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Heath wasn't supposed to feel like this. He's a boy. He shouldn't like or even consider wanting dresses and skirts. He didn't understand why he felt the way he did.
After Scaris, he kept thinking back to the dress they'd forced him to wear.
He didn't hate it.
But he certainly hated that fact.
Heath wanted to say he despised the dress, so he did. It wasn't a complete lie anyways. He didn't mind the feeling of wearing it, he just hated the style. It didn't feel like him.
It shouldn't feel like him, regardless.
He's a boy.
Boys don't wear dresses.
Boys play sports and wear jeans and jackets and flirt with ghouls and don't wear dresses.
He could feel everyone's eyes staring into his skull. He could hear everyone whispering. He could only think one thing.
They knew.
They all saw the video online and knew he was a faker, knew he wasn't really a boy.
He ducked into the boy's bathroom and locked himself in the closest free stall. His eyes teared up and he viciously rubbed them away. It was bad enough that he wanted to wear dresses, he shouldn't start crying as well.
Boys don't cry.
Heath hated what he was.
He felt like an abomination, a freak of nature, a liar, a traitor, an imposter — he felt inferior. Inferior to other mansters. Inferior to real mansters. Inferior to every other monster in the school. They were probably all happy with their assigned genders, so why wasn't he? What did he do to earn the right to deceive them all like this? He wasn't a real boy, so why should he make them all think he is — especially if he wanted to wear dresses and skirts and inevitably make it even more obvious that he just isn't like them.
He wanted to be a boy.
But he also wanted to wear dresses.
The two shouldn't mix- couldn't mix!
Heath was confused. Scared and so, so very confused.
Was he a ghoul?
No. No, he wasn't.
But was he? Ghouls are the ones that wear dresses, after all. If he wanted to be a boy so badly, he needed to man-up and get over himself. If not, he may as well stay a ghoul. It would save him lying to everyone, at least.
He just wanted someone to hold him, tell him it's okay to cry and wear a dress and still be a boy. But, then again, the thought of wanting to be held and comforted in itself was too feminine to accept. Even if he could have that, they'd be lying to him anyways.
Heath sobbed.
He audibly, brokenly sobbed.
The consequences of that were immediate.
"Dude, you okay in there?"
Heath didn't hear them over his own thoughts screaming at him.
Don'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcrydon-
He sobbed again.
He hadn't meant to but he did.
The door to his stall was open in an instant — turns out that it's easy to forget things like lock stall doors when you're having a mental breakdown.
He didn't dare look whoever had seen him like this in the eye so he curled in on himself — head in his elbows, arms crossed over his knees, knees pulled into his chest, hiding his face in shame.
He felt something warm around him, almost like an arm.
He felt safe.
The next thing he remembered, he was under the stairs, where him and the guys had found some loose boards in the wall beneath the stairs one day and turned it into their own personal hideout.
He was bundled in pillows and blankets and, if he was being honest with himself, he loved it. He felt safe and warm but only for a few moments, as he soon after felt so, so cold.
He was alone again.
No more warm embrace, no more caring, only solitude in knowing that he was probably the only one in the school that felt this way.