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Why weren’t there any good names?
Clara usually spent his weekends in his room. He’d play video games, or listen to music, or sleep. It really wasn’t surprising that he was at his computer, intently focused on the screen.
Baby name websites sucked, though. He had been scrolling through five different tabs for hours, trying to find something that just… clicked.
Toby was his best friend’s name. Charlie was too close to Clara for his taste. Terrence made his sound like some kind of snob. James was too basic. Aiden seemed too stereotypical.
He sighed in frustration when the fifth tab yielded absolutely nothing useful, yet again. He resisted the urge to run his hands through his hair; it was tied back in a bun, and he didn’t want to unravel it and feel it against his neck.
He pressed the power button on his monitor and thudded his forehead lightly on the desk, groaning. Why was this so fucking hard?
Think. You have to know something that would fit.
Another sigh. Think.
=
“Daddy?”
Phil glanced down at the blonde girl that had appeared at his side, smiling and drying his hands as he turned away from the sink full of dishes. “Hey, Clara Bear. What can I do for you, sweetheart?”
Clara grinned at the nickname like she always did, the gap from her missing teeth visible. “Wilby was talking about how you and Mama didn’t know what you were gonna name me. What other names were you gonna give me?”
Phil softened at the mention of Clara’s mother; she had passed a few months after Clara’s birth. “Well, sweetheart, we had a lot of different names for you, depending on if you were a boy or a girl. We eventually decided on Clara if you were a girl, and Thomas if you were a boy.”
Clara nodded, seemingly satisfied. “Thank you Daddy!”
“No problem, Clara Bear. Wanna check if Wilbur and Techno have any dishes in their room?”
“Okay!”
=
Thomas.
He hummed, drumming his fingers against the desk absently. Thomas seemed… it didn’t exactly fit him, in his opinion. And Tom was kind of a boring nickname.
He leaned back in his chair, staring up at his ceiling.
Thomas. Tom.
…Tommy?
He blinked, swaying in his chair a bit.
“Hi. My name is Tommy.”
His voice sounded far too loud in his empty room, but a warm feeling bloomed in his chest. A silly grin spread over his face, and he let out a surprised laugh. “Tommy. Tommy.”
He laughed again, spinning in his chair giddily. Tommy. My name is Tommy.
=
Tommy hated his name.
He had been so giddy to find a name he liked, to find a name that felt right, to find a name that was him. But now that he knew he was Tommy, Clara felt like poison every time it reached his ears.
“Clara, it’s your turn to do the dishes tonight.”
“How was your day at school, Clara?”
“Stop taking my fucking sweater, Clara!”
Clara. Clara. Clara.
Why couldn’t he have just been born Tommy? Why couldn’t he just be fucking normal instead of some sort of freak?
He scowled at his reflection as he stepped into the bathroom for a shower before school, not bothering to turn on the fan so the mirror would steam up and leaving the lights turned off – not that it made a difference, but the less light, the better.
He kept his eyes shut tightly as he showered, relying on memory to find the soaps and shampoos and blindly wash himself as quickly as he could. He avoided his chest and cringed as he scrubbed his hair, rinsing and getting out of the shower in record time.
Once he was back in his room, he stood in the middle of the junk scattered around the floor, wrapped in a towel fresh from the dryer (Phil always put their towels in the dryer each morning so they were warm).
His eyes drifted to his pillows, biting his bottom lip before lifting them carefully, taking out the hastily wrapped roll of bandage that he hadn’t touched since that night.
Someone might notice. Scratch that – someone would definitely notice.
Tommy’s eyes darted to his half-open underwear drawer, cringing at the sight of a bra dangling over the edge of it. Yeah, no. That wasn’t happening.
It was easier to wrap his chest the second time around, now that he knew what worked. Hold it in place just behind his side, wrap it around the back first, come to the front, repeat. Once the bandage had no length left, he tucked it into the bottom, running his hands down the front with the same wonder as that first time.
A knock on his door startled him, and Tommy jumped, hastily grabbing the nearest shirt that smelled halfway clean and yanking it over his head. “Yeah?!”
“Breakfast is ready, Clara.” Techno’s voice behind the door was still gruff with sleep. “Waffles. Do you want syrup? I’ll put it on for you.”
Tommy pulled a pair of shorts on while Techno was talking, rummaging for a pair of socks that actually matched. God, he really had to do laundry. “Uh – no thanks, I’ll do it!”
“Okay. See ya downstairs.”
Breakfast was normal, as always, but Tommy felt like an intruder. Like a puzzle piece that didn’t quite fit. Techno was eating his waffles plain, like a fucking weirdo, and Tommy could hear the crunch of how much sugar Wilbur had sprinkled on his. Phil was scrolling through the news on his phone, still in his green dressing gown, sipping a coffee that was ninety percent milk.
Tommy reached for the bottle of maple syrup, but he felt like he was floating just outside of his body. When he saw his hand reaching for the syrup, it felt like he was looking through an empty paper towel roll. Suddenly, he felt sick – the thought of eating made him feel ill.
He pushed away from the table abruptly, the chair squeaking in protest against the linoleum. He could feel his family looking at him, and his heart pounded.
“I’m – I’m gonna catch the bus,” he managed to get out, standing and hurrying to the front door.
“Are you okay?” Phil called, concern colouring his voice as he started to get out of his seat. “Cla–“
“I’ll see you this afternoon, love you, bye!” Tommy felt bad for cutting his dad off as he threw his bag over his shoulder, but he couldn’t stand to just sit there and pretend he felt fine.
“Your lunch–!”
Tommy was out of the door before he could be questioned, immediately speed walking to the bus stop around the corner.
He sunk against the metal bench once he sat down, hastily running his fingers through his hair to ‘brush’ it and tying it up into another bun.
Fucking hell.
=
The feeling of intruding didn’t go away. It got worse, actually, to the point where Tommy waited until everyone was finished eating to have his own dinner and straight up skipping breakfast. He spent every spare second in his own room, only leaving to use the bathroom, and he’d spoken all of twenty words to his family over the past week.
The guilt was eating away at him. But the paranoia of being questioned made him feel physically ill – he couldn’t risk any of them noticing. He wasn’t ready.
It came to a point where Tommy wore the bandages from the moment he showered in the morning until he went to sleep at night. His chest burned, the aching spread to his spine and neck, and each breath felt like he was inhaling through a thick fog.
When a gentle knock came on his door one afternoon, he immediately snapped his laptop closed and hugged as pillow to his chest, inhaling shakily. “Yes?” he called, wary.
“It’s Wilbur.” He sounded… sad? “Can I come in?”
“Um. Sure?”
The door opened slowly, Wilbur peeking in briefly before stepping inside and closing the door quietly behind him. Tommy eyed him, frowning a little at the way Wilbur’s face was painted with worry and the way his hands gripped the hem of his shirt. “…Hi? What’s up?”
Wilbur let out a breath, sitting on the edge on Tommy’s bed. “I… don’t know how to start.”
Fuck. Shit. Double fuck. “At the beginning, I guess.”
Wilbur gave him an unimpressed look, before sighing and averting his gaze to a spot on the wall just above Tommy’s head. “Look, Clara.” Tommy cringed, but Wilbur didn’t seem to notice. “You know we all love you, right?”
“…Yes? Why?”
“Regardless of – you know, how you look? We think you’re beautiful no matter what.”
Tommy blinked, the gears turning in his head. “What? What the fuck brought that on?”
Wilbur frowned a little, still avoiding meeting Tommy’s eyes. “You know – you’ve been skipping breakfast, and you never eat with us? I was just… worried. That something was wrong.
Click.
“Hold on – you think I have a fucking eating disorder?” Tommy questioned, disbelief painting the question. “What the fuck?”
“What was I supposed to think?” Wilbur retorted, defensive. “You never come to meals, and you haven’t in weeks. We’re all fucking worried about you!”
“Don’t be!” Tommy snapped. “I can handle my own shit, Wilbur! I don’t need you poking around in my fucking business, and that goes for Techno and Dad, too. Quit fucking – trying to play the hero, or some shit. I’m fine.”
“Play the hero? What the fuck, Clara?” Wilbur stood up, giving him a glare. “It’s not some fucking saviour complex, I fucking care about you! I’m worried about you!”
“Then quit worrying!” Tommy stood up too, supressing a wince as his chest protested him getting up so quickly. “There’s the door, get the fuck out. Fucking dickhead.”
Tommy didn’t miss the flash of hurt on Wilbur’s face as he shoved the taller boy out of the door and slammed it closed. The guilt hurt his chest almost as much as the tightness around his chest did.
He didn’t need anyone babying him. He was fine.
=
Tommy was not fine.
Today had been terrible, just one awful thing after the other. He woke up with his period. He lost the stupid bandages and had to wear a bra. All of his shorts were in the laundry, so he had to wear a skirt. He was put in the girls team for a class activity. His hair elastic broke so he had to keep his hair down.
He didn’t go down to dinner, even by himself. He felt physically sick.
Nobody checked on him, not after his outburst at Wilbur a few days prior. So Tommy had the pleasure of his own company as he gasped out almost-silent sobs in the middle of the night, clawing at his own chest through the thin fabric of his shirt. The scrape of his own nails through the fabric burned, and it was grounding.
He wanted it all gone – no, needed it gone. He hated this body, hated this hair, hated this voice. He would rather be dead than live like this.
He let out another sob, the movement of his shoulders making his hair brush his shoulders. The frustrated scream got stuck in his throat, and his hands moved to yank at the frizzy strands. His scalp stung at the action.
He fucking hated his hair. It had only gotten longer in the past weeks, with no trims.
Cut it yourself. Get it off. Get rid of it. You need to. Cut your hair. Do it. Do it. DO IT!
Tommy didn’t care what noise he made as he stumbled to the bathroom, falling to his knees harshly in front of the sink. He yanked open the top drawer, rummaging through it until he found the scissors.
The plastic handle settled easily in his shaking hands. He opened the blades and pulled and thick section of hair away from the top of his head, staring at his reflection in the mirror as he raised the scissors.
He looked like a mess. His face was wet with tears and snot, eyes red and bloodshot, cheeks splotchy and bottom lip bitten raw.
He looked like a girl.
Tommy let out a strangled sounding scream, cutting through the hair and letting it fall from his hand in a hurry to grab the next section. His hands moved on autopilot, haphazardly cutting at chunks of hair as he sobbed, the ragged sounds echoing off the tiles.
More. More. Still too long.
Most of the length was gone – all that was left was uneven hair, no more than an inch and a half long, all over his head.
Not good enough.
Tommy dropped the scissors with another scream, sinking to the floor. His own cries sounded distant as he gripped his now-short hair, sitting in the pile of hair on the floor.
“Clara? Clara?!”
Tommy shrieked at the sound of Techno’s voice, gripping his hair harder and yanking at it. “I’m not fucking Clara!”
Distantly, he could hear Wilbur as well. He sounded tired, but terrified. “What the fuck?”
Hands gently gripped Tommy’s wrists, and he thrashed as they were pulled away from his hair, jerking his head up and being greeted with Phil’s worried expression.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay sweetheart,” he soothed. “It’s just me, it’s Dad, it’s okay, I’m right here.”
Tommy sobbed again, leaning forward to shove his face into Phil’s shoulder. “I want to die,” he gasped, voice raising to a shriek. “I want to fucking die!”
Phil let go of his wrists to wrap his arms around Tommy tightly, mumbling reassurances and gently rocking him. “I’m right here, it’s okay, shh, it’s gonna be okay.”
“They said they weren’t Clara,” Techno spoke up cautiously, and Phil hummed in response.
“You’re not Clara?” He asked, voice soft, and Tommy let out another sob, nodding. “Yeah? Tell me your name, sweetheart. Are you my child, or my son?”
“T-To-Tommy. S-on.”
“Tommy? I love you so much, Tommy, my darling boy, it’s okay, we’ll figure everything out. It’s okay.”
Tommy hiccupped, burying his face further into Phil’s shoulder and letting himself be calmed by his father’s gentle words.
“It’s all gonna be okay.”