There's a subtle rhythm to life, one that permeates everything in and around Trixie Lulamoon. If she mentioned it to her classmates they might mention Magic, capital 'M' quite intentional, rather than the paltry lower-case 'm' affixed to her own acts of Illusion. She would disagree vehemently, however. This wasn't something that could be attributed to alternate dimensions, supernatural equines, or a power inherent to the bonds of close companionship. No, this was…something else.
It was indescribable, yet as familiar as the ticking of a clock. Every low came with a high, every up a down. Despite her inability to pinpoint this feeling, Trixie would be loath to bad mouth it. Game respects game, after all, and if a magician can't appreciate great timing, then who can?
Right now though, she was…less than pleased with it.
The door loomed before her, even in the chunky heeled boots she'd admit weren't the most comfortable. Fashion required sacrifice, and if Sunset Shimmer could do it, well, anyone else could. Isekai protagonist or not. Either way, it was a big door, and she felt as if it was growing larger by the moment.
Was this it? The psychotic break she'd anticipated all those years ago? Her mothers drunken ramblings were often difficult to discern, but either her father had left to ‘become a star’ or ‘was a nut-bar’. Considering how acidic her mother could be at times it did feel like you'd need to be a little deranged to want to jump on board. In some ways, her own looming mental instability was why ‘The Great and Powerful Trixie’ existed. Harder for someone to pinpoint the crazy if you drench yourself in it first. Plus racism, can't forget that.
Blue people being ‘quiet and morose’ was a stereotype she'd bury, whether with a shovel or her bare hands. Blood under her nails was not optional, though. It matched her varnish so well!
Either way, she snapped back to reality, the door just that. A door. Seven feet of chipboard and glass, dime-a-dozen and just as common. They littered her school, and this one was no different to the last. Math class, that one. Trixie adored math. It wasn't what many expected, but she had depth! Oh, yes did she ever! Woe betide the fool who declared the Great and Powerful Trixie a one dimensional figure!
She loved math! She crocheted! She had a long-winded and slightly unsettling obsession with a fictional character who engaged in far too much violence for her desire to do good. Bugs! Yes, bugs for her enemies! Bugs to drown Trixie's enemies in chitin, and stings, and-and-
The air escapes her chest, it's a lot of air for not a lot of chest, but Trixie is happy with it. ‘Men are pigs who'll fuck anything that gives them the time of day’ her mother bestowed upon Trixie on one of her better days. So who cares if she's…on the smaller side? She's beautiful and perfect, an ideal catch for any man who gives her the time of day.
Which…in a way, is just part of the problem. Not the whole, good god no! No, the last time she tried speaking about everything Trixie watched the teens eyes slowly drift in opposite directions. It was fairly disturbing, and she'd practised hanging herself for a finale, so Trixie knew messed up stuff when it hit her.
Ditzy, in Trixie's opinion, should probably see a therapist. Brain or physio is immaterial, just someone to stop making her so her. Not that she's bad in any way, just creepy, and creepy people don't get partners which kind of sucks and there she goes again.
It's the onion in the ointment. The needle in the haystack, though easily found and very sharp. Just another rock for her to trip over, be splayed out, and have the legions of applauding fans transform into mocking beasts. It's not that she wants to be alone. No, not at all. Guy's just…don't quite get her rhythm. It's got to be all about them, the big buff protector, the know-it-all know nothing, the alpha-sigma-omega chad or whatever new term of bizarre endearment the legions of losers gave themselves.
(Personally she was a scrungler, but knew there were select few others)
No. She doesn't get guys either. For similar reasons, that is. Rhythmic, social, the reasons are longer than the kerchiefs stuffed oh so artfully up her sleeves. Still, they're rock solid, unlike the door and oh dear she can't enter through something so clearly unsafe-
Its straight thoughts and muddled lines that direct her inside. The clicking of her boots on an incongruously tiled floor raising more scattered notions. What was this place for before its current designation? A kitchen? A lab? Canterlot High was frugal, shifting rooms as need be, so you could never quite tell what-was-what. All the same, yet not. Cheapskates.
Taking a seat in the room, empty save for the expected whiteboard and circle of seats, Trixie daydreamed of stardom. The money wasn't her only goal. Growing up in a single parent household where more thought was placed on what liquor was available over the amount of clothes led to a mindset that didn't just focus on the material. Oh no, that was mundane. Boring. Each gruelling hour spent thrifting, scavenging, and occasionally pickpocketing her fellow students (Sunset in particular during her early years was a wonderfully guilt free target) was in accordance with a goal beyond green slips of paper.
Trixie's pyramid had a base built not on heat, food, and other such simple things.
Others drift in while she drifts away, though a keen sense of self lets her know the eyes are drawn to her presence. New. Unexpected. Different. It stings, which is unusual. Normally, the ever present crowd fills her with euphoria, a sense of being. Perhaps it's a self-fulfilling prophecy? Tragedy, self prescribed. All for the neat, low price of a bus ticket. She despised evening buses surge pricing. Money was dumb.
Words are said, a few faces -familiar and otherwise- gaining courage they lacked among their peers. There are no surprises here, least of all for her. Until inevitably, with no fanfare, the curtain rises.
For the first in a very long time, her voice dies in a throat constricted. Trixie wasn't silent. Ever. So it was…hard.
“Are you ok?”
Tears, unbidden, unexpected, unwanted, push themselves forward in absence of words. She chokes out a noise that could be vaguely thought of as a “Yeah”, but it's of dubious relation at best. Still, Mama Lulamoon didn't give birth to a quitter. Well, she had, but Trixie drowned that fucker with all the grace a teen contained.
It was messy.
Which defined her, really. Beyond the glitz, the glam, the third-person pronouns (jumping ahead of the game on that one), she was a mess. But even a mess deserved something more.
Cornflower blue fingers pressed against her thighs, still stinging and pockmarked from this morning's injection, yet she rose. Like a flower, growing from a heap of shit and mental illness.
“My name is Trixie Lulamoon, and I'm transgender.”
Author's Note
Extremely normal, mentally ill, tumblrite, transgender, Trixie everyone!
She's quite fun to write a sort of mental-stream for.
