The reason behind

"Get out of my way, you weird!"
The man rushed to the door and slammed it with all his might. The poor girl stayed behind: she was only half-covered by the sheets of the bed she was sitting on. Only her bare chest was visible. And this was exactly why the man fleed.
No breast was visible. Only a plain and, flat chest.

A man's one.

Grell had always suffered from this internal dispute. He had the body of a young man, quite a well-built one. But deep inside his heart- he was not a man.
He had always felt like he was in the wrong body. It was the only explanation he could find. He was feeling like a woman. He had the same types of interests, the same types of desires, the same way of behaving. Never did he thought like a man. Sports, beer, strength games or women... Brr. He was not the least fond of that.
But clothes, shopping, makeup, jewels, children, cooking, dancing and, men... Grell was completely excited just by thinking of these.

How badly he wanted to be a "She". To have that body he had always dreamt of: large breast men would be gawning about, hips so well-shaped even women would desire and -maybe the most important one- a cute tummy due to some life growing inside of her...
He wanted to be a mother. To be a wife. He wanted to marry and have children the way other women did. Although he looked so much like a woman with these long dresses full of laces, this long ginger hair floating in the wind, these high heels to attract gazes on his well-shaped legs... Men would always find out she was a "He" in the end. They would flee, insult her, tell her to die... She would always end up alone in her bedroom, sheets all over her body, crying her soul out because she was different. Rejected.

In the wrong body.

Grell had always liked the red colour. It was bright, powerful. It was the coulour of passion.
Passion.
The feeling she was the most fond of. She had always been pasisonate about everything. Passionate about romance. Passionate about tragedy books. Passionate about fancy dresses and makeup. Passionate about severe and strict men.

Right now she was passionate.

Passionate about the marks she engraved on her wrists.
Passionate about the blood leaving her body.
Passionate about how beautiful it was to see her arms slowly colouring into red.
Passionate about the bath water becoming blurry and reflecting a soft shade of red.
Passionate about how dizzy she felt, as if she would sleep forever.
Passionate about the cold taking over her body, freezing her to death.
Passionate about how her life was ending.
Because she was sure she would be happy being dead.
She would live a different life. Not afraid of being different. Accepting herself. Not being judged by anyone.

She would be happy.

And here she was, running to catch up a demon. Collecting dead souls and watching their memories escaping their dead corpse. Collaborating with an austere colleague of her, sexy as hell.
Sure, she still was not a woman.
Sure, she would have to face death every single day until pardon is granted for her suicide.
Sure, she was busy everyday and had to complain to orders and rules.

But she was a lot happier than before. She was not judged, simply teased a little bit. Her colleague was cold, but she knew she was important to him. She was more than a mere colleague to him. She was a friend. She was even more than that.
Everything was good.

She was good.