Identity
(val!fic) Androgyny is an art form.

Makeup won't make a single difference now. The train shakes and rattles and does a thousand clichéd things, and the terms to describe what it's doing have been coined a thousand times over already. She has to clutch that chipped porcelain basin as the floor beneath her heaves like a mother in labour, like a whale in a bathtub, like a kid who's just had his first binge-drinking session, like a frail boat tossed on the ocean.

With a bang, her forehead connects with the mirror. She winces and examines the faint red mark of impact; it won't even swell, probably. "Cheap train," she mutters to herself and her reflection. It's blurry because her eyes are tearing up, but not from the pain. The only reason she's crying – not crying, her eyes are watering, so it isn't crying – is because some of that fine red silk she's just sheared herself of has got in her eye and it won't get out again.

The small filaments are floating throughout the entire boxed space. They'll probably even wisp about the cabin when she opens the weird slide-and-click door. It's itching her neck, and she wonders absurdly why it's bothering her so much now when it was fine when it was still attached.

There's a boy in the mirror. There's a girl looking at it, making the reflection. There's a million strands of dyed spidersilk in the frigid air; and there's a small makeup case on the bench.

Val hesitates, then reaches for the compact black container. When her slim fingers close around it, she automatically undoes the clasp, differentiated from the rest of the casing by a line of painted gold. Opening it, she pulls out that small powder sponge and dabs it in the crushed colour. Dusky grey, shimmering like street lights in a downpour.

It's beautiful like that, but she heeds her mother's common and constant advice anyway and wipes it on. Around her eyes, it goes, none underneath until she accidentally smudges a little and then it's there too and she doesn't care. It's not her, but it wasn't her to begin with like the hair was, and she's fine with it. Soon her eyes resemble a panda's, and again, she's fine with it. The eyeshadow doesn't make her look feminine, she tells her mother silently as she leans in to the mirror again; not too close, this time, she's learned her lesson on this page – the kohl-wearing red-fuzzed stick figure could as well be a young boy trying out another style.

In her loose-fitting unisex jumper she's just another person. The train has stopped and started again since she began the second stage of her transformation; it is a more time-consuming task than she ever realised before.


Continuity may be an issue, but it's one that I don't care about right now, sorry. Written when she cuts her hair; if you don't like it based on the continuity, stfu or imagine she's trimming it again. :3 lolkaythanks. For my own panda.

Tallyyy.