The bed beneath him creaked as Party Favor burrowed into the sheets, trying to hide from the terrors of his night.
"It is easy enough to exhibit enthusiasm for equalism," he murmured to himself, trying to soothe himself like Starlight had taught him. "but it is exceptional to exhibit excellence in it. Enunciate these expressions, Party Favor, and your erroneous uneasiness will exit."
The floorboards creaked beneath the monitor's feet as they patrolled the room, making sure nobody was breaking the rules. Just like Tear Away had enforced the rules of the playground on him.
"Equalism is not exclusively equality," he quietly hissed, trying to shove his memories back into the past where they belonged. "It is equally about liberty, security, and equity. Equality is the enhancement of the estates until they are all equal with each other..."
"Hey clown boy, did you eat a balloon? Is that why you're so tall and sound so funny?"
"...liberty is the entitlement to exhibit inclinations, except for those which indicate an attitude of eminence--c'mon, big words, work..."
"Hey, clown boy, how's the weather up there?"
*trip*
"And how about down there?"
"...security is the assurance that every individual's essentials shall be imparted without requirement of remittance," he feverishly continued, trying to use the big words Starlight had given him to plug up the hole the fear was crawling through. "along with the assurance that extravagances shall not be endowed exclusively to those inclined to expenditures..."
"He sounds weird."
"Are you sure he's not a girl?"
"No, he's too ugly to be one."
"Well, he's too weak and weird-sounding to be a boy."
"Maybe he's some kinda animal."
"Maybe we can train him, like the lions in his circus. Doesn't that sound nice, clown boy? Maybe we can even teach you to do tricks."
*shove*
"We've already taught you to roll over."
"...and equity is the entitlement to equality before the law," he rabidly concluded, covering his ears and whimpering. "and the assurance that exactly zero individuals shall acquire eminent legal assistance."
They were laughing at him, laughing with the ruins of his work scattered about their feet.
He'd been trying his hand at balloon art in a hidden alley, his parents having no patience for his talent being practiced in the house (stupid fragile vase) and his peers having made their views on any actions of his clear over the years.
At first, he'd worked nervously, flashing glances out the alley every few seconds, but as time wore on and none of his tormentors showed up to harass him, he foolishly began to relax, until he found himself completely absorbed in his work. He was getting pretty good at it, using the book from the library's guidance to make all sorts of balloon creations; birds, animals, cars, planes, even a rocket. He smiled at his handiwork, feeling happy for one of the few times in his life.
And then that happiness was ruptured, along with his rocket.
Tear Away, his chief tormentor, grinned cruelly at him, holding a sharp pin. "Hey, clown boy," he mocked. "Nice addition to the circus routine. Let us," he gestured back at his pin-holding friends. "help you clean up."
He could do nothing but stare in numb despair as they tore into his creations, reducing them and his happiness to shreds within moments. Then, just for good measure, they jumped all over the library book, trampling it with their muddy shoes. They pushed his unmoving form over, face-down into the mangled tome, his eye looking blindly down at the picture showing the finished rocket.
Their laughter followed their footsteps away, and he was alone, alone with his failure, the debris of his shattered attempt at happiness scattered around him.
The monitor's footsteps passed him by, and he fell dead silent; he was a troublemaker, a routine breaker of the rules. The conditioning from his former life ran deep in him, Starlight had said, and he wasn't strong enough to resist its hierarchical influence. He was already on thin ice for expressing satisfaction that the princess had been quoted talking about them, a demonstration of the hierarchical philosophy that one's station influenced one's importance, though thankfully he'd managed to assure the other leaders that it had just been a moment of weakness, of that former conditioning rearing its hideous head. Just like the doctor had reared her head that horrible day...
"Not horrible," he quietly corrected himself. "The best day of my life."
It had certainly felt like the worst day of his life at the time, though; in addition to the typical travails of middle school, he'd found himself pursued by Tear and his gang, stupidly running into a dead-end alley in an attempt to escape. They'd cornered him, gave him the usual; mockery for his voice not changing and his lack of musculature, shoving him over, rifling through his backpack and stomping the notes they found into the ground. He'd grown so used to it that he only shook his head as they rifled through his backpack, somehow not noticing that the 'notes' they worked so hard to grind into the dust were meaningless scribbles, his real notes and books protected within hidden pockets of the pack.
Eventually they let him go, and he'd brushed himself off and trudged towards home. However, he paused as he came within sight of the homestead; there was another car out front, one that looked much nicer than the family car. For some reason, he felt the air grow cold and full of danger. Cautiously, he unlocked the door and crept inside, making not a sound, not even risking making one, his backpack continuing to weigh on his shoulders. He heard voices from the kitchen and slinked his way towards it, coming to a halt just outside the light and peering in.
Mother and father were sitting at the table, looking sadly at a woman in doctor's garb. Where mother looked simply sad, though, his father looked angry-sad, frustrated, as he so often was with his 'disappointment of a son.' Suddenly anxious, he pressed himself closer to the wall, inwardly thanking Tear for training him so well in stealth.
"Can you fix him, doctor?" his mother pleaded, shattering the silence. "It's so horrible, seeing him so sad and helpless."
"As a matter of fact," the doctor'd smiled, a wolfish grin. "I can. The problem, as I see it, is that your son is being judged for his masculinity, a masculinity that his condition--" He'd grimaced at the reminder of how broken he was, feeling a heat of shame begin to glow on his cheeks and between his legs. "--has impaired. Now, one possibility would be to treat him with hormones, help make him more of a man that way, but from what I've heard it sounds like your son wouldn't like that very much."
"He's too girly," his father gruffly nodded. "Girly things are fine, but not for boys. He should be strong, working out, playing blitzball, not singing with that stupid high voice of his."
I'm sorry, father, he'd almost whispered in apology, but something told him to stay quiet.
"Fortunately," the doctor'd smiled again. "I can think of another way to help him, a simple surgery. And all you'd have to do," she raised her hands. "is say that you were wrong."
"Wrong?" mother frowned. "Wrong about what?"
"Your son is very insecure in his masculinity, yes?" the doctor asked in a leading way. "Part of that is due to his condition, which has given him very feminine features. Combine that with his emasculated personality--" He winced again. "--and the picture becomes clear; your son's masculinity is almost irreparably compromised. Which is why I propose," she cleared her throat. "that you say that you were wrong about him being...well, a him."
He'd frozen as his blood chilled; what was she saying?
"I don't understand," his father agreed.
"His condition is a matter of medical record," the doctor explained. "and we can use it to establish reasonable doubt regarding his gender. We can't very well tell from looking down there--" He reflexively covered himself with his hand. "--which one he is, after all, can we?"
"But he'll still be different," his mother protested. "The other kids will still make fun of him, and they'll have even more to torment him with. I can't stand having my son called a freak, doctor."
While he winced at his mother's wording, the doctor soothed, "Don't worry, he won't be. A bit of anesthetic, a few hours, and the last reminder of your son's...well, being a son, will be gone."
"And you'll do all the paperwork?" his father asked. "Make him legally a her?"
The doctor nodded, then turned to his mother, his own horrified eyes turning with her. His mother would refuse, wouldn't she? She-she was just wearing her thinking face because she was trying to figure out how to reject the doctor, wasn't she? She-she wasn't ashamed of-of her son, right? Right? She-she still loved him, didn't she? Mommy still loved her little boy?
"How much?" answered that question, almost forcing Party Favor to the floor.
"Not much," the doctor shrugged. "If it's alright, though, I'll take any refuse; it might be useful in some research I'm working on."
"Take it," his father dismissively waved. "It's given us nothing but trouble."
Talk turned to when would be a good time to perform the surgery, and he turned away from the dining room and quietly climbed up the stairs to reach his own room.
He grabbed whatever he could find through the tears. Even his own parents, the people who'd given birth to him, the two people in the world he thought he could count on, thought he was weird. It wasn't fair; just because he was born a little different, just because his voice was a little high and his face a little soft, suddenly he didn't deserve to be a man? They didn't even talk about asking him, asking the boy they were going to mutilate if he was okay with it. He was a circus freak, there to be stared at, poked and prodded, a thing instead of a person.
Well, he resolved as he wiped away his tears, this freak was leaving the circus.
He opened a drawer, hundreds of days of unspent lunch money staring back at him. (Why did Tear never seem to notice that he neither brought lunch nor the money to buy it yet never seemed hungry? And why did the school groundskeepers never find his secret cave?) He stuffed it into his backpack in a frenzy, along with the damaged balloon book, still in his possession after all these years. Then, grabbing a jacket in case of cold, he turned around and prepared to leave. But then he paused; it wasn't right, just leaving his family like this. At the very least, they deserved a note.
Picking up a pen and paper, he scrawled a quick note and stuck it on his bed, hopefully where his parents would quickly notice. "I am your son," it read, thick lines underscoring the last word.
Taking a deep breath, he strode out of his room, crept back down the stairs, then carefully opened the front door. With nary a sound (thanks again, Tear), he opened it, slipped out, then gently closed it behind him. He turned to the cars, and frowned; he couldn't risk them following him. Quick slashes to the tires of both fixed that, and with its final service performed he hurled his housekey away.
Then he ran away, not caring where he went so long as it wasn't there.
***
He fumbled another pack of granola open, the cold biting into his unprotected fingers. He'd ended up heading north, for some reason, hiking through barren crags and desert for days on end.
A quick stop in a town along the way had allowed him to turn some of his money into long-delayed lunch, as well as a pack of water bottles, but a missing person's report flashing across a TV had forced him to turn some of those supplies into northward movement.
Now, here he was, lost, houseless, alone in a barren desert. He shivered, and drew his coat around himself; at this point, he didn't care if mother and father found him, he would give anything to see another soul, hear another voice, touch another's hand.
A lantern shone its beam into his eye, driving his hand over his face. "Who goes there?" a voice, high but still masculine, called out.
"Party," he'd rasped. "Favor. Who-who're you?"
"My name's Double Diamond," came the reply, the lantern falling to reveal a face like an angel of mercy. "You look like you could use some help, mister; am I right?"
He broke down crying then, and not just because his loneliness had been cured, not just because someone had asked him if he needed help, not just because someone had shown him a modicum of sympathy.
He'd cried at being called 'mister,' at being reminded of who he was and why he'd come there.
***
"Favor," Double Diamond's voice reached him again, lit once more by the lamp he carried as monitor. "Favor, quiet down, it's time to sleep."
"I'm sorry," he whimpered. "I'm so sorry. I'm a monster, a freak."
Double Diamond impassively stared down at his rocking form, then sighed. Putting his lamp on a nearby table, he sat down beside Party Favor and began gently rubbing his back. "It is easy enough to exhibit enthusiasm for equalism," he gently whispered. "but it is exceptional to exhibit excellence in it. Enunciate these expressions, Party Favor, and your erroneous..."
"...uneasiness will exit," Party followed along, hysterics fading away. "Equalism is not exclusively equality. It is equally about liberty, security, and equity. Equality is the enhancement of the estates," his eyelids began to droop. "until they are all equal with each other, liberty is the entitlement," they drooped lower. "to exhibit inclinations, except for those which indicate an attitude of eminence, security," even lower. "is the assurance that every individual's essentials shall be imparted without requirement of remittance, along with the assurance that extravagances shall not be endowed exclusively to those inclined to expenditures, and equity is the entitlement..." he felt Diamond wrap his blanket around him as he fell into a peaceful, dreamless sleep. "to equality before the law."
Double Diamond clapped his sleeping friend on the shoulder, then picked up his lamp and continued his rounds.
