Identity Theft

This time, I really did find myself in front of the Rabbit Hole. The outside showed an understated, outdated facade, layers of paint flaking off the outer wall, suspiciously free of graffiti. A sign painted in fluorescent green proclaimed its identity just a couple feet above the entrance, which itself was made of reinforced glass. I could feel the cigarette butts underfoot as I made my way closer to that threshold, the night sounding unduly quiet for how loud I knew the interior was, the only noise save traffic being the electric hum of streetlamps and the occasional scream in the night.

I was faintly acquainted with the characters inside, and I meant characters very specifically. Half-Heart and the Crooked Cop, Mnemonic and Millions and Caligula’s Culler, none of them really existed. They were personas, worn for a night and taken off along with whatever costumed attire their actors might have seen fit to adorn those personalities. They were tools for real people, for the full humans who existed beneath the getups and uniforms. That was why I didn’t fit: Doll was not a persona; they were perhaps a more real version of me than I expressed anywhere else. Doll was me. And I was a doll. When I went back to my apartment and took off the day’s layers, what remained beneath were joints limited in their range, a body as awkward to move and pose as an artist’s figurine.

The door was difficult to open, even unbarred, and I’d always felt like it made just a little too much noise in declaring an entry into the establishment. I wanted as few people as possible to pay attention, to notice me. I was not worthy of even the gaze of criminals. Thankfully, none turned to look up at me besides Alice, who inclined her head barely a quarter of an inch in greeting. I pulled my cap down lower, the denim covering my eyes from direct contact as I shuffled over to take a spot at the bar.

The cap was one of Thalia’s own, given to me during one of the meetings I’d been going to. She had explained to me the reason behind her gift as being a way to “cover up that awkward stage of growing your hair out where it’s not long enough to do anything with but just long enough to annoy you.” I had not seriously entertained the idea of growing my hair out before this, my lengthy mop owing entirely to laziness and and a deep-seated irrational fear of haircuts. Nevertheless, I now had a tool at my disposal, emblazoned with the same pink-white-blue insignia Thalia had sewn into all her similarly styled headwear.

Alice made her way over to me after finishing up a conversation with the Culler (they say she used to work for royalty as an assassin). I scrunched over like I was nursing a shot glass and reached into the folds of my hoodie, from which I extracted my prize for the evening: a watch, made from inexpensive materials but featuring actual clockwork. An oddity, if not a valuable. Just like me.

The watch disappeared and twenty bucks took its place. I’d run up a bit of a tab over the last few weeks, stealing much less than I’d been drinking, and the payments had accordingly shrunk. Still, if I needed money, Thalia’s next shipment of pills was coming in a couple days. I could always sell that, I resolved, knowing that I wouldn’t. “What can I get ya? Usual?” I whispered to myself, anticipating the conversation we’d had so many times prior.

I was brought back to reality by Alice’s laughter, her smile apparently directed at me. “Finally come out, eh?” she commented against my expectations. “We were all placing bets on when you would.”
I barely had time to be shocked at the unexpected statement before its implication set in, and I bristled at the insinuation. Just because I’d stolen a watch didn’t mean I was gay. Men were allowed to have senses of fashion.

Alice looked me over again, her sparkling eyes belying the gears turning within her head. “I guess you probably already know, but I actually serve a lot of trans customers here, some of—”

“I’m not trans,” I piped up. It felt important to say, even just to clarify.

Alice’s eyebrows raised ever so slightly, but she nodded and took one of the glasses out from the rack, wiping it down in preparation for my order. “Sure, doll. Sure.” She took the glass and held it under the tap. “Usual?”

I flashed a thumbs-up and she got to work preparing the only alcoholic drink the bar served, at least the only one that didn’t leave me heaving into my toilet at three in the morning. A short while later I was hunched over again, this time actually nursing a cold glass.

“Say, doll,” Alice began, still staring at my cap. “Where’d ya get that? I think I’ve seen it before.”

I grimaced, not up for interrogation. “We’re a den of criminals. How do you think?” I wasn’t lying. Not really. I’d merely implied the untrue.

Alice pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Well, it’s a big lot of coincidences if so. ‘Sides, we’re not criminals here, not really.”

I snorted, performatively so.

Alice cocked an eyebrow. “Alright, so ya don’t believe me? Then listen up.” She took her eyes off the drink she was mixing just long enough to make eye contact, boring a hole into my skull with those yellow catlike orbs of hers.

“This was a long time ago, and in a different country. I was part of a paramilitary group and got sent on patrol with a partner—just some urban boy, no clue what he was doing there. Maybe daddy wanted to knock some sense into him.

“We were walking down this worn dirt path when we met the devil, and he bargained for our souls. Offered us both the same deal, actually—relinquish ownership over our immortal selves, and in exchange we’d control a criminal empire.”

The story sounded a bit fantastical for my tastes, but at least I knew the conclusion. “So you took the deal, and now you’re immortal and run this bar. I get it,” I stated, intending to complete her story. But Alice only shook her head.

“No, no, doll. I refused. But Edward Tsang sits on the Council now…” she ended in a hoarse whisper, jabbing her finger up into the air above her. “And he will until the sun turns cold.”

Now it was my turn to look skeptical. “What the hell am I supposed to take away from that?!”

“Nothing. Everything.” Alice shrugged. “Just that we’re not such bad people as you think. And you can tell me if you and Gebbeth are in cahoots to scam a couple extra bottles of HRT out of me. It’s okay, I’ll be taking it outta your pay anyway.”

There was that acronym again. I still had only hunches as to what it meant, but showing that here would be a sign of weakness. In lieu of responding, I sipped from my drink.

“Besides, it’s never a bad thing to have associates who are happier and like their bodies more.” And with that she started to turn away, prepared to leave me with my thoughts.

“No one actually likes their bodies,” I conjectured, swishing my half-empty drink around in its container. “We’re all just stumbling around in half-formed vessels that the advertisers set standards for.”

Alice looked back, and for a moment I thought she was going to laugh at me and my admittedly rather melodramatic tendencies. It certainly seemed that way, her face scrunching up and her mouth widening as though to let out a burst of laughter. But then she seemed to think better of it, clamping her lips shut in a thoughtful, pregnant pause.

A moment passed where it seemed like the conversation of the entire bar had finally subsumed ours, as though the shadowy whispers and raucous shouting were taking the words from our mouths.

“What sort of body would you like?” Alice asked innocently, a cheeky grin dancing across her face. “Separate from the advertisers, I mean.”

I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. What came out was a long, drawn-out hiss, a release of steam from an overheated engine.

The smirk fully showed itself on Alice’s face as she turned back around, going off to confuse some other patron with her wild and irresponsible words.

And then there was me.

The body I wanted…

I wanted…

I wanted to be a musclebound hulk, towering—

No. Not that. Definitely not. I shuddered.

I wanted to be a—a suave charmer? Lithe and athletic, a goatee—

No. Not quite.

I wanted—I couldn’t want that. I couldn’t want to be a girl.

After all, I wasn’t trans.

Maybe something smaller then, a change so subtle as to go unnoticed. I pawed at my jawline, disappointed to find that yet again, facial hair was back to haunt me. I shaved every day, but it took less than a day for my efforts to dissolve. And when I went to bed every night, it was there, prickling my skin.

The body I wanted… would be free of facial h—

“Mein freund!” The cry came from the bar stool beside me, a fleshy hand clapping me just a little too hard in the back. “How does the night find you, you little philosoph?”

I rotated around, still wincing from the pain. Germund was here, though in this establishment his name was not Germund. “Just swell, Faces,” I replied, managing a tentative smile.

“Aha!” he exclaimed, doing a double take on my headgear (why did everyone seem to notice that? Was it a gang insignia?), “Perhaps I should be calling you philosophin!” He threw his head back and I could see from his ruddy cheeks that this bout of extroversion was probably helped in part by the pig swill Alice served. 

I chuckled alongside him, finding an easier comfort in interacting with someone who I knew wouldn’t ever question my identity.

“I do good work for people like you,” Germund slurred, reaching over to my glass and snatching it from between my hands, “papers and other accoutrements.”

I made a noise of assent, slightly miffed that he’d taken my drink from me, even if I wasn’t going to finish it. “Thanks, Faces. Maybe I’ll take you up on that offer.”

Germund downed my drink, only choking slightly on the mixture. Then he leaned in close, letting me smell the alcohol through his drooping mustache. “Just between the two of us, I believe she was sent to kill me.” He thumbed backwards over his shoulder at the Culler, who adamantly maintained that she had only ever killed out of love. Still, if Germund’s paranoia were to ever accurately identify a threat, it would have been her.

I took on a countenance of grim assessment and made ready to leave, my drink having mysteriously disappeared into the locksmith’s stomach. “Possibly.”

Germund sighed and shook his head. “What a shame, what a shame. I’ll have to change my name again, and I was getting so used to this one… ahh.” He heaved another alcohol-soaked sigh.

I stood up and made ready to leave. Behind me, the plotting and gossip grew thicker and more dangerous. Before night’s end, there would be several more stories to tell. And I would not be in any of them.

The wind outside the alley was positively blustery, the street practically deserted. There was a vision that had been sold to us at some point in the past, of a bustling metropolis that never went to sleep. We’d bought in—or sold out, as it may have been, and now the future was here. But it wasn’t for everyone.

Instead of human companionship, I found only the flickering electric lights, and a quiet flutter of wings. High above on the lamppost, dark beady eyes gazed into my own; a number of crows stared down at me. Any more and there might have been a murder.

I smiled and several flew off, cawing into the night. My loyal watchers, there in place of more human observation.

This deep in the city, the stars were all gone, and only the moon shone down overhead. I pulled in tighter on my hoodie. These streets were strange, in the moonlight.

With so long a walk back home, my thoughts moved elliptically, in curves and twirls, tracing eccentric spirals that drew me ever closer into the always-approaching, never-arriving center. There was a conclusion here, amidst the dancing images of trans support groups and underground criminal organizations. I’d appropriated the titles of both, while being neither. It was the greatest lie I’d ever told. It was—

It was back.

My hands shook, joining together deep within the folds of my hoodie in a tempting grasp at comfort. I could feel my lungs working faster, trying to keep up with the rhythm of my heart. It was back, in dark feathers and massive size, perched upon a rock in the middle of an empty lot. The human-sized bird. And it was staring at me.

The bird took off its head of painted bone, shaking its cloak of feathers back and letting its hair out.

“...Chloe?”

I squinted. The incomplete darkness made it hard to see, but there was only one cloak-wearing crow-aligned person I knew. “...Uaine?”

They let out a short bark, then stepped off the rock, exposing the large flock of corvids behind them. “It appears you’ve caught me at a feeding.”

I paused, unsure what I would find if I went closer.

“Worms, Chloe. I feed them worms. Come, do you wish to join?”

I strode cautiously over to where they were standing, and although it was hard to see in the half-light, I could just make out the patch of dirt the crows had been feeding from. I crouched down, and sure enough there were still several worms remaining.

“They spawned recently, so I had some excess. The crows appreciate it, I think. Possibly they consider it a form of tribute.” They squatted next to me, picking up a worm and gently holding it out. One of the dark avians hopped forward and pecked it out of their waiting hand. In return, Uaine stroked its black feathers, positively cooing. “Either one would be appropriate.”

I gave them a sidelong stare. “So what’s with the getup?”

They shrugged, dark feathers rippling down the length of their cloak. “Part spiritual, part symbolic. Sometimes we can only be ourselves when we pretend as though we are not.” They picked up a worm from the pile, and it slowly wriggled within their grasp. “Here, you want a go?”

I gently took it from their hand. “Aren’t these your pets? This feels awfully gruesome.” The worm felt odd on my hand, a little slick twig that twisted this way and that.

They smiled. I couldn’t see it very well in the poor lighting, but they had definitely smiled. “If we must be exact, I feel the crows are also my pets. But I understand your point. The crows need to eat, and besides, they’ve lived full lives. Years and years, really. It’s as good a way to go as any.”

“The crows are your pets? Then why are they…”

“Out here? Because I couldn’t find it in me to cage a bird as intelligent and beautiful as they are.” Uaine spoke softly, retracting their hand from the crow they’d been petting. It hopped back and joined the flock.

I extended my hand, the worm within my grasp. One of the corvids stepped forward and pecked at it, jabbing at my palm in the process. It snapped the worm up in short order, and I turned my hand around as I had seen Uaine do. It allowed me to lay my hand on it, and I started stroking. The crow felt warm and sleek, yet also delicate. It looked up at me with striking dark eyes and I positively squirmed in delight. I was petting a bird. Oh my gosh, I was petting a bird.

Uaine gave me a curious stare not unlike the crows they… partnered with. “You remind me of someone else,” they murmured softly.

“Who?” I asked, still gently holding the bird, more letting it rub against me than my hand against it.

“Thalia,” they said nonchalantly. “I brought her out one night to celebrate her getting on HRT. She also couldn’t quite contain herself. And why should she? Crows are marvellous creatures.”

This time, I was almost alone. This time, I couldn’t embarrass myself. “What, um, what is HRT? ...exactly.” I coughed, finding that despite my reasoning, my cheeks still burned a brilliant crimson.

Uaine gave me a strange look. I couldn’t quite make it out, but I instinctively knew that it was a strange look. “HRT, or hormone replacement therapy, is a medical process wherein a person uses medicine in order to set their body’s hormone levels to where they ought to be. In your case, you’d be lowering your testosterone level and raising your estrogen level.”

“Did you just have that memorized or—”

“As you may come to realize, dear Chloe, being trans sometimes means answering the questions of the ignorant cis.”

Cis I knew; I’d picked that one up along the way. “Wow, good thing I’m not one of those, huh?” I swallowed.

Uaine nodded, a slow whisper of feathers coming from the neck of their cloak.

“But… what if I was?”

A soft chuckle filled the night air, and it took me a second to realize that it was coming from Uaine. “I think we all ask ourselves that at some point.”

“And…”

“And if you were, feminizing HRT would probably have quite negative effects on your psyche. There are cases—rare, but there are—of cis people doing quite well when their testosterone or estrogen get swapped out. And there are others, people like me, who have no target values to compare against, complicating the process slightly. But overall, if you were cis? I’d recommend against it.”

“No,” I said, shaking my head, “I meant, um, in general. What if I’ve been lying to everyone for the past month?”

The group of crows cawed, eager for the remainder of their feast. The one I’d been petting rejoined the group. It appeared that if there was to be a murder tonight, it would be here.

“If you are cis,” Uaine spoke in a measured tone, “then that is a logical conclusion of your questioning. You can be more sure of your gender in a world where it is so often taken for granted. But lying, it was not.”

“I mean—”

“You mean to say you weren’t a dysphoric, questioning mess?”

I stood up rapidly, sending several crows flying. “I don’t—I don’t…” I balled my hands up tightly, a welling emotion within my chest signaling something I hadn’t felt in a long time. I don’t have to take this from you is what I wanted to say, but it came out more as angry sputtering. How could they not take offense? How could they so nonchalantly accept the idea that I was cis, when even I couldn’t come to terms… with…

No. Nononononononono—

“Um, Uaine, one more question.”

“Yes?”

“HRT, what form of medication is it? Like, is it an IV drip or an injection or…”

“Pills, patches, or shots for estrogen. Injections exclusively for testosterone.”

“I see,” I voiced hoarsely, barely able to force out the words. “And the pills, what do they look like?”

“Small blue tablets for estrogen usually, then larger pinkish or white ones for spironolactone, though it depends on what antiandrogen you’re using.” They turned back around, slowly feeding the remaining worms to their black-feathered colleagues.

“I see,” I repeated, and I meant it.

“It’s strange you’d ask me these questions, since I thought you’d already been on HRT for a short while. My mistake, then.”

I turned away and began slowly shuffling off back home.

“Ah!” they called out behind me, “Make sure to wash your hands. Crows are nice creatures, but they do tend to get rather dirty.”

I didn’t respond. There was too much to think about. It was undeniable, at this point, that the pills I’d poached from Thalia had been her regimen of feminizing hormones. Then she’d offered to, what, continue sharing? It all led to one inexorable conclusion.

I’d been set up. Duped. Played like a fiddle and taken for a fool.

But by whom? Who was devious enough, hated me such that they would seek to convince me I was trans? And why in the world did they think they could get away with it?

After all, there was no way I was trans.

In the novels I’d read, the characters I related to—they were all male. Sure, what I related to were the feelings of alienation and isolation, of being an outcast even in your own skin, but nevertheless, they were male.

Except for those other stories. The ones I could still remember, barely beneath the surface of my consciousness. They had been softer. Sweeter. And densely populated by girls I wanted to be… with.

But that had at most been escapism! Pure fantasy! If anything, it was proof that I actually wasn’t a girl, and therefore couldn’t be trans.

Yeah. That made sense.

Whoever had thought this scheme up certainly deserved some credit because, I realized, burying my face in my hands, by now I was totally hooked on these things. Continuing to use feminizing HRT when I didn’t even want to be feminized probably wasn’t the best life decision I’d made thus far, but it was one of the only comforts I had left. Well, besides the support group, where I’d found a measure of companionship in lying about my gender. I sighed. I really was pathetic. In any case, I was running out in a couple of days, and I’d need to find more.

I hadn’t noticed the distance, being in such a state of mind, but I had reached the apartment complex. I pushed through the front doors with such force that I worried for the hinges. Seeing that the elevator doors were still open, I positively sprinted over, only glancing over at Chloe—the REAL Chloe—to make sure that my regular waterings had been doing her well.

Then I crashed into the back wall of the elevator, the other rider in the space stepping to the side in an act of prophylactic evasion. The elevator doors groaned shut, and shuddered for a second before slowly starting its ascension.

We couldn’t have been more than two floors up when it had a particularly large shudder, a worrisome creak, and then stopped dead in its tracks.

“Had to give out someday,” the rider beside me commented.

I knew that voice. I knew that baggy pair of pants. I turned my face to the side, already knowing what I’d see.

“...Thalia?”

Her eyebrows shot up in surprise, the piercing flashing silver in the flickering light. “...Chloe?”

I’d always known this thing was a death trap.

It looked like there would in fact be a murder tonight.