Disconnected ; Lashton

2. Bloody Knuckles

I was wrong.

I was so utterly wrong.

After I got top surgery, I was basically bed-bound for the next two weeks. During those two weeks, my head was still filled with thoughts of self-deprecation and self-destruction. It left me on edge from all of the constant worrying. My stomach hurt, my hands were shaky, I felt dizzy- that was likely accompanied by the pain medicine, but still.

I was worried that once I was healed and could get a good look at myself post-surgery, the thoughts would still remain. I had gotten the surgery, but they were still piling up, so would they really not go away? What if they never left?

Today, that's what I'm going to find out. The bandages are off. I'm nearly completely healed, as long as I don't strain myself. It does feel nice to have a flat chest and feel nothing moving without a binder compacting me in, but once I take a look, will it get any better?

My heart is pounding out of my chest, and I admit that part of it is due to my excitement, but I'm scared. I don't want to look. I do, but I don't. Because, if I look and I still feel like hurting myself, then there's nothing more I can do. There's nothing left. I don't know what will become of me.

"Honey, are you alright? I know it's a big change, but you can look. I'm right here with you." My mum's voice is quiet and reassuring. I take a shaky deep breath in and force myself to turn around and face my mirror. My shoulder forms goosebumps under where my mum places her hand, leaning beside me, waiting for me to open my eyes.

I'm going to open them, and when I do, I'll feel all better and I won't want to hurt myself. I won't. I won't want to die so much, I'll feel happy with myself, I won't blame myself for everything, then maybe I'll even be able to talk again when it's not just me alone.

So I open them.

I feel my heart sink in my stomach and my reaction is undoubtedly physical because my mum tenses next to me.

"Honey, what's wrong? You've gone pale-" she places her hand on my forehead. "are you going to be sick?" I nudge her hand away lightly and slowly nod my head no. No, I'm not going to be sick. Not while you're still around, at least. I feel sort of indifferent to what I see, it's what I expected to look like so I'm not exactly surprised or let down, that's not the problem. It's what's inside. The thoughts haven't left. I'm still just as depressed as before. It's still all my fault. The spit is still piling in my mouth and threatening to spill out.
I'm an idiot. It was foolish of me to think that anything could make me normal again when I'm not normal at all. Just look at me. Why in the hell did I think this would work?

My mum's worried forehead makes me focus on the outer situation at hand. I contort my face into a nervous smile and she gives a small one in return.

"You gonna be alright while I'm at work today?" I nod my head in response. She kisses my temple and heads towards my bedroom door.

"If you need anything, call me- or, um, I guess text me, okay? I love you, alright?" She stares at me for a moment from my doorway as I stand with a blank look on my face, my silent mouth gone slack.

"Oh, Luke..." she sighs. "I'm just so proud of you." She wipes a single tear out of her eye and takes her leave. It always feels just as good as the last time to hear my name in her voice, my chosen name. The name that I love so much. When she asked me what I'd like to be called and I gave her my answer, she was pleasantly surprised. Apparently, if I had been born a boy, I was going to be named Luke. In some quietly prideful way, I thought of that as fate, that maybe I was supposed to be exactly where I am right now.

But as soon as she's gone and my room is left empty without the sound of her loving me, my head is loud and full of the opposite. I'm staring at my reflection; at a person I don't think I really know. I don't know if I ever have, or if I ever will. That's Luke Hemmings, but Luke Hemmings is me, so why am I not whoever I'm looking at?