot, son"--I cringe--"You know you can tell us anything." And even though I can see in his eyes the real meaning behind his words - It better be something good, Michael, you'd better hope it's something good - there isn't a flutter in my stomach as I say it.

"I'm transgender." I watch their faces turn from fear to shock to horror, and as I continue I see Dad's flicker towards anger - no, rage. "I was born in the wrong body. I'm a girl, and nothing you say is going to change that ."