{You All Over Me ~ Taylor Swift}
...And wasted time, lost tears, swore that I'd get out of here, but no amount of freedom gets you clean, I've still got you all over me...
----
It is the calling of the morning lark that rouses something within me. From a steady otherness in my mind, I return to my body and the searing ache in its weight. Something has changed since I left it.
My head droops low, too heavy to hold steady, as I make my way for the door, my breath suffocating in these four walls, my voice long since destroyed from swallowing screams that sunk into the walls that only seem to taunt me. The silence of the once-bustling ocean of bodies that refused to hear me, has settled into a dead sea of sleeping bodies. The silence amplifies the thumping in my head and the moaning ache of my steadily bruising skin. My hands fumble for strength on the bending walls, their scratchy screams that threaten my silent escape, but none of the sleepy-shut eyes budge to glare at my movements, to question, to see the truth of what has become of me.
And I retch.
"All I have to do is make it outside", I slur to myself in half-shot whispers. Where are my shoes? My bag is clutched in a choking grasp, tight and white-knuckled in my hands. I am escaping an already forgotten moment, yet the stains and aches seem to linger past the fading, faltering memories. The aching lingers, washed all over me.
And I retch.
Too much to drink, that's all, I nod heavily. I swallow it down, vying for a breeze of the morning air, a cleansing breath to tell me I can make it home. I want to go home. I want to go back. Back to before it all went dark. Before...
"It's okay," I soothe the tears that fall without permission and I half expect the sob, the cry that doesn't come. I swallow it down. I swallow it down.
And I retch.
But the mirror in the hall, the passing shadow that echoes every limping motion catches my gaze. Her clothes are ripped. Her skin is a map of war, evidence of the siege that took place. The broken battle cry in her eyes shakes me as she catches sight of the reality.
And there are questions I cannot yet answer, and there is nothing to be done, but to find the morning air, to cry and try to find what has been lost, or stolen, not in items but in memory, and in safety, and in something so small it is impossible to quite find the words which could accurately describe this nightmare.
So I swallow it down, and crawl out of the dark, searching for the sight of the rising sun calling for me over the dark line of the horizon. And I walk. And walk. And walk. And I tell myself it is always the darkest before the dawn.
----
"Are you sure this is necessary?" I ask for what feels like the thousandth time. "I mean, in the grand scheme of things, surely training time should be better spent actually... You know... Training."
I am stood atop a podium in a small closet, surrounded by draped fabrics of all colours and textures, with only a small light hanging above my head, and a three-angled floor length mirror before me. The sight of three more images of me, staring back in the mirror leave the room feeling even tighter than before.
"Trust me," Beau sighs. "It might not seem like it, but you need to look like you belong there, riding alongside everyone else."
"It's a Derby not a pageant," I counter.
"It's a competition," Beau eyes the walls of fabrics and sketches of gowns and shirts, all diamonds and tassels and bright colours. "We want you to have the best shot possible."
Both of us, dusty and sweat soaked from the farm, sit like wallflowers among all this finery.
Here, being in John-Joe's costume and tailoring closet. A little ironic, he told us as we walked in, that a queer man such as himself should still be making garments in a closet when he so very clearly had already come out of one.
"We as in you and I, or we as in you and Uncle Deacon?" I ask, a slight sting in my words.
His eyes fall and no longer meet mine, and I let my gaze turn back to the mirror, caught off-guard at myself, and my blank stare. There used to be a familiarity in my mirror image. Now, I feel so strange, even to myself. My eyes, too, soon fall to the floor.
After a moment, Beau replies:
"He'll come around," he half-shrugs.
I can't quite tell if he's trying to convince me or himself.
Training took hours every day, with Beau and I pouring over the history of the Derby, the techniques and hacks I will need, and my body becoming sorer as the hours dragged on, the sun moving positions across the sky to watch over us, and every so often a gentle breeze would come over the foothills and down into the valley. It was the one part of the afternoon when I would often see Uncle Deacon step out for some fresh air. He doesn't ask about us, or how training is going, simply nods with his exhaling breath and walks away.
At dinner, we say nothing of training, the reality of it another unwanted guest at the table.
"Well, if he's anything like the rest of my family," I laugh, half-heartedly, "I wouldn't bet money on it."
Before Beau can come back with some wise and cranky response, the curtain behind me is pulled back to reveal John-Joe, laden in fabrics and sketches as he bundles his way into the small closet.
"Alright," John Joe's voice croons as he casts his gaze up disapprovingly at the flickering bulb above my head. "I had an idea you might come to me, my love."
Beau sits on a tiny wooden stool in the corner, his tall frame squashed down, to give John-Joe more space. He lets his eyes wander around the fabrics in the room, listening to John-Joe as he chatters on. I can't help but chuckle a little at the sight of Beau cramped in the corner, his knees poking through the rips in his old work jeans, a faded light blue colour mixed with dust and wear.
"We know you're probably swamped with orders, John-Joe," Beau nods graciously. "It means a lot that you'd want to help us out."
"Oh, don't sweat it, love-bug," he beams, circling the small podium I am perched on. "I think it's fabulous what you guys are doing. Really, it's... Well, it's something. I'm all for pushing the boundaries of what is normal, especially in Smalltown Hicksville, Capital of Nowhere."
"Don't you like it here?" I ask as he continues circling, pulling at my clothes, eyeing up my legs and my shoulders.
"Oh, it's positively quaint," he nods. "If you're a straight, white, cis man."
"Yeah," I half-laugh, his honesty refreshing. "It does feel that way sometimes."
He turns to Beau.
"Oh, no offence, honey," he smiles.
"None taken," Beau half-smiles. "You always keep me on my toes."
"Always did," he replies. "I used to do Beau's fittings when I first got started. It was my first year doing costumes, and his first Derby--"
John Joe catches himself, almost forgetting the ending to the story isn't quite what he wanted it to be, a more humbling ending at the tip of his tongue.
"And last Derby," Beau finishes. "It's alright. I looked damn good for a while at least."
We all exhale, laughing as John-Joe visibly relaxes, his brows furrowing slightly, cursing himself internally.
"Well, Beau was always one cranky son of a bitch," John-Joe teases him.
"Still is," I agree, much to Beau's annoyance.
"Oh, honey, you can't change him," he tells me. "But what I loved most about it, was how much it meant to him to be dressed well, and support me while doing it. He let me do whatever I wanted with his costume, as long as he looked good in it."
"Really?" I ask, casting a smile over to Beau. He sits, arms crossed, and smirking. He only nods.
"It meant a lot to have someone like Beau supporting little queer me loud and proud," John-Joe beams. "It made people take me seriously."
"Oh, c'mon John-Joe, everyone took you seriously before," Beau hushes him, standing from his perch on the stool, to tower over us in this little closet. "They just needed to see how seriously you took yourself."
"Well, consider this a favour," John-Joe nods. "I would like to do this as a thank you, to you both. For believing in me, and for pushing the boundaries when it ain't always easy to. I'll have a dress and a Derby outfit ready before the Ball, cinderella. I promise, I got the mice working away already."
My stomach dropped slightly at the mention of the ball, and the pressure of impressing everyone in the room. It was a sharp pain shooting into my stomach, but I swallowed it down, steadying myself at my steely stare in the mirror.
I feel myself standing a little taller on the podium, my back straightening as I took another look at myself. All three of me, staring back. The girl fighting for the ranch, the girl from my nightmares, and the girl I used to be. Before Laurel Valley.
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