okokok here you go, lesbian win(wee?sam is 15)cest teaser. This currently has no name and lots of warnings, for like, the usual fuckery.
Your mother is crucified on the ceiling in a white dress. She bleeds into your baby sister’s mouth like communion and you don’t remember anything but the smell of charred flesh and curtains, the roar of flame, the bleat of sirens. You didn’t know it then, but that was the moment you stopped being your mother’s daughter, and became your father’s son. The moment your future of party dresses and sweet sixteens and lipgloss and sleepovers was cut short, fast and hard, a cauterized wound.
It’s fine. You would never never been very good at being one of those girls, anyway. It would have been an ill fitting mask, you think, so you don’t feel any great yawning loss in your heart when your father buys your clothes from Army Surplus and the boys section of goodwill, when he shaves your hair down into a crew cut because its pointless to have anything longer when fly-away strands could get caught in the chamber and bolt of a rifle and fuck up your shot.
Your father fashions you into a girl-version of him, such a flawless replica you’re not sure you’re even the girl-version anymore. Maybe just the younger version, the sloppier version. You drink the same brand of whiskey he likes, when he lets you have whiskey. You talk like him, you listen to the same five bands he does, you wear his leather jacket like armor, and you don't miss the Deana who could have been, natural highlights and the sort of lips that make boys forget their names. Instead you cut the A off and go by Dean, and you do everything in your power to downplay and silence the parts of you a man might notice. Under your oversized white V necks you double up on sports bras that compress your chest, and even when you turn pretty girls out in church basements, you don’t let them touch you under your shirt. You do the touching, you tilt them back, you bunch their cheerleader skirts around their narrow hips, mind a mess of lotion and perfume until you find the one place on them that’s dirty, and put your tongue there. Just like your dad does, when he leaves you and Sam alone in a motel and comes stumbling back with a whore, only to book a room down the hall like the walls aren’t thin and his daughters-turned-sons won’t hear him.
Sammy though—she resists it. The transformation into a son. As soon as she hits puberty she digs her heels in and wails for the right to wear pink, to have soft things, to chew bubblegum, to watch Sabrina the Teenage Witch.