Transformations

***Transformations*** is the third chapter of *Winter's Tales*.

## Synopsis

Winter has settled into her heritage and new foundations well, but with mounting and sometimes-aggressive pressure from her father, she feels trapped in a box and believes that not everything in her life is bound to religious scriptures. Upon branching out, she dives deep into who she is and transforms from the girl she was, even if it means trouble with the tradition-above-all Edwin.

## Warnings

### Content Warning

*This chapter contains mentions of death, abuse, genocide, and other topics which can be sensitive in nature. Viewer discretion is advised.*

### Disclaimer

*This chapter discusses content that can be heavily distressing, such as the Holocaust. It also dives into heavy subjects pertaining to the transgender and LGBT+ community and discusses the violence shown against those communities. The chapter also discusses biases and subjects which are politically empirical in nature. If these kind of subjects make you uncomfortable, then please refrain from reading the chapter.*

*Winter's views on religion are not meant to reflect the author's real life view on it, and her strong takes on religion and other subjects like this are not meant to be offensive in any form.*

*Besides the warnings noted above, it should be noted that Varien will be referred to with female pronouns in part of the chapter, as well as having his old name used, in reference leading up to him coming out as trans with those pronouns in 2020. These events have been mirrored to match real life; Varien will be referred to with his correct pronouns in a later chapter.*

## Transcript

*"Close, silent and calm. Veiled under warmth."*

*"You feel like summer..."*

*"Rosed, flushed, shy with love."*

*"Breaths getting caught in the starry gaze of our thoughts..."*

*Change. It's a sap that flows out of the trees and infuses itself into the blood of the earth. No human can live life without change. It is a necessary ingredient for our molecules, for our families, and for our future. To pretend that change doesn't exist is to live a life in denial and shadow.*

*As much as we wish we could get a grip on time to spring forward or turn the clock years back around, we can't. Change can be a luxury, a blessing, or it can be a burden. A curse.*

*Change must be embraced. Life must move on and continue. When the world has aired out its grievances, life proceeds, going full speed ahead and piercing straight through the drama and wars that run rampant. It is an entity, a force that simply cannot be stopped on human command. It has a mind of its own, a motive that to us humans, we can never know.*

*People grow, change follows. Change is the dog that follows its loyal owner, watching as they transform from a little kid into a grown adult capable of driving, juggling responsibilities outside the house, and raking in a fortune, a love interest, and possibly even the delight of children.*

*We must accept change, for if we do not, we remain permanently stuck in the bleakest of landscapes - the past. It weighs us down, tethering us and crippling us from within, until we give out and slowly rot away. Who would want that outcome?*

*If we're stuck in the past, we learn nothing and are doomed to fail. But what if you don't change because others don't want you to change? To grow? To flourish and do what you're meant to do in life? To hamper your dreams and squander your successes?*

*Change is good, and change is bad. That matter alone is subjective and altered by the personal viewpoint of the human brain. It can be viewed as "good," letting growth sprout in a child's body and letting that sprout open their minds to the teachings of others, journeying with their own hearts and discovering who they're really meant to be.*

*Though at times, that positive change isn't viewed as positive by others. Rather, it can be seen as a flaw in the code, a fork in the road, or just plain not right as the rain.*

*After I started to change myself, dynamics in my family were reworked. We were still loving, and passionate, and fortified, not a single bereft feeling to be had.*

*But pressure built. Tensions rose, splitting the earth and forming small cracks under my feet. My perception of life became muddled, and I sought to break free, to find the place where I belonged.*

*I wanted to find my own way, and outside influences said otherwise. They fought me, spoke to me, clubbed me. And then a superstar came along, and he whispered in my ear promises of a change.*

*He urged me to take a leap of faith. So I took the leap and landed on the other side. A series of transformations overtook me.*

*What more was I to learn about myself?*

The months after I joined my Jewish community were speeding by, going at record speed. Where was all the time *going*? I wasn't used to time just whipping by me; days used to be so slow, mundane, drawn long by every rise and set of the great yellow ball of sun.

But they weren't slowing down, and my life, with the swiftness of a pronghorn, jumped forward and onward.

I'd adapted into my heritage quite well, exceeding Father's own expectations for me, and I usually spent every day reviewing the Torah for a few minutes, closely observed by him or Mom. They'd assist in my teachings and clarify the commandments in the holy scripture for me to understand.

When you're supposed to learn about *six-hundred and thirteen commandments*, you have a *lot* of work on your hands. I paid attention. Some crucial things I learned from the Torah in this time were:

*To respect and defer to the elders*. Commandment twenty-three. Everyone who was older than me was someone I *had* to respect, and even if I didn't like them or miraculously bore a grudge or stuck a tongue out at them, I'd never in my wildest *dreams* express such an opinion publicly. And just because I was older than some kids didn't mean I had the right to boss them around either. I'm not even a bossy boots type.

*Not to imitate their customs and clothing*. Commandment fifty-nine. Those who wore less-than-ideal clothing, such as revealing clothing (Father, leave the goths and emos alone for one MINUTE I BEG YOU), were people I had to *avoid*. I'd later come into conflict with that one. More on that soon.

*To not cut your hair at the temples.* Commandment sixty-eight. I wasn't allowed to cut my hair super short - it had to stay above or past my shoulders. Father was very uptight on this rule, though I thought it was a bit harsh. How wrong was it to try something different than just down hair?

*Men must not wear women's clothes*. *Women must not wear men's clothes*. Commandments seventy and seventy-one. While I had no qualms with this at first, I would soon grow to heavily disagree with both statements.

So many things in the Torah were *atypical*. So many things made sense, and some were muddy puddles that absolutely stumped me. However, I didn't dare ask *stupid* questions to Mom or Father. One wrong move, and I could have said something *extremely* offensive, and then I'd be grounded for five months and given limited food rations. Oh, the horror! Kidding, my parents wouldn't do *that*.

I was ultracareful to not wear any clothing perceived as "inappropriate" or "insulting." I stuck with dresses and t-shirts, leggings or jeans, and closed-toed shoes, all my size, and never questioned any new clothing suggestions from my parents. Not even the shirts that made me itch. Yeesh.

I refused to ask for shorter hair and let it grow long, knotty, and fluffy, still earning the "she's adorable" comments after my few years of existence. You wonder how I wasn't a celebrity in Pineshadow then!

I didn't swear, I didn't say anything foul to the Holy Three, and I prayed to Yahweh like my parents did, wishing for a good life and a peaceful day where no one was kung fu fighting and attempting to cause arson and instead just living in harmony.

We all know the world's on fire regardless. Praying only does minimal to fix things.

Besides studying religion and having a safeguarded mind, it was also salient to stay *professional*, or prim and proper. Engaging in childish behaviors wasn't on my slate, unlike some of the other children at my synagogue who would run around before homilies and scream their whole windpipes out, throwing a tantrum over losing a toy or having to deal with an hour-long homily (they are not to be blamed, I relate).

I didn't protest, didn't have excess energy to burn, and didn't tantrum when I didn't get my way. I sat down, Torah in my lap, and faced forward, awaiting Rabbi Kealer and his weekly homily as any dueteous girl would.

Homilies were *lengthy*, and with long sessions and long waiting and *so much talking*, came boredom. It's inevitable. It just can't be stopped. I had to work on my patience. Some days, I itched to *go home* and have the homily be done, especially because Rabbi Kealer liked to go unhurried, making his recitings pronounced to add to their substance.

Boredom hit fast for me. Sometimes, it even battered me out like a light. My eyelids would get droopy, pushed down with invisible hands, and I'd nearly *fall asleep*. I could feel crust forming in the corners, my legs going numb, and my arms going slack, pinned on my sides.

Sleep would overtake me for a split second...

...and then Father would whack me on the back.

"Stay awake, Winterlyn. Rabbi Kealer is discussing some very important things, and you *must* listen," he'd tell me. I reluctantly blinked my bleary eyes and paid attention again, not wanting another back whack (where is the Icyhot goddamn, my poor back).

Outside of synagogue, I'd receive personal, daily Jewish teachings from Father. Father was *very*, *very avid* about Judaism. He wasn't cuckoo-for-Cocoa Puffs-level avid, but still avid enough to where he at least recited a teaching once per day and mentioned it enough to remind you that yes, we McCormicks were Jewish, and yes, we were proud to be Jewish.

Father had a lot of whims for me, and what he hankered for the most was for me to *know* my heritage, *understand* its commandments, and be the *perfect Jewish woman* I was meant to be.

After school was over, I'd find him in his office (in reality a desk with his laptop in the parent bedroom), and he'd explain the commandments to me, sharing his views and what exactly he wanted me to follow. Being the ever-hungry inquisitive animal I was, I lapped that information up and obeyed *without question*.

Was Yahweh watching? We were intertwined with God, and he surveyed over us daily. He was a part of us. Was in he in me, protecting me, or was he up in the stars, observing our everyday lives from so far away? Father said he always was, and I took his words seriously. Father *never* lied to me.

Father kept enlightening me with a lot of lessons, and my time to do my homework was pushed to the side. He believed homework wasn't as *that* paramount as the teachings in the Torah. You have a *deep* connection to your own history and must take the time out of your day to *remember* what you are and *who* brought you into this world. Who created your religion, saved your peoples, and gave them a place and belief system to call their own.

That *had* to be honored. You weren't just *born* for nothing, you were born for a *reason*.

I played Father's second fiddle and took less time on my homework to pursue Jewish studies, inwardly annoying Mom, who reminded me to not slack off on my homework. I was no slacker and got the homework done, pleasing my teachers. Say what you want, Father, but school and religion are two things that can *coexist* on the same plate.

I was naive to believe he knew what was best for me. It's something I still regret to this day. But anyways.

It was also my *duty* to protect my Torah from harm and damage. It was *revered* and *sacred*, made ever so holy in the many, many *years* of its existence. Should it ever be destroyed, it would be a *criminal offense* in my family.

Father warned that if I destroyed it myself, or had another person destroy it, the punishments were *staggering*.

"The Torah is one of the holiest scriptures in Judaism. Treat it with the upmost care and responsibility. If you dare *maltreat* the text or its very meaning... the consequences would be *hugely* immense," he warned briskly, chestnut eyes unwavering, and I'd nod, gulping.

"Yes, dad."

"Good girl. I have faith in you."

I'd scamper off and tuck my Torah under my pillow, where it was cushioned safely and where I knew I wouldn't lose it.

Moving on from the Torah, our family prayed twice a day, once in the morning and once at night, wishing for joy, to live a long, happy life where we would be together, to grant ourselves peace and vindication, to rid our worries and let Yahweh guide us to infinite *liberty*.

The satisfaction of a life well lived, of time spent to the fullest.

The gift of a family's love of each other, which made us stronger.

It wasn't just our prayers and bonding time that made our nexus tough as a rock. We all had a common heritage, and our roots span down back years and years and *years* ago in Austria. Recall how I specifically said we were Ashkenazi Jews?

*Loooooooooong* ago, before my birth, my parents' birth, and even the birth of Grandma Anny, Grandma Krystine, and Grandpa Pierre, their mothers and fathers and kin had to survive one of the most infamous, barbaric, fascist times in all of humanity.

*The Holocaust*.

It was never the simplest or easiest of plights to discuss the Holocaust and what Hitler put our ancestors through. At a young age, I was mortified to learn of the genocide of thousands of Jews, people that were one of us, people with *innocent* and *star-crossed souls*, slaughtered and tormented all for practicing their beliefs and exercising their rights to be humans.

On Father's side of the family, the McCormicks that proceeded us lived in Austria during Hitler's rise and his intensive persecution of Jews. They hunkered down in their house and didn't whisper a word to any outsider, passing the days by with the assistance of family friends, who would loan food, water, and other materials necessary for survival.

Those months enduring destruction, murder, branding, violence, genocide, and war were *unimaginable*. Grotesque. The most reprehensible, *vile* stuff you can ever *think* of happened in that time. My family watched their other friends and their people be mercilessly executed by the Nazis, lived *every* day in fear that *they'd* be next, next to be thrown into a concentration camp to be abused and *murdered*.

I am familiar with the concentration camps. I am familiar with *everything* about the Holocaust. I have may not have lived in the time of Hitler or World War II, but *learning* about how we - *the people before us* - were discriminated and eviscerated, branded and *tortured*, sickened me. Hell, I'm still sick every time I think back on the Holocaust and my heritage.

Especially because Jews are still discriminated against *today*. Sick, screwed-in-the-head people are out there spreading hate against people who once followed the same religious morals I did. There are people who never let you practice *what* you want to *practice*. There will be people who will blame you for all of life's quarrels, all of the world's wars and faults, because of your *religion*, because of tainted, bigoted beliefs passed down from dead regimes and foxglove-flavored seeds of aversion.

The reality is *horrifying* to think about. I'm not a follower of Judaism anymore. But each time I sit down and reflect, I can't help but feel the *agony* in my heart and the tears formulate in my eyes when I think about the *millions* of victims in the Holocaust.

Including on the maternal side of the family. I hear your shocked gasps and see the terror on your faces.

Yes, I had family members who were sent to their *deaths* at concentration camps.

And yes, they were sent to Auschwitz, just like Anne Frank and her family were. No, none of them escaped or were ever set free. They were brutalized, beaten, branded, and then killed in gas chambers, their bodies slumped over people just like them.

They never got to feel the sun on their backs, or lay on the tussocks of warm grass in the summer, or read their favorite novels, or go to synagogue *again*. Millions of souls gone, their last moments full of suffocation and poison.

As a McCormick, it was my duty to remember the fallen Falins, and to remember the nobility of the McCormicks, and to keep their sacrifices and strength in mind: I was a fighter. A *heroine*. I wasn't going to let *anyone* tell me I was a traitor or a leech or *scum* for being Jewish. I was going to spread *wonder* in the world, spread *positivity* like the infectious disease it was, and develop connnections with the members of my community.

Alright, I'm beginning to feel icky, so it's time for me to recuse myself from any further talk of the Holocaust. Real quick, though:

I'd love to get a copy of Anne Frank's diary someday! I've read snippets of it online and I'm really in love with her story, even if the ending is depressing given that she died in the same concentration camp as my long-deceased family.

Anne Frank was a true hero, and I always looked up to her. My whole family did.

Father, the one who taught me about the Holocaust (Mom did not for obvious reasons), held my hands as he'd explain what the Nazis would do to Jews (and the Gypsies, people of color, Slavics, and Jehovah's Witnesses) and what Hitler did to Germany and the whole world until his suicide.

Starvation. Beatings. Abuse. Discrimination. Forced branding. Arrests. Violence. World War II. Mass destruction. Genocide.

I would sob as I'd listen to him, so distressed by the events decades ago, so alarmed. My young body wasn't well-equipped and built for anixety-arousing, alarming topics like this - it was constructed of see-through, thin glass.

"I know the amount of pain you feel learning about your ancestry, Winterlyn. But it's crucial to remember our roots and *where* we came from. People like us, Jews, have *always* been hated by some for who we are. It didn't just start with what happened in Nazi Germany. We have always been persecuted - gone after - and lies have been spread about us. People who say disgusting things about us still exist today. However, the times of Hitler and the Holocaust are *gone* and will *never* come back, my love. We have more freedom and are allowed to express ourselves for who *we* are without facing the threat of expulsion or arrest - as McCormicks, Ashkenazi Jews, valued members of our community."

Father was right. *Express ourselves for who we are*.

Those last few words were pearls I *clutched* in my hands, enveloped in the clouds swirling around my growing brain, but their importance didn't gleam for a while yet.

*There*. Enough talk about the Holocaust. Time to move on to brighter things before I hog the toilet with watery eyes.

After I turned seven, I began to develop exterior interests out of school. Books became... less appealing for me, and though I still pined for a copy of Anne Frank's diary, my mid was drifting to something a bit more... physical.

Nature.

More specifically, running around in nature.

You're probably about to point out that I'm reciting information from the very first chapter. Not exactly.

Nature has been a prominent force in my life, as you know. I'm named after the winter season and snow, I love forests and woods and the sky, I'm fascinated by stars and intertwined in their constellations.

But that was when I was younger and was restricted from venturing *into* the places I yearned to explore. They were forbidden.

One of these forests was the woods I mentioned earlier - the Piney Woods.

The Piney Woods *always* called to me since my youth. It was tall, *maginificent*, a world untouched by humans. On sunny days that wiped the perturbation off my back, I'd run around the park, taking in long strides and flying across the woodchips. The woods were off to my side, the trees reaching into the sky, clawing at the clouds like they had done when I was itty-bitty.

What was *in there*? There were gaps in the bushes and trees that led into the area unseen. I stood in front of the tall pine, spruce, and fir trees, questioning what the woods had in store. Were they haunted, dangerous, and uninviting? Or were they friendly, full of woodland critters and enchanted spells and wizardry?

The only way to find out was to *venture in*. Only that I couldn't.

Because Father *told me it was forbidden*.

"Dad, can I go in the woods?" I'd ask innocently, rocking my knees bubbling with tremendous amounts of energy.

"Absolutely *not*," he'd said in a scolding tone, causing my face to fall. "The woods are dangerous to young children. Going in there alone would be a substantial risk of your life."

"But I'd be safe!" I'd protest.

"No, you don't know how to duke it out in the forest, Winterlyn. Don't even think about it, because if you go in there and get badly hurt..."

I cringed. He hadn't changed his viewpoint at all.

"But can't you come with me, dad? Please?"

"Winterlyn McCormick, a no is a *no*! I'm not letting yourself get hurt in there, are we *clear*? You are *not* going into the Piney Woods, and that is *final*."

Dejected from taking the scalding arrow to the heart, I would nod and run off, instead finding comfort in the taller grasses of Pinelake Park. Not mystifying tall trees and not smelling of lush pine, but still entertaining to play in (unless the insects came out to bite, youch).

No matter how many times the woods called out to me, no matter how many times they drew me in with their tempting aura, all I got was *no*, *no*, and *no*.

Forbidden. Illegal.

The Piney Woods were painted as a menacing place for young children, and Father firmly believed I'd cripple myself horribly in there.

I wanted to rebel in go in anyway, but my common sense came in - Winterlyn, your father loves you and protects you. Why throw his care away just to fulfill your vision of greeting the woods?

I told myself to regard Father. I *had* to. The Torah said you *must* respect your elders, those older than you, *your parents*, which is what he said. I had to respect Father, and if I didn't...

*Yeesh*. The bile hissed in my stomach, making its distaste evident to me, and the thoughts I wanted to name aloud evaporated fast.

The Piney Woods aside, my interests expanded into filmography as well. Mom lended me her Polaroid when I wanted to practice taking photos, and I practiced so intensely that at times, I killed the battery at least one to two times a month.

Most of my photos turned out messy and blurry. I wasn't as nearly experienced as Mom, but still laughed my ass off snapping photos of pretty much everything.

"Lorelei, why is your Polaroid at ten percent?" Father inquired one time, picking it up and looking baffled by how the battery could have drained so quickly. Mom was always dilligent at keeping it charged.

Then he noticed me, sitting there with at *least* twenty photos on the table that were finishing up.

"Oh Moses help me..." Rubbing the creases on his forehead, Father gathered the photos and stared at me with firm demurral.

"Winterlyn, if you're going to take photos with your mother's Polaroid, at least *ask* her first," he scolded me.

"I don't think she really cares if I use it or not," I remarked with a small smile, having an abundance of pride in my novice skils, though Father's expression grew more tired and stony.

"Winterlyn, that Polaroid was *expensive*! You shouldn't be killing the battery so swiftly!"

Startled by his scolding elevating into a shout, I stood up, hackles on end. The back of my shoulders broke out itching, a trait summoned out of heightening stresses.

"Dad, I didn't mean anything! Please! I just like taking photos!" I pleaded, hoping I could shake Father off me.

Mom came in from the hall, her features exasperated and bunched up like she had been through the wringer.

"Edwin, are you seriously getting onto her for-" She paused for a moment to cough. "-using the Polaroid?"

"She put it at ten percent taking all of *these*!" Father pointed to my still-developing collection, which I jut my chin out over. Masterpieces!

"Do you like them, mom?" I asked triumphantly, almost making Father slap himself in the forehead at how I had just seemingly forgotten him bellowing at me.

"Let's see..." Mom kneeled down, and the same smile I had on my face appeared on her. Her eyes fizzled with glee, and she hugged me, flutters of motherly love seeping into the pores of my skin.

"Awww, Winterlyn! Your plushies and the antiques on the shelves look great! I think you'd make a *fine* photographer someday," she praised.

My heart swelled, ballooning with pride, and it flew into my brain. "Really?"

"Really." She planted a kiss on my forehead, eliciting a giggle from me, and then she looked up at Father.

"And how about you try to not police my daughter's interests, Edwin?"

Flustered, Father nodded in apology and went to the kitchen to find the cracker box, the scolding he had envisioned reduced to anticlimatic soot.

*Police my daughter's interests*. Mom's choice of firepower against Father made me tilt my head, and I turned to her.

"Mom, what did you mean by that? Dad and my interests?"

Mom sighed, setting her hands on her lap. "Your father's still protective of you, so he wants to make sure you aren't doing something... unsafe by trying something new. Trust me, I don't understand it... Edwin has a lot of funny bones in him."

"Yep." I nodded in agreement. Father was really too nosy for his own good sometimes, getting into my business when it didn't exactly concern him.

I grew an interest in sports, just a *little*, and convinced Father to buy me a dark blue frisbee from Dick's Sporting Goods. It was something I wanted to play with *him* outside, when the sun set and when it was a mix of cool and warm. Mom had to watch from the inside or from the porch, limited by her lupus (anything out there could make her sick, so protection was a must).

"Are you sure you want to play with this? It could hit you in the face and hurt you-" Father was about to say before I cut him off.

"Oh, come on, dad! I'm not gonna get hurt with a *frisbee*. You should play! It'll be fun!"

He opened his mouth to remind me about being polite, but I chucked the frisbee at him, and it landed at his feet. He picked it up and threw it at me.

The frisbee game between me and Father was then born, and we'd spend an hour throwing it across the front lawn. The sunsets tinted us orange and yellow, and we'd throw back and forth for an hour, maybe two, until the cicadas started singing - our signal to head back inside for the night.

I also gained more activities too. As you saw last chapter, I climbed a tree. I enjoyed climbing trees and could sit on a branch comfortably, able to distinguish what was sturdy and what could break under my weight; I could even lay myself flat-down on said sturdy branches, on my belly or back, and gaze at the grass below or the dappled green leaves above.

"Winterlyn! You could fall by doing that!" Father shouted at me.

"No I won't!" I retorted.

"Come down, Winterlyn!" Father shouted again, his voice more ordering, and I chucked the towel at him.

"Alright, fine! But I'll prove to you I can be up here without getting hurt someday!"

"You're so adventurous."

"Always have been."

I shrugged, plopped down, and went back inside. That was only the *beginning* of my personality growing more boisterous. More outside the lines of chalk composing hopscotch.

There were so many more activites I got engaged in. I liked studying the animals around our area, such as squirrels, birds, and even microscopic animals, like the ants. An anthill was just beside the mailbox.

"Wow! Look at the ants, dad!" I'd call out to Father, who'd pale from his spot a few meters away and freeze up.

"They're... nice, Winterlyn... but please don't touch them."

I rolled my eyes and bit down the urge to give a stinging retort about him policing me. Oh yeah, I was *totally* going to stick my hand in an *anthill* of all things and get bitten. Sure. Call me back on that, Father.

When I found new television shows I liked, Father browsed through the contents to make sure there was no swearing and adult content. I mean, he had a valid point, but it got irritating when he did this for *harmless* shows.

*Cartoons*.

In my youth, I loved *My Life as a Teenage Robot* and *Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends*, tuning in to new episodes, though Father sat through them with me, not wanting me to see anything that could burn through the sensitive flesh of my eyes.

*My Life as a Teenage Robot* and *Foster's* never damaged my eyes. Winterlyn: one point. Father: zero points.

I also liked *The Grim Adventures of Billy & Mandy*, but when I tried to watch it, Father changed the channel.

"Glorifies sin. No way you're watching that."

I gave him the most *what the absolute hell* look ever, but didn't question it (although it was probably because of Grim, who is just satire in nature). Also swallowed down my urge to tell him a cartoon with horror elements and comedy did *not* glorify sin.

When I gained a new interest or niche, Father was *right there*, as Mom said, *policing* me. Making sure I didn't get killed, or harmed, or learned something I shouldn't, or had sin poured through the left and right ear, where it would leak toxins into my head and make me do selfish actions that would result in exile or death.

His overprotective streak really came out in these years. It was exhausting having to deal with *this is wrong* and *you can't eat that* and *don't do this or else* or *you'll be in trouble looking at that*, though at times, Mom was able to quell it with straight talk and mother bear mode.

Why was Father so *desperate* to keep tabs on me?

On mall trips, I'd find myself straying near Hot Topic more (my hopes of Abercrombie and Hollister were long dead), and in the window was a poster advertising a deal for t-shirts and tanktops.

*30% OFF ENTIRE STORE - SPEND YOUR HOT CASH NOW!*

I was broke on Hot Cash, but my right eye noticed a black tanktop in the display case with a silver flower in the middle, its center red and dripping. A *blood* flower.

*Oooh la la*.

"That looks so *cool*," I murmured, pressing my face up against the glass. That tanktop was a *must-have*! The current shirts and dresses I owned had flowers, but not nearly as *stupendous* as *this*.

Father thought it was a *must-avoid*, the graphic tanktop the equivalent of Spanish flu.

"No, Winterlyn, it's *not*," he commented sternly, pulling me by the collar of the shirt, and my crestfallen face disconnected from the window with a *plip*. "The Torah calls for proper clothing to *not* reveal the shoulders. That's not appropriate dressing."

What the? I stamped my foot on the ground, indignant, and I crossed my arms. How dare Father suggest I'd wear *that* to *synagogue*? Was he pitting me out to be a *mindless* kid?

"Dad, I'm *not* going to wear it to synagogue! I *know* what the Torah says!" I spat back, my face itching with the warmth of defiance.

"Watch your language, Winterlyn McCormick!" he warned, and a shopper passing by glanced at us in shock before entering the new Skechers store beside Hot Topic.

I stared at Father open-mouthed. I wasn't even being openly critical of the Torah, and I got scolded for my language. I would *never* criticize the Torah (that didn't age well, did it?), by and large not publicly. I knew how to abide by the commandments of my religion, much less organize my behavior around it. Just because I wanted to wear something different didn't mean I was a *criminal*. No crimes were attached to my records!

"Winterlyn, you *can't* have your shoulders exposed, synagogue or not. It is disrespectful, and as you're Jewish, you *must* listen when I tell you what's wrong and what's right, or else you're going to get in *severe* trouble! Abraham didn't found *our* religion on talking down to others, did he?"

*Ow*. Father's words stung like a scraped knee on the concrete. The tanktop I had wanted to acquire was off-limits because *he said so*. Judaism was our religion. I had to remain obedient. I was not a troublesome child; I wasn't going to get snapped at for a piece of clothing, so I quashed my protests. The embers had been fanned.

Father was right. Abraham didn't found Judaism to bicker with denizens of other religious faiths.

"Yes, dad. Sorry," I apologized, head down, shoulders low - submissiveness.

"That's a girl. Come along, now, I'm sure we'll find some better clothes elsewhere."

I could feel the hair on my shoulders prickle with intimidation. I didn't understand why Father snapped at me so harshly, so exposed out in the mall, where people could eavesdrop and stare. He seemed so... *dead-center* on the religion part.

But he made the message clear to me: religion *had* to be followed. It was a part of what made you *you*. I couldn't be disrespectful and say something outrageous.

Did I insult Father? I gulped and stuck by his side, not wanting to think something as taboo as *that*.

The icy grip Father had on me tightened shortly thereafter.

In school, my classmates repeatedly shared *spicy* opinions with one another - hot takes - and spread them around the whole class. The topic ranged from views on teachers, to lessons, to extracurricular activities, and even more. I got into debates myself with my tablemates, with the biggest one happening to be when my first grade teacher, Mr. Cho, was out sick for two days, and in his place was a substitute teacher by the name of Mrs. Broadwillow.

The *entirety* of my class agreed that Mrs. Broadwillow was a *beast* (insert much more vulgar word rhyming with "itch" here). She was snappy, smelled like "old lady perfume," and barked orders at us as if the class was a military boot camp. She dragged us around by the ankles and didn't grant us mercy, not even on the slighest of possible mistakes in math. She got onto me for miscalculating *one problem*. *One*!

"No, no, no! That's not how you solve it, child! Go back and do it again!" My ears went red, and my face *reddened* with deadpan embarrassment. I longed to go home and bury myself under the covers of my bed.

When the day ended, I sulked out of the school building and joined Father outside. He was quick to observe the steam trailing out of my ears and how I was fuming inside, facing me as we got in the car.

"What's gotten you so angry?" he asked.

"The *stupid* sub in class!" I dissented, snorting. "She was mean to all of us and yelled at me for a *mistake*! As if it's my fault I'm still learning math! She's a-"

Suddenly, I became conscious of two, tempestuous chestnut eyes unleashing lightning at me, and shutting up, I bit my lip.

Crap.

"Winterlyn, be respectful! Commandment nineteen-"

"Not to slander," we both uttered at the same time, with my tone sour and dry.

"I get how you may have not liked the sub, honey, but you have *got* to be respectful. It's a sub's responsibility to teach you when your teacher *can't*. You wouldn't learn *anything* otherwise, and that's not ideal, is it?"

The sub didn't even teach a *single thing worth noting*. She was a *terrible person* and clearly hated *children*. She hated us, Father! Still, he had a point, and we did get through today's lessons begrudgingly.

If that buttered his biscuits enough.

"Yes, dad," I agreed, pouting and resting my head in my hands. Son of a mother, I needed a nap.

"Oh, stop that. Mr. Cho will be back tomorrow. Cheer up, Winterlyn. You got through school today, so you'll get through it the next day. Be stout."

*And what if he's not back tomorrow? Then what?* I internally demanded, and it only made me feel *extra* contempt at the sub and at Father for not hearing me out.

"*Everyone* hated the sub," I muttered, grumpy, looking out the window. Father whipped toward me and put a cautioning hand on my shoulder, startling me out of my wits, and I sat up in a cold sweat.

"*That's enough*, Winterlyn," he snapped. "The Torah *doesn't permit* spiteful slander nor scorn at your elders. It's *nice* that you had a *sub* compared to *no teacher at all*! Now stop complaining and *quit this misbehavior*."

"Fine..." I conceded roughly, sniffing, and I crossed my arms, sinking back into the seat and risking provoking Father into giving me a verbal lashing. He was getting on my nerves. He should have been there *himself*! That sub was a *bully*, a stupid, ugly old lady bully who smelled like wilting *roses*! We hated her.

Yet if I spoke another word, I would have been grounded for a whole *month*. Despite my haughtiness, the visible frown, and my pent-up fury deep within, I concealed the disquiet and behaved myself. Father wanted behavior that he could reward, not behavior he had to punish.

And I didn't want to be trapped on his *turbulent* side and face my imminent doom. I didn't know what he was capable of.

Unfortunately, I stumbled upon the dead trees and desolate marsh of his dark side just a few days later.

I was at recess, heading to the bench so I could relax and study the tree behind it, when I got tripped deliberately by a snooty classmate and was sent flying into the woodchips.

I squealed, my knee scorching with pain, and when I looked at it, it had several cuts across it, red, sore, and bleeding. Resisting the urge to cry, I yelled, "Hey!" at the boy, but he'd run off.

Snarling, I stumbled over to a teacher, and she bandaged up my leg. Fury ran pervasive in me, and my head was abuzz with loathing.

That boy was *gross*. He was *snarky*. He cared about himself, not anyone else! He tripped me on purpose just to feel dumb pride in himself!

I seethed all the way through the school day and had a scowl on my face when Father picked me up again. The scowl didn't go unnoticed.

"What are you mad about this time?" he questioned in surprise, having not expected me to change moods faster than the Roadrunner evading Wile E. Coyote after a few days.

"That stupid *snotballed* classmate of mine *tripped me* at recess! He caused me to cut my *knee*! And he didn't even bother *apologizing*!" I spat loudly, slamming my hand down on the dashboard.

That was a *mistake*. A *bad* one. Father spun to face me and *seized* my shoulder, harder than the previous time, and I felt the nails at the tip of the shirt fabric.

I didn't move an inch of my muscles. Fear set in.

"**Winterlyn McCormick**, what did I **tell you**???" he growled. "Will you stop *slandering people*? Children will be *children*, but just because you got tripped doesn't mean you need to go *hate* on people! You don't *know* that boy personally!"

*Hate*? Hello, Father, *my knee got cut*! I was *bleeding*. And here you are casually *turning a blind eye* to my sore, *raw* knee. That boy *intended* to trip me because he was *petty*.

I wasn't being listened to. *Again*.

Out of nowhere, something shifted in me, and I felt this sudden, unbridled *rage* flood through me. It was red-hot, hotter than the bandaged scratches on my knee, and I clenched my fists, glaring at Father with *subversion*.

You want to deny my right to *complain*? To hell with you!

"I have a right to **complain**!" I retorted, my ice-blue eyes cultivating a blue flame that challenged Father's chestnut. "That boy is a *prick*. He cares for no one but *himself*! He doesn't listen to teachers punishing him. Abraham be **damned**, he caused me to get **hurt** and you're telling me I'm breaking a freaking **commandment**???"

*Holy*. *Hell*.

I never even *knew* that I had *that fire* in me. I *unleashed* words I thought I'd never be able to *speak*. I *unleashed* words I wasn't *supposed* to speak... and I strangely didn't *regret it*, feeling like I was a tiny soldier who had conquered the dragon in the spooky cave and had gotten to the princess.

I had stood up for myself... and it felt so *worth it*.

I defended something *belonging to me* and thought I had *won*.

Except that the moment didn't last. Father, who had been staring me in pure *astonishment* for half a minute, strangled by my redoubtable outburst, became *enraged*. He snarled, balling up two firsts of his own, and his chestnut eyes became overtaken by unhinged *animosity*.

"***WINTERLYN FALIN MCCORMICK***!" he roared, the noise so loud that it could have shattered the car windows, and flinching, I came flailing down from my high. My heart rate kickstarted, and I gasped, terrified, my skin whitening more than it was white already.

Father had spoken my *first and last name* when scolding me. I had felt his anger before, throughout my life. But not like *this*. *This* anger, this *relentless* fury, was a *stark contrast*.

He had used my *full name*. *My full name*.

I was in *deep trouble*. *Very* deep trouble.

I had crossed paths with a *brute*.

"You ***CANNOT DISRESPECT THE TORAH***!" Father spat violently, some saliva flying out of his mouth, blue veins snaking around his arms and fists. "It is a ***HOLY SCRIPTURE***. You **must follow it**, not **swear down on it**! You insulted **Abraham**! Your *founder*! You know the Torah strictly forbids you from **vulgar slander**. And you insulted ***YOUR OWN CREATOR***!"

Father's face inched closer to mine, and I could feel his breath on my cheeks. I squeaked and felt the flames in me become quenched by a wave of *ice water*. My heart was thumping against my ribcage, and I pinned myself to the back of the car door, shaking my head at Father, making it clear I had conceded and wasn't going to fire back.

Guiltily, the tears fell too, and I blinked. They dribbled down the sides of my face and onto my leggings.

I *heard* that shrill tone. It sounded so... so *malignant*. It was *brawny*. *Petrifying*. This was not *Father*. What had I awakened? What had I *done*?

I didn't heed Father. I *misbehaved*.

I slandered and insulted the holy morals I followed. I insulted *Abraham*, the founder of Judaism.

Oh my god, *what had I done*? I was extremely disrespectful. I was an idiot. A fool. Something else came to form in my mind.

*I committed sin*.

From the way Father was consuming me *alive* with that stare of his, that was clear. I shut my eyes, bracing to be disowned and left alone...

"Dad... I'm s-sorry, I didn't mean it... p-please! I didn't mean to be a s-s-sinner..."

The skies parted. Light flooded into the car.

Then, Father's gaze softened, and the tension stagnating the car air left. I blinked open my eyes to find Father looking down at himself, liable and flushed of color. He scratched his shirt, unable to face me, unable to confront *himself*. He was struggling to keep his eyes open, to stop from *crying* himself, I realized. Confused, I let my shoulders fall.

What had just *happened*? Why was Father so... *neutral*?

He looked so *devoid* of himself. I tentatively shifted closer to him.

"Dad...?"

"I'm... I'm sorry, Winterlyn," he apologized, his once-mighty voice quaking. "I... I went too far. I just disobeyed the Torah myself snapping at you... I shouldn't have done that, honey... I'm so sorry, it's okay..."

He tenderly graced my cheek. "I'm not going to hurt you... we shouldn't have said what we both said... but I forgot that you're *just a kid*. You're still learning... and baby, you're not a sinner, no! You made a mistake... I'm not going to hurt you..."

I didn't respond to him, unsettled by the vacancy, his building apologies, and insistence in what he was saying. We were both frazzled, knowing we both overstepped, and we used the mutual silence to form a peace treaty and state the quiet part out loud: *sorry*.

The ride home was silent. When I walked in, I laid back on the sofa and waited for Father to leave the room. He did so fifteen minutes later for his afternoon nap, leaving me alone with Mom.

I felt... uncomfortable after what happened. Father and I had reached anger levels I thought were not remotely achievable in each of us. I wasn't a disobedient child, but why had I felt *guided*, *alleviated*, by the reckless impulse escaping in me?

"Mom? Can we talk?" I asked in a whisper, just in case Father was up and could still hear me.

Mom nodded. "Of course, Winterlyn! You know you can talk to me about anything."

Anxiously, I sat down next to her, twiddling my fingers. She saw and grew worried. "Is something wrong?"

I proceeded to explain everything that happened to her, wincing when I mentioned my... unholy, poor choices in wording and Father's explosive bout that scared the *bejesus* outta me. It didn't stop there, and soon, I found myself confessing what happened the day before as well as the day at the mall, feeling this strange sense of *relief* when I got the words off my chest. All the endless *frustration* that I had felt, that indignance, the ignoration, was lifted off me.

Throughout, Mom had been nodding along supportingly, but when I mentioned what Father did, she gasped and became irate - rare from her since she was a peacemaker.

"**WHAT**? You're telling me that your father is *twisting* the commandments in the Torah just to scold you over *nonsense*?" she demanded. "Oh, Winterlyn, I'm sorry he's doing this to you..."

Feeling my stomach shuffle pretentiously, I gripped a pillow and hugged it against me.

"He... he won't get angry at me like that again? Will he stop?"

"No. I'll make *sure* of it. Just be careful and make sure what you say out of your mouth is cleaner, but you were just letting out your rage, Winterlyn. If Edwin isn't letting you rant, then *he* has a problem that *I'll* be dealing with."

She coughed, taking a sip of her tea, and then, she hugged me, kissing me on the forehead. "I love you very much, pumpkin. So does your daddy. He expresses it... differently, but I promise you. He *cares*. He just really wants you to follow the Torah and your background closely, okay? He wants the *best* for you."

"I believe you, Mom," I responded, and the embrace became deeper. Mom would help to mend things between me and Father.

Father loved me. I knew he did. Though he was harsh and abrasive at times, contradicting the same loving dad who told me about the stars and split milkshakes between us.

He was still *Father*, and I loved him for being Father.

Over time, fashion trends became the huge cream of the crop at school, and the older grades were yapping about the new fashion trend that was taking stores by storm.

Chokers. Dark, leather or rope materials with white spikes attatched on the edges, marketed as *fearsome* and perfect for those who wanted to present themselves with a *killer* look.

It didn't take long for me to notice people at my school wearing the chokers. They were bracelets... but with so much more *flair*. So much more intrigue and detail. Looking down at my wrists, I'd imagine what they look like with multiple chokers on them, with all those spikes and black bands, tied tight around the flesh of my skin.

They were shiny, and they were *awesome*. I wanted one or two *desperately*. Such a sentiment was escalated when I found chokers being adorned around *necks*, and the appeal was so *perfect* I thought I was going to combust.

*I needed a damn choker; my life depended on it*.

I was in luck, as Hot Topic just happened to start selling them at cheap prices. The store at the Pineshadow Outdoor Mall was stormed with customers, and they all came out wearing the latest t-shirts and chokers. I was in love, and you can safely imagine that I had giant red hearts in my eyes, swooning over those bracelets and necklaces.

The next mall trip, consisting of me, Mom, and Father, led to us passing by Hot Topic, and chokers were hung from the displays in the windows. They weren't black with white spikes, but also came in brown, bright pink, dark blue, red, and even one all rainbow.

The holy choir performed in my head, and walking through the gates of heaven, I put my hand on the glass and made my wish clear.

"Dad! Can I buy one of these?"

Father shuffled up to the glass, his eyes widening with distrust and a hint of *disgust*, and I frowned. Mom raised an eyebrow at him.

Uh oh, here we go again.

A customer walked out of the store, a choker wrapped around his neck. "See?" I pointed at the customer, who waved and walked off.

"No," Father replied bluntly. "They're off-limits. Too... suggestive in nature for you to be wearing. And also, you mustn't forget about commandment fifty-nine: not to imitate their customs or clothing."

I scoffed, annoyed at how he was roping the Torah into this for the one hundredth millionth *time*. Mom agreed with me, as she put her head in her hand, hiding her discomfort and second hand embarrassment - Father, we're in public. Please don't start now!

Staring up at him, I replied, "But dad! They're just a type of bracelet or necklace! The spikes are harmless!"

"Harmless? Oh, no, no, Winterlyn. Chokers are *harmful* and paint an image in *severe* violation of the Torah. They are not formal wear and contain *bad messaging* - and I don't want these chokers to be a *negative influence* on you and detract from the dazzling young woman I *want you* to be."

The comment punched me square on the forehead, and my cheeks grew sticky and pink with humilation. Another customer walked out, overhearing the argument, and *she* had two new chokers on her wrists. She quickly headed in the direction of the movie theater.

Not to mention, I was growing hot, but it wasn't just the humilation. I felt the embers of fury, not stoked fully, but forming. Father was scolding me for wanting to wear *bracelets*. *Necklaces* with no harmful connotations! They were just a part of *beauty*. Accessories! It was what I *wanted* to wear. I thought they *suited me*!

I didn't respond, however. Father's rage wasn't something to temper with - not after I'd seen first-hand what he was *capable* of in the car. The public didn't need to hear him fuming over *bracelets* - and not those inside Hot Topic shopping for clothing and accesories.

Father continued, chalking up some "advice." "Winterlyn, here's my tip for you: I wouldn't try to *fit in* with the "cool" people. They'll influence you negatively. Dress appropriately and *modestly*, keep your shoulders covered, and avoid wearing anything that is found to be *suggestive*. Professionalism is very important, my dear, and so is the image you present to your Jewish community. Make them think *highly* of you."

I stuck my tongue out at him in a clear-cut move of insuborination, plugging my ears out from the religion chat, and Father opened his mouth to speak, his brows curving in frustration over my choker rebellion. I braced for the scolding, imminent and tangy.

The scolding never came, as Mom pulled it from the ground up by the neck and swung it into the trash can five paces away from us.

"Edwin, this is a *car conversation*," she intervened pointedly, and I relaxed, holding in a *phew*. "You're being awfully *hard* on Winterlyn lately, don't you think?"

Father's stern face transformed into shock. "Lorelei?? How on *earth* did you figure that out?"

"I was informed through *your daughter* that you've been bashing the commandments over the *top of her head*!" she countered.

Father was incredulous. "She was *misbehaving*!"

"You can handle that without *hammering* our religion into her *skull*, Edwin!"

"She *has* to follow the Torah, Lorelei!"

"Yes, that much is obvious, but you can't contort the commandments and shove them down her poor throat! Winterlyn's *seven*, you don't have to go all-out *ballistic* just to protect her! You aren't *protecting her* if you're *mutilating her perception* of our culture!"

I backed up against the window, watching Mom and Father as they hectically exchanged words and continued to engage in the stalemate, which became downright petty after a minute. I sighed, pretending I wasn't related to the two parents discussing Judaism, and customers in the store looked out, finding the needless quarrel. I felt embarrassed, longing to become a mannequin in the glass and to explode into billions of particles for the sky to take.

Make it stop, *make it stop*, there's too much noise, *this is embarrassing*.

I heard Father raise his voice to a shout, much to my ire. "*Listen* to me, Lorelei! I don't mean any harm, but Winter has a soul that can't be *tamed*. She's going to *get herself killed* if I don't *moderate* her actions! She won't be the woman she's supposed to *be*!"

*What the hell*?

Suddenly, I gasped, and I rubbed my eyes, sensing the itchiness that was beginning to form - I was on the verge of *tears*.

I was deeply humiliated now that people had *seen* and *overheard* my parents arguing, and now, my father was saying that I was going to *kill myself* because of *the way I was*.

The friendly, eager, swift-thinking, honest me, ending my life because I didn't *pledge my loyalty* to the Torah? Was too reckless and impulsive and fell off a cliff to my *demise*?

That was *outlandish*! That was *dumb as hell*! I wasn't *dumb*. I wasn't *disloyal*. I wasn't *dishonest* in the least, and here Father is lying to Mom about me!

*Bickering* over *me*. I sniffed, the tears leaking down to my cheeks, but I wiped them away. *No, dad wouldn't want to see you cry. Be strong,* I told myself, raising my shoulder blades.

Why was Father acting like I couldn't stand on my own two feet? Why was he saying these ridiculous *things* about me?

I *knew* he loved me. He *always* did. But he seemed to put religion *before me* ever since I started attending synagogue. Judaism was his golden apple... and I was second best.

Judaism was the roses, but I was the dried leaf at the bottom of the ceramic.

As the days progressed, a shadow was hanging over me, made apparent when Father was near. He made *sure* I had my Torah, that I was getting my daily lessons, and that I was memorizing commandments.

I felt the frost in his soul that I detected when I was younger, more *potent* with my older age - it hadn't receded or melted. His heart was full of the frost, and no matter how many times I'd tell him that I'd love him, or participated in prayers, or showered him with hugs from me and Mom, it was a permanent affliction.

Why did Father seem to have a darkness running through him?

And why did he put *Judaism* on top of every other priority, even over the family?

A running river of weeks drifted by, and Father was no better than he was before. He hovered over me, his shadow sashaying with mine and not releasing, claws deep in my bones, marks left behind on my pale skin.

He wasn't going to let me *live* without making sure I wasn't violating the Torah's *rigid* commandments... and soon, he began to snap at me *when I hadn't even done anything wrong*.

What things? Things that wouldn't even be classified as a *misdemeanor*. A lot happened that's too lengthy to cover in this chapter, so I'll bullet point them for you. Here's what transpired.

At the mall, I'd walk by stores and compliment the clothing that wasn't meant for me, or was too oversized, or had bolder imagery than the stuff I wore.

"Wow, that's super dope!" I said, using slang passed around school and pointing to a pair of ripped jeans in the window of Hollister with palm trees and *Cail* embroidered on the sides.

"Reveals your skin. You know better," Father growled in a rebuke, and Mom snorted. "For the love of god, Edwin, she didn't even *say* she wanted to buy it!"

Good point, Mom - it *also wasn't my size*. Plus... Mike Jeffries was *still* CEO of Hollister and Abercrombie, so why would I pine so intensely for their stuff anyway?

When I uttered words that were on the *cusp* of negative, Father would fire back and say that it was "disrespectful" *and* against the Torah.

No it's not! We, as humans, have the First Amendment, which grants us the rights to *free speech*. The Torah doesn't restrict *that*.

The list went on. Liking what other people wore? Nope, wrong! Stating other meals with non-kosher meat looked "delicious" even if I stayed away from non-kosher meat? Worthy of a cuff over both ears to Father.

Joking about the struggle to avoid eating on Yom Kippur? Almost going deaf from Father banshee screeching.

Me searching high and low for a lost object? Not enough to appease Father, and he accused me of violating commandment four hundred seventy-nine: not to ignore a lost object.

He snapped at me when I was unable to return lost objects after I had killed *so much time* searching for them.

When I quested for a possession, like Mom's phone, so I could play one of her video games she had on there (*Bejeweled*), Father would spit that I shouldn't desire someone else's belongings as my own.

Our previous arguments in the car post-school and arguments outside school also caused Father to begin lashing at me using commandment five hundred and one - not to insult or harm anybody with words.

In addition, he added to the guilt on my back by using commandment five hundred and eighty-four: *respect your father and mother*. When his anger levels dropped low, he warned me to not act like the *rebellious son*, a figure in the Torah.

Excuse me, do I look like the *rebellious son* to you? The rebellious thing I did was speak out when I disagreed with you!

We were both *warring* with each other. More like being sticks in the mud, or stubborn asses that kicked and stomped when things didn't go the way we intended.

It went back and forth, and back and forth. It was a food fight with *no end in sight*. I grew more frustrated, at my wit's end, and so did Mom, who started to take at least five cough drops from all the meditating she had to do.

Father got worse, and worse, and worse, until I thought my eardrums had left the building and gone to Canada. All this "Winterlyn this, Winterlyn that," *was making my ears bleed*.

*What do you want with me*?

My annoyance, however, dissipated and became replaced with disheartedness when Father would turn onto *Mom* for defending me.

"Edwin! What in the lord's name is *wrong with you*? You have got to stop *contradicting* what the Torah preaches to Winterlyn!"

"I'm *protecting her*, Lorelei! I don't want her to fall into a dark niche and get swayed by *evil*!"

"That's *nonsense*. You're doing Winterlyn a *major disservice* being such a *brat* to her."

"*Lorelei*!"

"Edwin, if you want to do *this* to your daughter, then I'm going to make you speak to a *brick wall*. Please, honey... Winterlyn is *okay*. She isn't made of glass like you *think* she is. I see a very bright, talented, *opulent* child in her... and what gift do you think you're giving, messing with her perception by spewing this *blabbery* about our heritage? *Her* religion?"

"Look, it's just..."

I'd always stop there and retreat to my bedroom. The arguments were sloppy, random, and *painful*, and often I'd be unintentionally caught in the crossfire, in another room, eavesdropping under the covers. The plushies were futile in easing the metal tang I'd taste in my mouth from the kerfuffles. Desperately, I'd wish that this wasn't so, as the more I heard arguments, the more I was pressed into a four-cornered box, limbs stiff and locked in place.

The walls would close in on me on *more* sides, squeezing my body together, and cramped, I'd try to escape to no avail. I couldn't get out, not when Father was stubborn mule and didn't change his asphyxiating ways.

I *wanted* to grow, to learn, but how else would I learn if Father shackled me to the ground, where I couldn't fly and stretch my wings?

It wasn't just that, but Mom found herself raising her voice more than she should with her lupus, and she'd start to cough *repeatedly* until her lungs burned and ached. Fighting with Father took *so much* of her soul, and she became bleary and tired, bags forming under her brilliant blue eyes. Her walk became labored, and Mom had lost *much* of her age in an instant because of Father's constant qualms and warring over religion.

Over the Torah. The commandments.

*Over me*.

Why must *I* be the reason my parents fought? What did *I* do to deserve *this*?

Why was I following *this religion* if it only caused my family to *bicker* and think so black and white? I was raised that it was a blessing, a *part of me*. That it stuck with me for life, like my connection to nature, the snow of a winter day, the itch of the grass on the summer nights.

Judaism was holy and ran in my family's blood... but...

...that blood wasn't *running* with *mine*.

Why had I begun to feel so *odd*? Why did it feel like... I didn't *belong*?

Mom and Father taught me to follow our God, Yahweh, and the wisdom he brought. He was up in the glittery, milky stars, watching us from afar and bringing us protection...

The gifts I received were supposedly *from* Yahweh. My traits. My accomplishments. The desire to live, succeed, and make my name cemented in the world. Yet...

...Yahweh sounded so *fake*. He didn't sound like someone *real*, a legend who died *long*, *long ago* and became fabled in the fabric of religion. He didn't feel *authentic*. I didn't feel so *twined* to him. If he was a light, I was in darkness.

He was just *another guy* up in the stars... but there are so many stars that dot the night sky. They would call out to me, invite me to play their games and dance under the glare of millions of lights... but I never visualized myself *with Yahweh*. He was a guy, a *name*.

Did Yahweh even *exist* at this point, or was he just a name Father brought up to remind me to value my religion first and foremost? Was that all there was to him? Yahweh *wasn't* some fantastic guy with every power at his disposal.

I just saw him as a myth... a tale Father used to keep me aligned away from a nonexistent collision course. Yahweh was so *paper-thin*. I could see right through his facade and glimpse nothingness.

And the more I thought it, the more inauthentic Abraham and Moses seemed too. They seemed like heroes from a child's off-the-rails fiction, of a founder who created a covenant when visited by God and by a guy who led slaves to freedom.

It was a serious tale of how Judaism came to be... but it didn't sound *legitimate* to me. It sounded like something out of a *book*.

Father said there was a lot to thank Abraham for, but what I could I even thank him for now? The very religion he founded was *splitting apart* and not stacking brick-by-brick in my head. It was a disarray of *what* I should follow versus *what I shouldn't*. I didn't know what was right and wrong, and the lines were *blurring*.

I was lost, and none of the Holy Three had come to advise me, as Father would always say.

What *good* did praying do? Were we even being heard by *dead people up there*? Were we just saying vacant words that had *no meaning*? That didn't have merit? No blessing? No acknowledgement?

Were we just speaking to *ghosts* made up over *centuries*?

That was only the tip of the iceberg for young me.

I never *dared* to share my new thoughts out loud - Father's last, weathered nerves would implode. When that would happen, he would transform into a *feral beast*, and I-

Yeah. I'm not going to fess up about what I thought he'd do to me. It was only the first secret I started to cover up from him, though.

The first in a *endless list of secrets*.

Around this time, in synagogue, I began socializing with the other members of Harmony Hollow, on encouragement from Mom, who thought that I ought to start making friends and greeting unfamiliar faces. I did just fine on my own (a certain friend of mine is probably laughing at me for this), and a lot of my classmates were either gossip-mongers, too meek, or undignified, or personality-wise, *awful*.

Mm introduced me to this lovely married, childless couple, the Preslies, who were social beings and had been going to Harmony Hollow for over *twenty years*. They were very knowledgable about the place, and often, before the homilies would commence, they'd exchange the history of the synagogue to me.

"There are rumors that the stained glass was given by somebody all the way in the Netherlands!" the Preslie wife, Remi, exclaimed one evening.

"If true, it'd have to be someone stinkin' rich!" added Beasley, her husband. I nodded.

"Yeah, it sure does seem expensive!"

I talked with the Preslies about a whole slew of things, including my parents, though I omitted the details about what Father was doing to me, paranoid that they'd snitch and tell him. Then I'd be in for a *triple gut punch supreme*.

Didn't help that Beasley also went to Washington University at the same time as Father.

"Edwin was a superb student. Always concentrated on religious and social studies. Did you know he was an outcast, Winterlyn?"

"No! I sure didn't!" *Whoa*, I thought then, *Beasley knows my dad personally? He never told me he didn't have a social life!*

"Ooooh *yeah* he was. My roommate kept calling him a plain ol' square, but plain's a wishful statement when, well... you find that *dynamite* in Edwin!"

"He has a temper," I noted, evaluating my side to check that he wasn't listening.

"*Hot*. Magma," Beasley murmured with some exaggerated jazz hands.

They were a real hoot, and I wish we'd sat closer together so we could do more info-swapping and how's-your-day-going and go through every mundane conversation again and again.

But I had someone else closer to me, so close that I was caught unawares and was in for a pleasurable surprise.

On a Friday evening in the fall, I had messily brushed my long, fluffy hair out, brushing extra hard so it wasn't flaky and a home for juncos (they're a bird species in Washington). Some of the back was still unkempt, but using my saliva (Father didn't see), I slicked it back.

Not quite professional... but I'm a child, so you can't expect much anyways.

After arriving to synagogue, I sat down and stared ahead at the fearsome black curtains, waiting for Rabbi Kealer to come out and begin the homily. I leaned back against the wooden bench.

"There's a piece of dandruff on the back of your head."

Blinking, I turned around and faced a young girl around my age, with long, dark brown hair, brown freckles splotched all over tanned light brown skin, and gray eyes radiating with kindness.

Her shirt was a pale, sunny yellow, and a foresty tag near the bottom was enough to convince me that she was a fan of L.L. Bean apparel.

I stared back at her, my eyes widening, and I nervously smiled. "Heh..."

"Yoo-hoo, are you home in there? I said there was a piece of dandruff on your head."

All of a sudden I recalled what she told me, and my upper part of my body went lopsided. "Where?"

"Oh, lemme get it. I can reach over." Her nimble brown-skinned hand flicked the piece off, ticking my scalp, and I let out a giggle.

"Did I tickle ya?"

"Yeah, a lil," I replied, shifting my body around and sitting on my knees to face her. She draped her hands over her lap, leaning over to face me.

"Aren't you Winterlyn? I've heard your name spoken around Harmony Hollow before."

Hold up, this girl knew my *name*? I twinkled, stretching the curves of my mouth as far as they could go.

"Yep, I'm Winterlyn. And, to who I owe the pleasure?" I stated, mimicking Father, who batted a bewildered eye at me.

"I'm Abigail Sanchez, your resident Sephardic Jew. You?"

"Winterlyn McCormick, Ashkenazi Jew."

"Sweet!"

We laughed.

"Soo..." Abigail started. "How long have you been going here?"

"Almost a full year, since I was six."

"We started going here a few weeks ago. Just moved into Pineshadow."

"Ooh, from where?" My curiosity built. Abigail was someone I wanted to stick around for a bit longer than just *today*.

"Kennewick."

"What was it like there?" I asked, having never traveled to Kennewick in my life.

"Full of Native American culture. My family sometimes went fishing in the Columbia River. We moved to be closer to family here."

I nodded along, listening to her tell stories about how her family loved researching the culture of Kennewick and how she had grandparents who sold dreamcatchers for a living, and I told her more details about myself and my family (but not Father's antics, obviously).

When Rabbi Kealer finally appeared to begin the homily, Mom turned to face Abigail after we finished our conversation. "Aww, you two sure are something special."

*Special*. I fizzled, firecracker sparks welling in my heart, and I squealed at Abigail, who squealed back and said:

"Yeah. She's my best friend."

*Whoosh*. The air left my body.

We had only just gotten to know each other, and Abigail already saw me as her *friend*. *Her best friend*.

I wanted to cry and scream and throw up and run around the synagogue, but I knew that was improper and swallowed my elation. My feet tapped the wood part of the bench, *tap*, *tap*, *tap*.

Father then did a *tap* himself on my shoulder. "Much as I hate to spoil your fun with your new friend, Winterlyn, Rabbi Kealer's about to start and your *rear* needs to be *here*." He pointed to the bench, and sheepishly, I shrugged at Abigail and sat facing forward, rear firmly on the bench.

Following that day, Abigail and I grew *inseperable*. Before synagogue, we'd meet up outside and share the weekly news, discussing freely away from our parents. The Sanchez parents were very free-spirited and set no restrictions on Abi, unlike Father and more like Mom. Mom appreciated them too, even sending them some German chocolate she purchased from Godiva as a present for Rosh Hashanah (Jewish New Year).

Abigail and I were two rambunctious peas in a pod. We'd run around the synagogue, playing leap frog and telling tales, hiding underneath the benches and reading through our Torahs, voicing out the commandments at random.

"Commandment six hundred ten, not to panic and retreat during battle!" Abigail read aloud, and me, feigning defeat, flopped on the floor with hands "squeezing" my throat.

"Oh, the misery! I am simply too *weak* and shall run away from this bloodbath!" I exclaimed, proceeding to laugh from how much of a lunatic I sounded.

"Pfft! Winterlyn, you're such a good actor. You could honestly be the next Lindsay Lohan! Or Cameron Diaz!"

"Hey, I haven't even watched *The Parent Trap*, but it's on my bucket list of movies!"

We laughed some more and continued romping about, delighting the adults. Mom adored our friendship so much, being our number one supporter. Father did too, but he had his... *reservations*.

"You two have some unmistakable dynamic. Your energy is through the *roof*!" Mom said one time after we did more Torah acting reels (I foolishly believed I was better than Lindsay Lohan).

We were sitting on the floor and gazing up at her, smiles on each of our faces, our Torah copies in our hand.

"Well, yeah, we're trying to see who can be like Lindsay Lohan!" Abigail told her. "Think Winterlyn's got it down. I'm more of a narrator."

"That's lovely," chimed Father as he joined Mom's side. "But why are you two on the floor? That's a fire hazard."

There was enough space between benches to not be a fire hazard, but Father was being Father, and I got up. Abigail did as well.

"You two sit down on the benches and dust yourselves off, now. Too much rambunctiousness, and you won't be able to concentrate on the homily." He winked at me with an edge, and I subconsciously resisted the desire to stick it to him and side-eye.

"Your father a tough guy?" Abigail whispered the question to me.

"More like a pain in the you-know-where."

"So, complicated?"

"Yeah. But he still loves me, and I love him."

"Relatively normal." We laughed again, and then, Rabbi Kealer arrived. We took our places at the different benches.

Our hanging outs and acting sessions and running arounds continued to take place for months. All the time, I was enjoying every second of my life.

Abigail was *fun*. The friendship we shared was *strong*, honey-soft but powerful as a gemstone, like diamonds. Diamonds in the rough.

Abigail also provided me with a person understanding, compassionate, and rowdy to match my ever-so-developing personality.

Our time together really impacted me, and my concentration span during homilies *zoomed* on a racetrack. Paying attention to a homily was far more difficult than ever, because I constantly thought about playing with Abigail, not words and lesson and Torah quotings and lumping it all together and then forgetting it because the brain can do so much at one time to process.

"Winterlyn, pay attention, please. You can play with Abigail later," Father would scold me, putting a hand on my shoulder and not taking it off until I was steady and focusing on Rabbi Kealer.

Well, that was the only downside. Abi would rub off on me too much, and I wouldn't stop thinking about our hijinks and zone out on Rabbi Kealer.

Then again... I was facing a mounting conflict in terms of being a Jewish person, which I'll dive into deeper into this chapter.

Months passed, and we were in full winter season, the snows falling and powdering Pineshadow in sheets of thick, blobby white that was something out of a fever dream. The air was chilly, the trees tipped with snow and frost, and the exhileration and awe in me flowed through my body.

Speaking of me, I was now eight years old and in second grade.

My favorite season was here, and I spent my time rolling through the snow, throwing snowballs at Father (Mom was not present, staying safe from illnesses) and romping through mounds of fluffy white *goodness*.

Winter season also spelled a new time for me and Abigail. When I saw her again, she seemed kinda... anxious? She tugged at her coat seeing me, looking shy.

"Hey Abigail! You alright?" I asked, and she nodded, not speaking to me. We went inside, and I questioned if she wanted to do Torah re-inactments like we always did.

"Erm, sorry. I'll pass today," she said, taking her seat, and we didn't talk for the whole duration of synagogue. I was confused. Why was Abigail suddenly so *bashful*? It wasn't like her before.

The days passed on, and Abigail continued to shy away from me. We stopped mutually chatting to each other; Abi clung to her parents while I clung to mine, and despite my many attempts to approach her, she avoided me like I had infected her with measles.

She was *forgetting* me. What had I done to become so invisible? I didn't offend her, did I?

On a cold evening in mid-January, I resolved to talk to her, but she was speaking with other children in the synagogue. She was having a *blast* without me; I was unnecessary, and my presence would only cause a disruption. Sighing, I turned around, joining Mom's side, and she saw my sullen expression, for she turned and saw Abi with her new sidekicks.

"It appears Abi's really busy," she noted.

"I know..." I moped. "I wanted to ask her why she was ignoring me."

"Well, honey... I think I know the answer to that."

Shocked, I glanced up at Mom, who sat me down and looked at me with the most love and comfort possible. This was going to be another lecture, a life lesson, and I knew it.

"You see... as people grow, their interests *change*. They *transform*."

"I know *that*..." I interjected. Mom was serving me a lesson that I had background knowledge of already. What use was that?

"Yes, you do, but it doesn't just apply to *yourself*. Other people change too, Winterlyn. Take your father as a prime example."

She wasn't wrong. Father wasn't as strict in my youth as he was on me now.

"Abigail doesn't hate me, right???" I inquired worriedly.

"No! Abigail has *new friends*. She doesn't *hate you* in any way, but she just *moved on*. She found friends she'd prefer to hang out with over you. It doesn't mean she kicked you in the shins, she just found people more of her type than you. It's a thing that comes with growing up."

"Oh..." I mumbled, deeply saddened that my sole best friend had moved on from me after a few months. She was so sweet, so silly, so *creative*... and that ember had burnt out. I wasn't going to get her back, and if I tried myself, I'd just make things awkward.

"I know what you're feeling, Winterlyn," Mom concurred, adding, "it's hard to lose people that you care about, especially when it feels like they abandoned you for someone else. Yet people do change and grow up, and find that what they want lies somewhere else. Don't cling to what you *don't* have - you can find new relationships and new people that will be your friend! Those people will be special - not saying that Abigail isn't, I personally like her myself."

Okay, Mom's advice was helping, and I relaxed, no longer so split in the middle over Abigail. People grew up, and I was growing up like Abigail. I shouldn't have denied that she'd want people more reflective of herself now than a few months ago.

"What if they ditch me too?" I inquired. That fear was a heavy hailstone in my stomach.

"That's possible, but just remember that friends coming and going is a natural part of life. Nothing lasts forever," Mom concluded, hugging me and holding both of my freckled cheeks in her hands.

Mom was right, I realized.

Abigail hadn't done anything wrong. Her heart led her on a different path, one without me, and that was *okay*. If she wanted to move on, I was fine with it.

*Nothing lasts forever*. Oh, Mom, if you were still here, I'd tell you that I'd love you for that powerful piece of wisdom. You truly shone a light and banished my insecurities when I needed you.

It was hard having to adjust to not romping around with Abigail at the beginning of synagogue anymore; my brain wouldn't correct itself, and at times, I'd preemptively prepare to say hi to Abi when I was only staring at a ghost.

The spores of a long-gone ghost. Catch the reference? No? Okay, stay tuned. You'll figure that out fast.

I found comfort in the presence of Mom, Father (when he wasn't being... you know what), and the Preslies, who I had grown closer to.

Father's falcon eyes kept their lock on me. I knew that even with Abigail's departure from my life, Father wouldn't let up and would keep striving to make sure I was obeying *every* restriction and *every* commandment in the Mitzvot.

It bummed me out. I hoped to own the things Father wouldn't let me own, to do the activities he wouldn't let me do, to expand out of the box I had been confined to and let the world see my creativity first-hand.

However, everything that happened next *transformed my whole life*, shaking the very roots I was born with.

It was a late, snowy February night, snowflakes lightly falling from the bluish-streaked black sky. We had gone to the mall for dinner, grabbing chicken sandwiches and pasta from Corner Bakery. Afterward, I had wanted to go to Barnes & Noble as I usually did, and the charm of the winter season must have hit Mom and Father, for they instantly agreed.

Heaven was awaiting.

Upon entering the bookstore, I was greeted by the smell of the Starbucks and cinnamon lattes. Mmph, if I wasn't so full on dinner, I would have *begged* Mom to snag me a cinnamon latte with chocolate drizzle.

There was always the fresh book smell, though, and my crave of a puzzle book or board game (stored under the table in the living room).

I started to walk to the puzzles section when a lady passed by.

"Hey! You should go upstairs if you're a music nerd."

She winked at me, held up a peace sign, and went to the checkout desk. I hadn't really been to the upstairs part of the store since I hadn't spurned an interest in music, but who was I to refuse such an intriguing proposition?

I was no nerd, but not wasting my chances, I bolted toward the escalators.

"Winterlyn, wait for us!" Mom shouted after me as I leapt onto the escalator, and it chugged up, up, and away.

I arrived on the second floor, peering around the wide expanse of music shelves and the Sale Annex, which was a resale space for used books. On the right were albums and vinyls. I traversed through the isles, glancing around, but it seemed to be just a normal sale section... that was, until I saw the digital advertising panels all lit up. Previously, they'd advertise the Nook, a type of tablet where you could read books and play games, but tonight, some kind of *magic* was in the air.

Not just winter magic. *Arcane* magic.

The digital displays were medium-sized screens surrounding a Nook-shaped screen, which was presenting a pale pinkish-gray wallpaper. Above the screens was lettering that said "New Releases."

Did something new come out? For who? I knew of few artists around this time, since as I've stated, I wasn't into music.

Why was I told to come up *here*?

Suddenly, the screen rippled, and out emerged a woman, clothless, but tall, sitting cross-legged, her eyes closed, skin neatly tanned. My mouth gaped open, in veneration at the divine being before me.

The woman, relaxing, unveiled a set of arms and put them together, meditating, and two circles appeared, one white circle on her belly and a wider gray circle on her chest. Then another pair of arms appeared, clasped above her head, and a bright white circle formed. Thousands of lighter circles around her swirled, and so did other lines, looking like intertwining silver suns.

"Whoa," I uttered, reaching out my hand to touch the screen. It undulated, and I heard the sounds of water rushing against my fingers soothingly, but they didn't grow cold nor warm.

Instead, *music* began to play, and I felt my soul *ascend*, lifting into the air.

There were strange noises, voices, screaming and hollering, coruscating. It felt so... *enchanting*. I was somewhere *else*, somewhere *mystical*.

And then one of the most *beautiful* voices I'd ever *heard* started to sing.

Close

Silent and calm

Veiled under warmth

You feel like summer

This woman's voice was so... so *pacifying*. So *magical*, something pure *fantasy*, something purely composed of make-believe and *passion*.

The air around me grew warm, and I closed my eyes, the dark swooping over me. But I didn't fear. I embraced the warmth rising up in my body, and waves of calm drifted over me.

*Just listen to the voice of the song,* I told myself, and every other thought in my mind blurred out.

Rosed, flushed

Shy with love

Breaths getting caught

In the starry gaze

Of our thoughts

*Summer*. With a snap of my fingers, with a click of the electricity rocketing in my brain, I imagined *everything* in relation to summer I could think of.

The flowers, the pretty roses, the blanket flowers, the daisies, the lupines, lush in pink, orange, yellows, and whites, and the deepest, crimson reds. I thought of the crisp air, the drifting of the bright green leaves in the tall trees, the scent of the flora and the morning dew flooding my nostrils.

I could also sense a puissiant, *striking* feeling that traveled through the ground, danced with the petals, leaves, and colors of the wind, and flooded into me, a sweet nectar that I consumed.

*Love*. Passionate, unspoken *love*.

*Yes*. This was *summer*.

The music picked up to a steady rhythm, its enchanting melody enticing me and weaving its way through the cavities of my ears. I was in a *trance*. My eyes were still shut, but the blackness in front of me was fading out, and I was now standing in *woodland*. A gigantic *forest*.

*The Piney Woods*.

The leaves were carried off in the wind, prancing with each other in the sky and catching the glittering light of the moon and pearly starlight. Next to me was a river, rushing against brown rocks, and the peaceful splash of the water made my body and soul sink into an ethereal calm.

I wasn't alone here. I heard the delicate chirp of the crickets, the barks of a red fox that trotted in the distance and looked over a hill at me, his fur full of *stars* and the green lights of fireflies. A *spirit*.

I heard ravens cawing, the flight of gentle wings worn from stories of old. I heard fish leaping out of the river, graceful fins fighting the current. I heard the hoofsteps of caribou, the shout of an elk, the roar of a mother bear and her cubs, the *hiss hiss* of cicadas.

Around me, tiny green orbs scaled the sky, reaching above the illustrious pine and their needles, lighting the Piney Woods in a luminescent lime green, tinted with the white of the lunar moon.

*Fireflies*.

*Everything* in here was in perfect harmony. I found myself running after the rhythm of this mystic song, my feet shuffling through the leaves and pine needles of the Piney Woods, and the songs of its residents, the run of the river. My inner light was *here*. The essence I shared with this land was *here*.

I had never known of such melodies, such harmonies, such *magic*, as *this*.

This place was *calling* to me. It was *yearning* for me, and I held my breath in my throat listening to the song.

I had discovered a place to declare my *home*, a home far away from the home I knew. Fiction or not, it was *real* and belonged to *me*. No one could see this place, *find* this place, but *me*.

Just as swiftly as I found it, it was over, and my visualization of the fairytale woods dispelled. I was back in the frigid winter season on the second floor of Barnes & Noble in the music isles in front of an electronic display.

The screens bubbled, and flowing silver text appeared on the pink screen.

*Varien*

*The Ancient & Arcane*

*The new fantasy longplay out now!*

"Wow!" I murmured.

So, the person who created the song was *Varien*. The name rolled smoothly off the tongue when I lightly spoke it, and I heard a *click*. *Varien*. *Varien*. *Varien*.

The name *fit*. It clicked into a place, a missing puzzle piece it was. A puzzle in me was complete, but I didn't know what. I just knew that a puzzle was *finished*, bringing *liberation*.

But the album... *The Ancient & Arcane*. It sounded like a fable, but in actuality was something *physical*. It had connected me the second I heard that short, yet *sensational* track.

Next to the screens were shelves with numerous copies of the longplay, and even the floor had visuals of the album, as it was made of digital tiles that reflected the meditating woman straight back at me.

She looked so *serene*. She was a bizarre-looking woman, but the gravity of her meditation and consecrated appearance pulled me in.

The album's art was *everywhere*. This was why the saleswoman wanted us to go up here! This album was *exceptional*. It cast a spell on me, a spell that could not be shattered, dented, or undone. It was brimming with nature and an alluring concept of magic, an inviting draw that granted me *peace*.

Nothing else in life but *peace*.

Tenatively, I picked up a longplay copy, studying the album art before turning it on the back, reading out the track listings.

*1. The Ancient & Arcane*

*2. Snowlight*

*3. Supercell (ft. Veela)*

*4. Transmissions from Lemuria*

*5. Hypnotique (ft. Charlotte Haining)*

*6. Firefly (intermission)*

*7. Kamisama (ft. Miyoki)*

*8. Ghost Spores (ft. Laura Brehm)*

*I was hooked on the spot*.

These titles *heavily* fascinated me, and I wondered what story this longplay was trying to tell.

A mythical power? The elements and magic composing nature? Forces that draw us to nature? Oh, I was eager as *hell* to find out, my curiosity burning with new, infinite fire, and this one couldn't be extinguished.

Not this time. It would always have the fuel it needed now that I had Varien.

I turned to my parents, my grip on the copy of *The Ancient & Arcane* unyielding, and I was tempted to run out of the store with it altogether.

"Mom? Dad? Can I *please* get this?" I begged. "I *really really* love it. It sounds so beautiful, and it's just... I *feel* this album *has* to be in my collection."

Mom and Father turned to each other, thinking. Then Father turned to me.

"Well, Winterlyn, we would, but we don't have a viable way of playing it..."

Mom elbowed him advisedly.

"Edwin, did you forget the CD player Willie gifted me all those years ago? It can have a purpose now!" she chastised, batting her hand at his direction.

"Oh..." Father had his realization. "My bad, Winterlyn. Yeah, we'll get it soon. Not tonight, it's getting late, and you stood there lost in thought for so long that it's now ten minutes until closing time."

I gasped, then remembered that we came in late. Phew, I wasn't about to get ourselves trapped in the bookstore overnight just because someone new became my crowned jewel!

Little did I know that my *crowned jewel* was about to *permanently influence my life* - and open up another world of discovery that transformed my autonomy *forever*.

Just two weeks after, my otherworldly wish was *granted*. We returned to the store, and *The Ancient & Arcane* became my most valuble possession, dethroning the racecars and Hot Wheels sets on display and leaving the Torah in the dust (ssh, Father didn't find out!).

Mom gave me her CD player and plugged it into the outlet near my bed, placing it in my nightstand. Immediately, I gently pulled out the CD, which had the same silver circles and symbols on the cover art, and put it in.

*Every song* would become dearly personal to me, etched into my memory and offering me remarkable, unearthly visuals, the divinest of nature, the pure *elation* at being locked in a fantasy told through *song*. *Every*. *Single*. *Song*.

Had a story to tell, and I let it play out.

Starting with the title track, sharing the name of the album. When I think of *The Ancient & Arcane*, this was my introduction to the world Varien had created. Lush summers, the love and fervor sprouting up from the woods and the soft grass.

Then the story changed with the following track, titled *Snowlight*. You know that after I listened to it, it would be the name that would *for evermore* define me, but I have to silence myself. I can't spoil the ending midway through, can I?

*Snowlight*, to me, was that same woods, but in winter, where the grass would be replaced by white blankets of snow, the trees leafless, yet the pine needles clung on, bearing the weight of Mother Nature's gift: the frost and plush powder from the sky. Icicles hung from the branches, reflecting rays of winter sun, and the river was frozen over in transparent blue ice.

A lovely, *enamoring* voice sung so softly, a crisp *aaah* that repeated several times over, and an *ooh* midway through, capturing the aplomb of winter through words unspoken, but through sound alone.

With the next track, *Supercell*, the story changed, and we were introduced to the Child of Iris. Iris was the Greek god of the rainbow, communication, and new endeavors, and her child, who did not fit in, but met with a spiritual identity, also known as the person behind the song: Veela.

While I'd love to discuss Veela's work on the song in depth, she's not the highlight of the story here.

*Supercell* would transition into a *swing* of mumbles and distinct, non-English communication. Musings of entities, bodies with more power over us.

*Transmissions from Lemuria*. Lemuria, a place far from us. What was being transmitted is still a mystery, but just using your imagination can expand a great deal on that lore.

Moving on from *Transmissions from Lemuria*, we had *Hypnotique*, a fast-paced hop song telling tale of a being with an enticing yearning for *someone*. Her words were mesmerizing, luring me into a trance, and I questioned what force could be so *powerful* as to bend this deity to her knees for it.

She craved it so much that she suffered. At the end she spoke words in another language, unrecognizable, yet adding to my sheer enchantment.

Turns out, those last verses described her suffering in Spanish. A language foreign to me, but woven into the album's lore. Charlotte Haining's work on this one reeled me in like a salmon on a hook.

Briefly, following *Hypnotique*, there was an intermission song. A quick reprieve, a break from the lore, with a song to cleanse the mind of all worries, of all transgressions held in the world.

To look forward to the mind of the *firefly*.

*Firefly*.

The vocalist to this song didn't even need to identify herself to exercise her preachings through the use of meditation. Imagining that the wind had slit through my cheekbones, cold, and raw, the tears sliding down my cheekbones.

Yet I was tinged by the warmth of the sun, internally yelling the lyrics at the top of my lungs as she instructed. But her last few words stuck with me, burrs in my side, companions for the ride.

*We live with our guards up*

*And our words up veiled under a mask of infamy*

*We speak loudest while in silence*

*Only wordless, are we true*

*Only wordless, are we true*.

At the time, I barely knew what she meant, but I *listened*. I *heard*. My mind was clear, open to new thoughts, open to reflection, open to what the album had to bring next.

Bring next, it did. The peaceful drums and prominent Asian influences. Japan had a hand in this song, that I could tell.

And it was made more evident by the *vigorious*, rhythimic vocals brought forth by Miyoki, who had also performed the title track *and* the faint voice in *Snowlight*. Her voice was unmistakable.

*Kamisama*. A beautiful scene, yet somber in nature, letting go of no more than a dream and coming to peace with oneself, mixed in with *striking* Japanese verses from the godsend Miyoki.

Every part remembered. Earthy.

And finally, the last track of *The Ancient & Arcane* started with chimes, a descent into a different world.

Laura Brehm, mighty she is, left that door off its hinges.

Eternal return.

None of it came together to form a picture for me. Later, when I'd have more time, I'd solve the story of *Ghost Spores*, but for now, its meaning was a complete mystery to me.

It didn't help that I had no clue what spores were. Anyways.

That was *The Ancient & Arcane*.

I wasn't just a fan anymore.

*I was obsessed*. The songs grew, snaked around my heart so tight I was humming them everywhere, around the house, outside, utilizing that CD player every day to just listen and imagine the world Varien so effortlessly created in the studio. The wonder of nature, the awe of healing, finding what makes us sane, letting go, learning of a higher power, of the higher people that ruled our humanity.

In a way, I sent myself off to a new world, entering a portal to another realm accessed by me and me *only*. The woods I had met from the touchscreens in the bookstore.

Where I wanted to be, where the animals had stars in the fur and scales, where the fireflies and ravens *squawked* and arose to defy the night's ominous shadows.

My humming was something to be ahold of. I was no singer, but I was matching the notes perfectly, stride by stride, vocal by vocal. *Snowlight* was definitely my favorite to hum.

"What'cha humming?" Father questioned once as he cleaned the kitchen counter.

*Snowlight*!"

"What's *Snowlight*? Is that one of-"

"Varien's songs!"

"Sounds nice, dear." He scratched me on my head. "Just try to avoid spending all day in your room, okay?"

"Trust me, dad, I won't." Promise me no promises.

I spent more than *two hours* in my room replaying the album repeatedly, wanting to gain a better understanding of the lore. What *constructed* it from the ground up.

This burning, this *intrusiveness* to learn in me, wasn't a thing I had felt since I was little, when I was tiny and had no comprehension of the world and its dangers.

I did now. But that fire was roaring in me, licking at the insides of my body. *Learn,* it whispered. *Learn well and wisen.*

Wisen I did. Cooped up in my room with my CD player and Varien.

*Varien*. What did I know about Varien besides the name?

Who was *behind* Varien?

*Bam*. Gasoline to the fire. I was sitting here clueless - I had an *album* to infer about Varien, but what about information about *Varien*, who he or she happened to be? What was *beyond* the artist and name? The music, unreal and dreamy?

I had to find out, but I didn't have technology of my own to do the necessary research. I was too young for a phone; Father would *immediately* refuse my request to have one. "No social media until you're at least ten or eleven," he'd say.

I had no laptop either. Modern problems require the most modern of solutions...

...so I approached Mom, who had just gotten a new phone, retiring the Crackberry (you get it if you get it) she had been using for what seemed like *eons*.

"Mom? Can I borrow your phone for a few minutes?"

"Sure!" she agreed, handing me the precious device. "Be careful with it, dear. Gonna play *Bejeweled* again?"

"Yeah," I lied, not wanting to give away my mission - Operation Discover Varien.

Once I had the phone, I dashed back to my room and left the door a little ajar. A shut door would be a blaring indicator to someone, someone *prying* as Father, that I was *up to something*. A scheming child is no good in a McCormick household.

Quickly, being a smart girl, I figured out what led to the internet - a vast, *vast* space full of freaks, MySpacers, and people who engaged in brutal dogfights over opinions. There were also great people, inventors, mind-readers, and samaritans.

That wasn't what I came here for. Typing into Google, I searched "varien artist" in lowercase and hit enter, eagerly anticipating what results would devise online.

Google rendered a second later.

I was holding a *smoking gun*.

Varien was *unique* in every way. I hadn't attempted to visualize *him* until now, where I saw his features.

Pale skin, his physique *established*. He was broad, his arms wide and *muscular*, the most muscular arms out of any man I've seen (Father's arms are average). Those arms were covered in *intricate* markings, of mushrooms, of leaves, of *forests*.

Tattoos. I was too young to receive one, and my parents never would, not wanting me to go through a process such as that, but Varien? *They suited him*.

*He's so... different*, I thought, continuing my analysis.

Varien had short, feathery light brown hair, a mess, but it complimented him amazingly. On his nose was a shiny nose ring, another thing my parents, especially Father, wouldn't let me wear.

It was silvery-white. I pressed the phone closer to my face (not blinding myself, miraculously). He looked so *divergent*.

An oddball from the crowd.

*Unique*, standing out, to make his name known and recognized. He must be *super* popular if he had a whole display case to himself at Barnes & Noble!

He was a man, but not a man who blended into a crowd. He was a man who opposed tradition and went his own way.

I just knew it in my heart, swelling up with *establishment*. His appearance, leaning on goth and typical, both worlds melded as one.

He looked *perfect*.

"Maybe someday I can meet you, Varien," I whispered. "I have a lot I want to say to you..."

By that, it was more than just the discovery of *The Ancient & Arcane*. I wanted to meet Varien, know him better, get to know him *beyond* the alias. It was clear that wasn't his real name, an eight-year old like me knew what was a stage name and what was a real name.

In this case, his real name was Nick. Nick Kaeler. I preferred Varien, though. Shorter, memorable, and *perfection*.

*Varien*. A being who left me spellbound, and he was only going to blanket me in more of his stardust when I discovered his *other songs*.

The songs that preceeded *Ancient & Arcane*. The songs that were the *backbone* that launched Varien to stardom in the music world.

It all started a few years ago, except that Varien wasn't named Varien. In his early days, he called himself *Halo Nova*, and his music then was a far cry to the lyricism and craft displayed now.

His first-ever song was titled *The Force*. It's not that notable, but a certain celebrity chef happens to make a cameo. I'm not an idiot sandwich, so I recognized who he was instantly.

The track was okay. But it's screechy and not my thing.

Varien's career would pick up after that, and personally, I consider his first "hit" song to be *Cloak and Dagger*. Screechiness, mixed with a sweet adrenaline rush. For sure my type of song!

After that, it was *Mirrors*. Then *Morphine* (wow, so addictive to the point where it's still one of my favorites from him today!), *Lilith* (don't let the demon child eat your soul).

*Melodies of Memories Past*. *Moonlight*. *The Valkyrie Trilogy* (*yes*).

I was fast to discover that before *Ancient & Arcane*, he had released an EP titled *Mirai Sekai*, an Asian-inspired compilation with fellow producer 7 Minutes Dead (hey, that's an awesome name, by the way).

All bangers.

My parents were convinced after several rounds of begging to get me *Mirai Sekai*, and that EP was free to join *Ancient & Arcane* on my new album shelf. Treasure.

*Mirai Sekai* was so soothing, and at night, I'd skip to *Goodnight Sequence* and fall asleep to it, the soft melodies taking me to the land of stars that I would frequently greet in my dreams.

When you have an obsession with someone, that obsession grows. Soon, every day, I was name-dropping so many Varien songs that I could have built a bridge from Washington to Florida with the amount of words tumbling out of my mouth.

From effortly describing the smooth midsection in *Moonlight* that doubled my respect of Varien, to the chilling nature of *Lilith*, to how *Gunmetal Black* was created in ONE ENTIRE DAY (Varien is on another LEVEL I say), to how the *Valkyrie* trilogy would bring me to absolute tears when I'd listen to it through Mom's phone, with her permission.

I yapped. On and on. Father would take a break from his overly strict behavior to chuckle at the fangirl that was coming out (*important* choice of words here) in me.

Varien was my favorite artist. No one else could remodely stand on the same floor as him. His creativity and endless imagination, akin to my own, ran *free* for all of the world to enjoy. His passion, ebbing out to sow fresh, invigorating seeds into the music community, setting an example for many who strived to be like him.

Varien was on top of the *world*.

But it was *one* action of his, *one moment* that swept me up into a starlit sky full of *evolution*.

Months passed by of me consuming Varien's discography like it was a buffet at Golden Corral (never forgiving them for almost giving Mom food poisoning, but hey, chocolate fountain?), diving into lore so deep that I had broken through the ice and sunk far below the surface.

Beneath the surface is where *true gems* hide.

Those true gems yanked me into beautiful, strange scenarios; I visualized myself into those songs, the forests, the mystique, the journey, the wars, the bloodshed (I will bleed all of me to set you freeeee), and escaping the demon child wanting to slurp up my soul (not today, Lilith).

Autumn had descended on Pineshadow, and it was September, where the leaves had just begun to brown and fall from the trees, where the pine trees had turned brown, orange, and yellow with the dip in temperatures. It was chilly.

A very, very chilly day when I decided to use Mom's phone to see if any new Varien pictures had dropped on the internet. I wasn't swooning over him by any means, but I liked studying his features and contrasting the heavy difference from those around me.

Once I had obtained the phone, I went onto the internet and simply searched "varien," in lowercase again (because who cares about capitalization when typing anyway), and the next thing I knew, I was bombarded by *headlines*.

Varien had made the rounds a few hours ago. One article got my attention, though.

*Out Proud: American Musician and Composer Varien Comes Out as Transgender*

I gasped, this new information stunning me. Varien had come out as... *what*?

"Transgender" was a foreign word to me. I hadn't heard my parents mention it before. Surely the article would explain it? I clicked and scrolled, making a mental note to purge the history later so Mom - or worse, Father, wouldn't be asking questions.

*The EDM community and fans of American musician Varien, who has risen to fame with her unique, one-of-a-kind takes on electronic music, have banded together to wish her a congratulations on coming out. Now, she reflects on a new chapter of her life - turning the page on her old masculine identity and coming forward as a transgender person.*

I paused. Wait, that couldn't be right. Varien's *male*. That's what I had known. The article wouldn't misgender him, I thought.

Quickly, I went to Google and searched "define transgender," making note that it was another history part I'd have to erase.

The result flashed on screen, and my eyes dilated, astonished.

*Denoting or relating to a person whose gender identity does not correspond with the sex registered for them at birth.*

Some of those words were mush in my vocabulary, but I still read well enough to figure out what that meant.

The article *wasn't* misgendering Varien. Rather, they were right! Varien was a *girl* now.

He- *no*, *she* - didn't align with the masculine identity she had been born in. Varien was born *male*, but had wanted to *separate* from that, to become someone she was *comfortable* being.

My heartstrings fluttered. I was shocked by such a change - going from male, what I had known *her* as, to *female*, something unexpected, was something I'd have to get used to.

But Varien having the will to announce it publicly and *embrace* herself for who she was... my respect for her grew even more.

I read the article slowly, listening to Varien as she discussed the identity change, how she presented herself, and how she was happy with such a change after years of struggle behind the scenes, being called all these things that weren't *true* to her.

I touched my heart, feeling that even though I was no victim of bullying myself. Just trying to present yourself only to be called disgraceful names, yet overcoming it and choosing to be the person *you* want to be? That's *dynamite*. Something *special* and worthwhile.

I reached the end, and there, the article revealed that Varien shared pictures of her current style. Scrolling down, my mouth fell open at what I was *seeing*.

Varien was the definition of *pure elegance*. She had cut her hair really short, having dyed it pale (silvery-beige? I think?), and she had heavy eyeliner and shading that made her eyes *stand out*. They sparkled, glinting this capitivating purple and silver, and I blinked.

The entire image was *beautiful*. Pink and blue mood lighting (fitting, transgender colors) doused Varien on both sides, helping her to truly pop out from the background and adding extra layers of depth to her new look. A hand raised to her cheek revealed more tattoos on her hand.

*Oh my god*.

The edges of my face were heating up the more I stared, but I didn't dare look away, because Varien was too *striking* to look away from.

I scrolled through more pics, and my face continued to heat up, like someone had blotted it with hot water. Was I getting ill?

*No*, I told myself. *I'm blushing*.

I was blushing at Varien. *Blushing*.

She just looked so effortlessly beautiful, and she had revealed just how much being transgender meant to *her*...

*That pride*.

*That graceful beauty*.

Varien was so *attractive*.

That *style* was *attractive*. I *loved* it.

It complimented Varien down to the *core*. She welcomed diversity with open arms, and I *admired* that more than anything else.

Her body had retained a lot of masculine features, but it was sleeker now, and her hair was shorter, way shorter, than how long it used to be. Paler, yet *smooth*. The eyeliner that added a black rim around her eyes and silver-purple on the eyelid, giving extra definition to eyes that I could see just the faintest light of *stars* reflected in.

Her body was *beautiful*. *Attractive*. *Appealing*. I didn't abscond from these *sudden* thoughts.

And that hairstyle... I'd *kill* just to have hair like that. It looked *cool*. It broke the *norm*.

That was a heavy contradistinction from *my body*.

I found myself going to the bathroom more often than once, at least twice a day, for the usual business, but now to use a friend of mine to examine the features of my body proactively: the *mirror*.

Mirrors. They grant us the ability to see our own reflection, the person standing there on the other side staring back at us. Mirrors can cause discomfort. They can reflect eerie sadness, or sheer happiness and joy in oneself.

When I looked into the mirror, I'd study *every detail* of my body and compare it to Varien's. Yeah, the polarity was *massive*.

I was a child and smaller. I was a girl, though Varien was biologically born male. I had no masculine features; my arms were thin with little muscle, and my frame was slender.

I was a girl, feminine as could be. But I felt like I was *more* than just my own gender. Not just a *girl*. I looked more and more at my body and felt like something was *off* about me.

Habitually, Father's previous comments about me and my gender would resurface, and they were pinpricks at the top of my skull. I recalled him telling me Abercrombie had "nothing that appealed to my gender."

He'd always take me away from men's sections of stores when I wanted to check out that clothing.

He'd mention my role as a woman in society when preaching ideologies to me.

Why did my gender *matter* to Father so much? Why did my role as a *woman* matter so much?

Wasn't I a human, a human with a *role* in life outside of who I was born as? In a way, Father's remarks *irked* me.

Father couldn't *decide* my role for me, or how I ought to be, or what *I* inclined to wear, or *wanted* to do.

I wasn't going to listen to this. I wasn't going to be duct-taped into a *box* of ideals Father desired for me to defer to.

*I* was in charge. *I* was going to decide who and what I wanted to present myself as.

So I spent *more* time in the bathroom. Studying my body, head to toe, throwing my leg up on the counter to examine closely. My legs were thin.

I'd lift up part of my shirt (something Father would have me hanging upside down by the *ankles* for) to study my abdomen, thin, not too curvy, and still growing. I'd look at the veins on my neck, my eyes, the ice-blue a lance stabbing back at me.

For the typical eight-year old girl, I was a normal height. I had freckles on my cheeks, here to stay, and *long*, downy sandy-brown hair growing past my shoulders. My bangs were a mess and hung loosely around my eyes.

I studied myself a lot, but I wanted to go a step above - and I decided to start picturing myself with *Varien's* features.

With a little imagination, I was bulkier, my arms stronger, muscles present, well-defined. I had short-cropped hair that hung a little over my forehead. I wasn't a makeup person, but I gained Varien's thick, black eyeliner and shimmering eyelids.

*Whoa*! I looked like someone else... maybe a bit too much. I dropped the eyeliner concept quicker than a Hot Pocket.

With the eyeliner dropped and my imagination running at full force, I grinned ear to ear. I looked like Varien, still distinguished *enough* to be myself.

Masculine features looked *attractive* on me. They *fit* me. They didn't limit me or hinder me, but *matched* me.

I blushed.

I loved looking more like a guy.

I loved looking like *Varien*, looking *masculine*, not just girly with girly t-shirts and dresses. *I loved this*.

And maybe, just maybe... I was like Varien.

A single bombshell erupted in me, and the question repeated in my mind daily.

*Am I transgender... like Varien?*

Would I be happier as a man, not a woman? Would I be comfortable identifying myself as the opposite gender?

The more I suggested it, the more I was certain that I was more *male* than *female*. On the exterior, yes, but did I want to go a step further and completely take a one eighty on the person I had appeared as since birth?

I didn't want to act on impulse and make a rash decision that could land me in severe trouble, or worse, receive backlash from my parents, my Jewish community, and my classmates at school.

Research was *vital* in this case. I needed to learn more about what being transgender meant, because I sure as hell knew it wasn't as simple as exclaiming, "Oh, I'm trans!" and moving on. There were more underlying components I needed to learn.

Using Mom's phone, I'd play my own version of *Cloak and Dagger*, spending my time on it to do research on transgender topics via the guise that I wanted to play *Bejeweled* or listen to Varien's discography. Then, when I was done, the internet history was purged completely, wiped off the slate, and Mom and Father weren't able to figure out what I was up to.

This enabled me to learn that the art of being transgender was apart of a vast set of identities - LGBTQ.

My first forays into LGBT culture had begun.

In my intial days of research, I'd discover what LGBT stood for.

L was for *lesbians*, women who liked other women but lacked feelings for men.

G was for *gays*, usually the umbrella term for every sexuality under the sun, though it also referred to men who had feelings for other men but not women. Reverse lesbian is what I thought of it.

B was for *bisexuals*, men and women who liked both genders.

T was for *transgenders*, those who identify as the opposite gender to their birth sexuality. Varien.

There were so many, many, *many* more that I can't name them all here. The LGBT spectrum was *boundless*, broad, an outer *space* of identities and sexualities people fell under.

All of what I learned was *charming*; to know that a person can be attracted to *their own gender* and just that alone, or be attracted to *both*, or even lack feelings for anyone (aroace people, where you at?), *intrigued me*. Especially since I was questioning whether or not I was LGBT myself, in this case, transgender.

Much as I'd love to independently study every identity ever, my focus was on the transgender side of things, and thus I honed in on that.

Those who identify as trans experienced a sensation known as *gender dysphoria*, where they feel as if their biological gender and identity don't mix with each other, and it can be so intense that it can cause anxiety and depression.

Thinking back on this, I maybe had a *little* bit of gender dysphoria, but it wasn't that overwhelming and mostly spurned by Father's thoughts on my birth sex.

Gender dysphoria also caused the process of transitioning - a person putting their body through a process of adapting to the other gender through the injection of hormones, surgeries, and other means to conform to the gender of their choosing.

*Hormones* definitely influence how we think. Just look at the average teenager (am pointing to my modern-day self and my infamous temper).

Although some who are transgender don't actively participate in it, people can *cross-dress*, something which caught my attention. They can be one gender, but wear the clothing of the opposite gender and absolutely *rock* in it. It's not tied loosely to sexual orientation and is mostly done out of free will.

Also applies to drag queens (I respect them heavily).

Sadly, in my time researching everything to do with being transgender, I learned that a *lot* of trans-identifying people were subject to hate and *discrmination*. People being told they were ugly and weird for just *expressing themselves* and *existing* in the bodies they've *always wanted*.

In the identities they *desired*. It enraged me. Why couldn't we all see each other as equals and treat each other with respect like the Golden Rule *stated*?

Transgender people were *humans*. My blood boiled when I learned that they were called demons, monsters, and so many other ugly things that make me foam at the mouth out of anger. It wasn't just that, but some states *prohibited* care for trans people and trans youth, made it the subject of controversies.

Said controversies are very political and I will not give context for that reason.

Trans people were also subject to violence, refused entry to where they wanted to go, exposed and doxxed online. I read the horror stories and felt my stomach flip. People in this world were *evil*.

*Pure evil*. Transgender people were *one of us*. I didn't care *who* identified as *what* or *who* wanted to wear *what clothing*, but I *admired* these people for who they were.

They were brave, had more guts than I ever had. Discrimination against trans people still occurs today, and it warms my heart to see these people rise up defiant and continue breaking the norm, setting examples for the world and youth facing gender dysphoria, or bullying for cross-dressing, or bullying for finding themselves to be trans.

Especially Varien. I could feel my heart contract painfully, and a weight sunk in - damn, she did *risk* a lot, including her whole *career*, to come out as trans. She could have been dragged to hell and back, admonished and blackballed from the EDM industry, but her fans banded together to praise her for being so candid about her identity, as did many in the EDM community.

She is a major role model and I'll always credit her for helping me find my way.

Back to my research. I still had the lingering question, asking myself I was transgender, and I focused on transitioning.

Did I want this? Did I *really* want to move away from my birth gender and identify as someone else? Do everything in my power to prove that?

Before I thought of the bigger picture and what the people in my life would think, I needed to get some inquiry on the transitioning process itself, or else, I'd leap into a chasm and it'd be game over for me.

Transitioning was going to a restaurant and looking at the menu for all the things you could try, except they were options for *how* to transition.

There were so many ways to change the body, emotionally and physically, to adapt to the new identity, and I'd carefully read over them all.

For starters, a person could change their name to fit their identity. Say if you were named, hmm... James, and wanted to present as a female, that name could be changed to *Jamie*, something more feminine.

Gender-affirming care was another big factor and ranged from hormones and surgeries to support groups, resources and referrals, and so much more. So many choices on the menu to pick from!

Transitioning could either be short or drawn out over the course of weeks or months, or even years, depending on the path a person chose as long as the path was safe and comfortable for them. A person could try out different care methods to learn what was best.

To transition meant that one's own view changed of themself over the course of their life, whether in thinking or expression.

*Whew*, that was a lot of information for young me to breathe in and out, but I rolled through research and refused to *stop*, stuffing myself with every scrap of precious knowledge I could gain.

After a while, I had gotten the research I had requested and started to reflect on *if* I wanted to transition myself. Was this *right* for me? Was I willing to put my body through whatever it *took* to become the masculine person I wanted to present myself as?

How would I get the care? That brought up an important issue with me: what my parents would think if I told them about my research.

Mom... she'd probably be open to this, confused, maybe shocked, but open. Father was on the darker side of the moon and would flip several tables at me.

And throw knives.

And possibly hit me on the head with the Torah a couple times over.

And yell until my ears were raspberry red.

Okay, yeah, *I didn't want my parents to know about this*. The rushing rapids of fear tore through my lungs and my belly.

What would happen if I confessed all of what I'd been spending my days doing to them? I knew about transgender people facing ostracization, *hatred*, *death threats* (made me sick), and *hard rejection* for coming out as trans. I wasn't certain I was trans, not yet, but if my parents figured everything out... what would they *think*?

Would they welcome my new identity or *disown me*?

Father's frosty mindset returned to me, and the frost embedded in my spine.

*No,* I told myself. *I can't tell them. Not unless I risk crossing the line.*

I kept silent. A McCormick shouldn't be keeping secrets or telling lies. You ever wonder what happened to Uncle Lewis after the disaster family reunion? He got kicked out of the family and sent to rehab.

I did not want to get sent to rehab, or one of the horrific detransition places I heard about. *I couldn't*.

I was *determined* to hide the truth, so I became extra conscious of the internet history on Mom's phone and purged my searches and articles as soon as possible.

She never found out, and neither did Father.

Was I fully transgender? Did I *want* to transition, and if so, *how*? Was I thinking this through?

Or was I facing the gaping risk of my secrets being discovered and the terrifying, tiny chance I'd get rejected, beaten to a pulp, and told I was the reincarnation of Satan?

It wasn't long after I had performed my research that the ripple effects of my missions reached me, small at first, small saplings that were nurished from what I had learned. I was still debating on transitioning and how I would get the resources needed should I make that decision.

I just wasn't *sure*. I wanted to *be* more masculine, but did I want my whole body to *go* with that flow?

At my elementary school, the girls chitter-chattered about *boys*, feelings unseen welling deep within them, and they'd describe their sugary-sweet pinings for the boys and their crushes.

Usually, dating is a *yuck no thanks* at this age, but the popular girls only seemed to talk about men now. And about iPods and new phones and what new hot stuff was selling in fashion.

The one boy they all commonly had a crush on, however, was Lars Miller. A football boy wannabe with short, messy chalky-brown hair slicked in various directions, dark blue eyes, and clunky elbows that made a *thunderclap* when he whammed them against the walls and tables.

I'd hear the girls *scream* and *holler* over him.

*Oh, he has the perfect face!*

*Oh, he plays football, he's so tough!*

*Oh, Lars is so brave!*

Yada yada yada.

Whenever I looked at Lars, I didn't *see* what the girls were talking about. I didn't *see* the reincarnation of the Sprouse Brothers or Troy Aikman.

He wasn't going to front page the next college football magazine.

Lars was just... *average*. He was just another dude who had an overzealous obsession with football, a sport I hardly cared about.

There was *nothing special* about Lars. I felt nothing toward him, and I cringed when any girl called him *cute*, ignoring the chatterboxes and keeping to myself.

When I found myself diverting away from Lars mania, I changed courses and focused on the *girls*. Not the popular ones who were fangirls for Forever 21 and *begging* for one to come to Pineshadow, not the ones who were obsessed with painting their fingernails disasterous shades of hot pink and blue, not the ones who didn't give a shrimp about their grade plummeting harder than the Titanic.

The girls who had all the right moves, all the right times, worked hard, and proved themselves to be valuable assets to the school.

I laid my eyes on the honorable Kailee Skylark, who had chocolate-brown hair, amber eyes, and striped long-sleeve shirts and worn hiking boots. She was a ruffian with a big heart and a *hella* good attitude.

She earned my respect, and she earned my appreciation. I would look at her out of the corner of my eye, thinking highly of her.

The second girl my eyes drifted to was Sigourney Wenhaven, a redhead and STUCO frontrunner who rolled with the *punches* and had a hot temper. The ends of her hair were dyed inky black, and she'd whip it at the pick-me boys, showing them up mercilessly and getting yelled at by a teacher for her *hella* slick attitude.

Sigourney gave the elementary school students *electricity*, lightning bolts raining down from the sky. I *liked her*. She was *super cool*, but I never told her in person, believing I'd sound like a dumb fangirl who just embarrassed herself in front of an *American Idol* crowd.

In the hallways, I couldn't help myself as I glanced at all the girls flooding past me, eager to skimp in to class or out of school. Long or short hair, freckled cheeks, expressive, colorful eyes, snarky, bold attitudes that'd give me goosebumps.

It wasn't the same with guys, and I found myself asking *another* question besides the ones I was asking myself about transitioning.

*Why wasn't I feeling anything toward the guys?*

Why was I searching for a *girl* and not a *guy*? It was normal for a guy to like a girl and a girl to like a guy.

Men... they didn't have *appeal* to me. I couldn't *fathom* why girls would want to date a guy like *Lars*, just another football boy, in their futures.

He was *average*. Nothing more than *average*.

My girl classmates talked about their boy crushes regularly, trying to get me to listen, but I zoned out. I didn't *care* for their stories and high-pitched romance spiels.

The girls would point me to guys in my class.

"No thanks," I bluntly said, raising my cold shoulder and going back to my work.

*I did not care*.

The girls would also frantically point me to Lars, willing me to see what *they* saw, but I still saw *nothing*.

Lars was plain as plain *was*. He could tell me he'd listen to *Varien*, and I still wouldn't see the point in liking someone the way the *girls* did.

Girls were an exception, and I'd stare many times at many, many girls at my school.

Girls had *something* in them, something that *clicked*, a link fusing into place.

Awe. They were *dilligent*. *Responsible*. *Badass*. Bright like the the first stars that appeared in the night, and warm, as if they were reincarnates of the sun.

Girls had *everything*.

A part of me had *changed*. I hadn't thought *that way* about women before. Deep down, tides were changing.

I didn't know *what* was changing, but I had a feeling I'd get to the bottom of why soon.

But *sooner* came quicker than I'd *ever* expected.

I'd have close encounters with the girls at school when we worked in group projects, and hearing a girl talk *normally* and not about crushes was a relief.

A hand would brush up against my skin, unintentional contact at best, but the touch was *soft* and *inviting*, hinting at *something*. Something bigger than I'd ever thought possible.

Whispers would drift onto my cheeks. I found myself gushing to my female classmates like never before, this collectedness, this *attachment* rushing all throughout me.

My heart skipped beats, my eyes were just *fixated* on the girls I'd walk by. Just another day in the crowd for them.

The saplings planted in me were burgeoning into trees, tiny, but growing fast, and I could feel their rapid progress with every passing day.

The girls around me, near and far, didn't feel the grand, glorious *euphoria*, electrified and balmy, ricocheting *everywhere* in my body.

They didn't have the tuggings that pulled me into them.

*Yearning*.

The *enticing* yearning Charlotte Haining described in *Hypnotique* returned to me, the transparent answers, a hunger, desires so *unexplained*.

Yearning for that touch, that contact, that conversation, black or white or in full color, that *electric* eye contact. I *liked* when girls interacted with me, *tied me up in knots*, and was it entirely wrong of me to wish it'd happen again and again?

*What was going on with me*?

*Girls* were *incredible* human beings, and I was so drawn in by their emanation that girls became the focus of my dreams, meandering through waking and sleeping, crossing the boundaries of fake and reality.

They'd appear in the misty daydreams, parting the clouds and the rain, donating a hand to me, and I'd take it. The hand, mysterious, but not even cold, tempting me with ideas unable to be put into words.

At night was when the dreams took on a whole *new* meaning. After closing my eyes and allowing the dark to wrap around my body, I'd awaken in a clearing, flashy flowers surrounding me with the pine trees of Washington circling the grasses.

For a second I'd be alone, and out of nowhere would appear a girl. A *beautiful* girl, her figure vague, and she was more of a silhouette, but *there*. I could see her long hair curl delicately on her shoulders.

She'd amble up to me, footsteps light, and take my hand in hers. We'd run into the forest, chasing dreams, chasing *hubris*. All the time, I'd felt *whole*.

*Complete* with the girl beside me.

I'd have more dreams, dreams of standing on top of a mountain, on top of the entire *globe*, and a girl would stand at my side faithfully, her silhouette face resting on my shoulder blade, and her touch was *serotonin* at its source.

I felt so calm with her resting with me. Worries disappeared. Stress migrated to the shores of despair, which crumbled and fell away from me.

I'd dream that I'd be running, running with the most *powerful* jerks in my heart, towards *something*. That something I didn't know until I skidded to a stop in a field of tall grass.

Another silhouette of a girl my age, and she'd hold a bird feather in her hand, green and purple dappled, caressing it with a finger.

It glimmered in the yellow rays of sun. A gift for me.

When I'd awake from all these dreams, my face was hot, like I had been out in the sun for too long even though I was safe and sound in my bedroom, and I could hear my heart go *thump*.

Those dreams felt *unbelievably real*. They *could* have been real, but were only fiction.

Why were girls appearing in my dreams? Why had I felt so *attached* to girls, importantly?

The trees in me were almost fully grown. Just a little more water, and they'd reach their full age.

That was when I'd find my solace, all the answers I needed, but they were missing the *water*.

The *élan vital*.

At the same time, my dreams and daydreams were persisting, and I could not stop *thinking* about the girls. My mind was stuck, gears frozen in place.

I didn't want to think about math, or the fights in the school bathrooms, or the Torah, or synagogue, or Father's ramblings.

*I wanted to think about girls*.

And these dreams would cumulate in the biggest, *life-giving*, *rapturous* discovery, the krypotonite, the diamond, the last piece of the puzzle constructing for *months*.

On a spring night, when the stars were highest in the sky, I was tucked in by Mom and went to bed, neatly curled in my blankets. Sleep snuck in like a dormouse and overtook me steathily.

The world waned to black.

When I opened my eyes, banishing the blackness, I was floating, my pajamas rising up around me.

That didn't make sense. Gravity didn't work that way, and that was certainly *not* how Newton described it.

Then I breathed, opening my mouth, and bubbles poured out, rainbows reflected in each.

It occurred to me, made evident by the marks I made by swishing my arms around.

I was *underwater*. I panicked, realizing that I was potentially drowning and was going to die... but I didn't *feel* like I was drowning.

I was just a human, a young girl, floating in the ocean, at all peace with the world.

Strange... yet tranquil.

Suddenly, I *saw her*. A girl the same age as me, long brown hair carried by the ocean, wearing a dress. She swam up to me, waving her hands in greeting and doing a full flip, her frame seamlessly flowing through the transparent water, feet elegantly raising towards the shimmering surface.

I gasped, bubbles leaking out of my mouth again. She was *stunning*, and the hairs on my skin stood up.

Way up.

The girl swam closer to me now, grasping my hands in hers and holding them out, her fingers smoothly twining with mine. The contact sent *shivers* through me, despite the fact that the ocean was warm and cozy.

She guided me with gentle heaves of her body, and we covered the vast ocean, passing tall rocks, sandy dunes, white corals, and droves of fish, until we came to an empty clearing where it could just be us.

Still holding my hands, the girl, gracefully as any mermaid, twirled me around, and my mouth curved into a wide smile.

She was *beautiful*. A *beautiful stranger*, with velvet dark blue eyes and lips outlined in a pale pink. Her skin was pale and spotless, not a blemish in sight.

Her eyes lit up with approval at my reaction, almost teasing me and asking if I liked her.

Yes. I so *liked* you.

She let go of my hands, but then pulled me into a tender hug, tracing the edges of my back. She closed the gap between us, the skin of her forehead grazing against mine, and sparks *flew*.

Lots of sparks, lighting fuses in me that I never knew I had.

I didn't want this to *stop*. I wanted her to continue.

I let my mind *wonder*.

*Wonder* what would happen if she got closer to me.

*Wonder* what would happen if our noses touched. Accidentally or purposefully.

*Wonder* what would happen if-

I didn't have time to round off those thoughts, for she answered my questions for me.

She pressed her nose against mine, and the sensation could have sent me flying ten feet backwards.

*God*. I *loved* that. I loved that more than anything ever. I improbably *loved that feeling*.

Was it so wrong if I wanted it to happen *again*?

The lugging of my heart became the strongest it ever felt, and my chest was expanding. Like they gained sentience, my hands grabbed the girl's cheeks.

*Heaven*.

Heaven sent me this angel. A stranger.

A stranger not a young girl like me could resist.

Then, what happened next was the *improbable*.

The *impossible*.

We broke every barrier in *existence*.

The girl, as gently as she could, placed her pink lips *onto mine*.

*She kissed me*.

I didn't even refute or break it. I let my body relax, and I let her kiss me, let her latch on. Bliss poured into the cavities and hidden spots of my body, and my brain was in a frenzy. My face was warming, the feeling *godly*.

*Otherwordly*.

I didn't want it to stop. I *never* wanted it to stop. I wanted this girl to keep kissing me, to keep *holding me*, to keep whirling me around in the infinite ocean, where we could intermingle freely without anyone to judge.

Rules aren't for everybody.

It felt so *legit*. I had gone to the highest levels of life. I had beaten *everything*. I had a girl that *loved* me. I couldn't be stripped of what I had just found. I couldn't be persecuted. I was *free*.

Wait a minute, *what the heck was I doing*? I remembered, all of a sudden, that I was *kissing a strange girl who I wanted to kiss*.

A *stranger*. A stranger with lips I was *dying* to kiss *again*, and *again*, and *again*.

The dream ended, and I woke up in my bed, sweating, my face hot to the touch, my lips tingling with a furor.

I rubbed them, but the feeling didn't fade.

What had just happened? Why did I feel so... weird?

And then the dream *smashed* into me, and the tsunami of events coursed through my mind, making me sit up and put a hand to my sweat-drenched forehead.

Drifting in the ocean. The girl. Our gallivanting in the sea. The closeness. The touch. Skin against skin. Getting so close to each other that our noses were touching.

The *kiss*.

I stopped, and my face warmed *hard*.

*That kiss*.

It wasn't real. I didn't actually kiss a girl in the sea.

Yet... I had *hoped* for that to happen.

I had wanted a girl to *kiss me*.

I didn't *want* it to stop. A girl kissing me was *right*.

It wasn't *illegal* or *forbidden*.

It was written in the *stars*. Meant to be. *Destiny foretold*.

I closed my eyes, imagining that feeling, imagining the lip-against-lip nudge, the tight-knit hugging, so comforting, so *intoxicating*.

My cheeks were *sweltering*.

Why was I feeling like this? Was I sick? Why was I thinking like this? *Was this normal*?

*Wait*.

A realization dropped on me.

*I'm not sick. I'm blushing... I'm blushing all over my face, and I don't need a mirror to see that...*

I was blushing *at the thought of a girl kissing me*.

*I want that girl to kiss me... I want a girl to love me, and cradle me like that...*

The touch. The kiss. The hug. The dances.

*There was nothing more I wanted in my whole life than for a girl to do those things to me*.

*And ONLY girls*.

That was when the trees reached their full potential. When they stopped growing, now adult trees and healthy.

When their pollen filled my body.

When the shadows within my mind retreated.

When the sun set and the stars came out, I realized it, realized what should have been so *obvious* from the start.

*I love girls. And just girls*.

I had *feelings* for girls that would *never* be reciprocated with a guy. I didn't like men, they weren't *interesting* and didn't have the *flair*, the *delicacy*, the *beauty* that girls had.

I had been studying transgender terminology, struggling to convince myself that I was transgender and wanted to transition.

But I had forgotten about the other LGBT labels as well. The L word returned to me.

*Lesbians*. Women who only like *women* and lack attraction to *men*.

The next time I looked into the mirror, I stared back at my twin on the flip side, and she gave me a thumbs-up as I quietly whispered the words to be set in eternal stone:

"I'm a lesbian."

The mirror also reflected my body back at me, and the more I stared, the more I realized... that my dreams of having more masculine features had evaporated. Gone with the wind, departing my mind for greener pastures.

I liked my body the way it was. Girly, yeah. Slender and small, long floofy hair that made me look *cute*, cute in a neat way. I wasn't satisfied with my clothes, but that was a *personal issue* - and that could be easily sorted later.

Transitioning wasn't for me. I didn't want to change my body and inject hormones in, or change my name and voice. *Winterlyn* was a blessing of the winter season, in the snowstorm I was *birthed in*, and I didn't want to throw that *context*, that *history*, away for the rest of my life - it was still ever so *important* to me. I didn't want to *become* a man, appearance-wise. Even if Father instilled doubts in me or stuck *nonsense* about feminity down my esophagus, I was a smart cookie, knowing that *my views* mattered more than his own. *Feminity* is a spiritual part of me. It's a *part of me* and coexists with me, like the shore and the ocean.

To tear that away would only make me a half-completed puzzle. And since I had years of my life to burn, pictures to take, memories to share, and so much more ahead of me, I didn't want to *change* too much to the point where I wouldn't *recognize myself*.

I didn't *want* to make the sacrifices I was on the fence on. No, they weren't needed. I was happy with my body, proud of myself for figuring out what I wanted to *be*. I deserved to be proud! I had done this without help from *anyone* (minus the usage of Mom's phone)! I wasn't transgender, not a tiny copy of Varien as I initially thought, and I realized that maybe, with my young age, I let the fangirl side of me affect my thoughts *too much*, not gaining the clear head that would have leveled out the impulses. And that was alright, because I found what I *really* was.

I was gay. Queer, the colors of the rainbow shining down on me, raining down on me with their neon hues. A lesbian, one to enjoy intimacy and kisses with girls, never to be shared with boys, who to me, had the luster of fool's gold.

However, with my epiphany came the ever-present issue of Mom and Father. I hadn't told them of any of my studies, as you know, and I hadn't told them of my mini identity crisis.

What would they *think* if I found out that I'd never grow attraction to men? That I wouldn't fall in a guy's arms, but a girl?

What would they *think* if they told them that I'd previously believed I could be *transgender*? They didn't know Varien was trans herself, so that was extra baggage added on.

What scared me most was *Father*. He was always strict, demanding, and tightly bound to Judaism. He had been throwing the Torah a lot at me lately.

A part of me felt regret that I wasn't being honest. Deceit isn't something that should be sown into the mind of a young child, especially not a McCormick. McCormicks were supposed to be honest, supposed to follow the rules.

I had broken those rules. Rules *aren't for everyone*.

The thought of Father's *eruptive*, *glacial* fury *terrified me*.

I was terrified to be hiding the secret that I was queer. If I was found out... disaster would be upon me. Outcomes, sinister and cruel, upon me, feasting on me, the creepy-crawly spiders they were.

The truthful part of me was screaming, "Tell them and get it over with, you foolish idiot! There's no place for dishonesty in your house and you *know it*!"

I hid it anyway, shoving it down inside me, but keeping it in my heart, where'd I'd celebrate my success with a party of one. My parents *couldn't find out* about my LGBT research, or else I'd face a risk of being scolded, punished, or at worse, *removed from the picture*.

*Eradicated*. I gulped, my stomach at unease with nauseating thoughts.

LGBT topics were controversial due to the different stances in politics, and at times, I thought I was playing with *fire*.

Many believed true love was between a man and a woman. I believed love was love, whatever it was - guys can be gay as hell and kiss guys; girls can be gay as hell and kiss girls, or kiss both, or kiss someone trans, or kiss someone who was a they and I wouldn't give a single complaint about it!

I didn't know my parents' views on LGBT matters. Politics were strictly kept *out* of the house, with Father deeming them controversial, explosive, and a detriment. That a child like me should not invest in squabbles the adults participated in. Besides, the only thing I knew about politics was our president at the time was George Bush.

From my transgender research, I had learned that the LGBT+ community *did* face discrimination, and it wasn't just limited to one sexuality alone, making my stomach flip upside down like a bat.

Jesus, I wasn't just playing with fire; I was playing with an *inferno* burying my truth.

Fine with me. I was a lesbian and proud nonetheless, and I forbade anyone from taking my natural love of girls away. *No one could*. I wouldn't let anyone stop me from loving girls unconditionally.

Secretly, behind the backs of *everyone*, I longed to share a kiss with a girl someday, the perfect girl meant for me. One could only hope, dream, and *wonder* of that girl.

I kept my heart an open door.

Identifying as a lesbian modified a lot of my thinking, how I thought about men and women and romantic relationships, how I treated others, and how I began to tread lightly and conceal some aspects of myself to protect the parts of me I held dear.

The molecules in my brain had been rearranged, and not a thing from before remained the same.

Things had changed. I had grown.

What *really* proved to be a major change, however, was that I had *deviated* from my religious teachings, my heritage, and the commandments of the Torah.

The ideals my Father belted at me, the ideals I had listened to closely, believing they should dictate how my life functioned.

There was no room for a scrap of disobedience, no room for breaking standard. You *had* to conform; to rebel was basic disrespect and punishable.

I had to be Father's darling little daughter, a Dudley-Do-No-Wrong. Can you hear the sarcasm as I say this?

Even before I figured out that I was a lesbian, I had been in a harrowing scuffle to connect to my heritage, to connect to what made Judaism so holy, and Father wasn't helping by spitting the commandments at me *every single day*.

He limited my movements, tracked me, and spat at me when I expressed anything that *wasn't* savory. That wasn't pleasing and respectful.

Negative opinions were denied like the river in Egypt.

I *had* to respect my parents at all times. That *was* a commandment in the Torah. And I had to respect my elders, my superiors, even the teachers at school I hated (get your ass out of here, Ms. Sheps!).

But Father's *bizarre* and sometimes *deadset* reiterations of the Torah, and his regular scoldings of me for not abiding by them, was wearing my bones thin.

He affirmed that Yahweh was our God. *God* was sacred. He watched over us, gave us strength when our veins and hearts and lungs were empty, protected us when all went wrong, gave us the weather to provide life to the earth, and preached that we should all love each other and make cookies, not war. I had struggled to believe he was real. He didn't sound like an actual, heroic God and more like a being out of a *fairytale*.

I had disobeyed a lot of his expectations. Was I *really* trying to appease someone who had been *long dead*?

Yahweh wasn't *history*. He was a tale. So was Abraham and Moses. *Tales*.

They weren't real people to me. They just couldn't be. They sounded too *overpowered*, too *exaggerated*.

How could one have enough power to sway populations into following tight-woven teachings? To part the seas and lead people to freedom? To watch over people from above and spy on their everyday life from the clouds?

When I was younger, I believed this was true, the fantasy aspects of my thinking overriding what fragments of *common judgment* I had.

I had thought the world to be full of *magic*, of spells, of wizardry and star-studded ambitions and rosy loves and flights of the doves and grand, luxurious forests, watched over by one universal God with a long, long, *painfully long* list of rules to stand by.

But if the Holy Three *were real people*... then why would they limit our freedoms and not let us do as we pleased? There had to be some limits, that I understand. You can't fight the crazies and the stupids with their level of firepower. That creates a mess.

I didn't understand why women couldn't cut their hair short. *Varien did it*. So why not us?

I didn't understand why cross-dressing wasn't allowed. Surely we had the right to wear what *we* wanted? It wasn't *that* offensive, was it?

It went *on and on and on*.

If these people existed and were people we looked up to, why were they so *repressive*? Why did they hold us *back*?

Hold us back from true potential? From being ourselves? It was a negative weight tied down to their holy high standards.

They sat on rather fine high horses, and Father put them so high I could have been breaking my neck craning my head to stare up at the clouds.

I wanted my *liberty* to express myself as I wanted to - being kept in a box all my life? I'd rather choke on a double-edged sword lodged in my mouth.

Father wasn't assisting or alleviating the issues at hand, only further gatekeeping me by bending the Torah's commandments backward.

"I just want to protect you."

Protect me? You don't want me to evolve? Oh, go choke on a-

*Ahem*. That's enough salt. Let me continue.

Father was doing me no favors overstepping his boundaries. I started to side-eye him when he had his back turned, questioning his porous, bullheaded judgment and logic. Mom wasn't that peachy either and sighed when he spoke about religion, and I could sense that she wanted to become one with her beach chair, just another playing card in the deck, to withdraw from the conversation.

Father forbade me from swearing, even the lightest, harmless swears, such as "damn" or "crap," to not mention "hell," also known as the *fiery bad place where Satan claims the despicable and unholy*, and to not use other language he deemed foul.

He came after me when I muttered them like accident, and I had no breathing room, no room to escape it.

I was also forbidden from slander, forcing me to swallow down my opinions uncomfortably, and in the pit of my stomach, they'd mix with my growing abundance of secrets.

I couldn't have a free opinion until Father left the room or the house *entirely*. If I spoke out, I was yelled at.

He didn't let me cut my hair because it would take away from my feminity.

He didn't let me wear masculine clothing because it would detract from the young woman I was aiming to be.

Father dragged my *gender* into this whole mess, and it reminded me of all the other times he'd do the *exact same thing* just to prove his point.

Those points were baseless as *hell*.

Why did my gender matter so *much to you*? Yes, I'm a *girl*, a young girl with much to learn and much to see and much to do, and yes, I'm *feminine*. I went through an identity crisis, and you don't know that I figured everything I had to out, all by myself, *without your damn help*.

It left me frustrated, silently fuming, and my bones had gone *hot* from the fire building in me.

Father said I was a woman and society had expectations for me, expectations that had to be followed so I could be successful. I had to look beautiful, graceful, and elegant so I could find the "man of my dreams," marry him, and continue on the McCormick bloodline. I had to be close-minded, guarded, and obedient to all lessons and lectures given to me.

I *refused* to listen to any of those expectations. They were a bunch of flat-out *bullcrap*.

Father was being unfair and selfish. He thought he knew what was best for a *girl*! A *woman* like me! Some women don't want to be the pretty objectified girls who are only toys for boys!

I wasn't the type of the girl to spend all day in the house caring for a family while the oh-so-special guy did *all the work*.

That girl was *never* going to be me.

Father thought that girl *was* going to be me.

"Winterlyn, it's important for you to carry on the family's blood," he'd tell me when I lobbied an ill-fated complaint at him, and he'd place a hand on my shoulder. "No McCormick deviates from fulfilling their duties in this family. You may not see what I see *yet* due to your young age, but when you're older, you'll find the guy that loves you back, marry him, and do what you're expected to do."

"That's not fun!" I protested.

Father laughed at me, humiliating me. "Aww, Winterlyn, you sound just like me in my youth! I didn't believe my role was that important, but my mother sure slapped some sense into me. Don't you understand how lucky I am to have met Lorelei?"

Stifling unsightly screams, I nodded and let him re-tell his tale of meeting Mom and sharing his Jewish values with her.

If I could just slink into my room and reach the CD player, I'd drown out this religious-coated crap with ecstasy.

What set out to push me over the edge with Judaism in spite of Father's biases and excessive religion turkey-stuffing was when he'd fire a shot at my golden apple of influences.

By now, it was no secret that I *loved* Varien, and my parents were receiving full drawlings of how much I adored her, spitting song lore at them with the belief she could do anything she put her mind to.

Keep in mind that when speaking with my parents about Varien, I'd use her old pronouns. It made me feel iffy, but I didn't want them to know she was *trans* - hell could break loose if they found out I listened to an LGBT+ person and actively *loved her*.

Varien had *helped me*. She set me in the right direction, helped me when I was having a crisis and conflicted on the gender norms and who I really wanted to identify as. She had broken the rulebook, torn it up, and tossed it into a fireplace, cutting her hair short, gaining tattoos (pretty tattoos that not for a moment I would earn) and thick eyeliner and dazzling apparel that created a melting pot of diversity with her that extended beyond the music she created.

I wouldn't have figured myself out *without Varien*.

Varien's music brought me great comfort, and joy, and I spent *hours* deciphering the woman behind the mystique, the perplexion, the ancient world she had created, *hours* spent listening to every song, every scrap of *life* they granted me, every *tale* sung into my ear, lasting permamently.

I *loved her*. She had the globe in the palm of her hands and *changed* the way EDM was produced. She infused unrepeated ideas and presentation into her theming, such as tying Asian influences into the adrenaline-kicker *Gunmetal Black* and the *Mirai Sekai* EP with 7 Minutes Dead, or European lore in the *Valkyrie* trilogy.

What *couldn't* she do? Nothing.

Someday, I wanted to do what she did. Not make music, obviously, that's not my forte.

I desired to *bend* the rules. I didn't want to *comform* and play dolls with bogus expectations unevenly balanced on my shoulders.

If Varien shattered presumptions about herself and what she should do, *I could do the same thing*.

She made it possible. I believed it was possible.

Varien was the *biggest influence* of my whole life.

I *idolized her*.

I still do, and Varien's still my first-ever idol.

One peaceful evening night, I spent an hour relistening to *Ancient & Arcane*, daydreaming myself into the realm Laura Brehm weaved in *Ghost Spores*. Lately I'd been thinking about that song and had been trying to find a deeper meaning behind it.

Maybe some other opinions would give me insight? I decided to ask Mom and Father; they knew about the tracks because of my blabbermouthing. Yeah, there was a chance I was shooting myself in the foot, but as long as they were in the dark about Varien being transgender, I was fine.

I dashed out into the living room, excitedly jumping up in front of Father.

"Dadddd! Can you help me figure out the story of this Varien song I just listened to???" I asked, my socks drumming into the carpet.

"Mmmm?" Father questioned, drawing out the *mmm* and taking a slow sip of his evening coffee.

"It's the last track on his longplay, and it's called *Ghost Spores*."

"I see."

I waved my hands in front of him, causing him to blink. "In *Ghost Spores*, you have this girl - her name's Laura Brehm - sing about this thing called *eternal return* and asking *where have we gone*. Do you think it has anything to do with ghosts?"

Father let out another *mmm*. "Well, I think you should figure that out quite *indisputably* on your own. I'm not familiar with... *Varien* as you are."

I frowned, disappointed. I thought had told Father enough!

"Come on, dad, can you try? Please? I *love* Varien, but that doesn't mean I know *everything* about the meaning of his music!" I whined, poking Father's chin.

Father raised an eyebrow, his chestnut eyes turning from casual to *questioning*. "You *love* Varien? How so?"

Bewildered, my mouth dropped open. Was Father incredibly dumbfoundedly bad at picking up on my adoration of her?

He was playing cornhole with me and missing *every* hole in the board.

"He's my *idol*!" I gushed, looking at the ceiling. "He's influenced me a *ton*. His music is *amazing*, best I've ever heard, he's changed the *game*, he's made headlines, he's-"

"Slow down," Father interrupted, holding a hand up to stop me. "You said he was your idol?"

The excitement in me was vanquished with the ice circulating in his tone. Nervously, I gripped the sides of my stomach.

Did I say too much? Father didn't display any signs of anger at me, he just seemed... strangely interrogative?

"Yes, he is," I verified.

"Have a care," Father then warned, voice brisk, "idols can bring harm onto you when you've fallen too deep. They can cause more damage than overall good."

At his words, a streak of rage blazed through my body, and I glared at him in irritation.

"Varien's *not like that*! Dad, why would you claim he'd *harm me*?? He'd **never**! His songs are just personal to me!" I retorted, not bothering to hold back. How *dare* he say something as *ludacris* as that about *Varien*, someone he knew I *loved*?

Mom, who was sitting in her beach chair, dropped her catalog and waited for her ideal opening to get involved.

"My point stands, Winterlyn. I'm not telling you that you *can't* adore Varien, and I appreciate that you've found someone to endlessly prattle about, but this is a matter of making sure your head is *transparent*. You shouldn't let your idol discourage you from breaking form. A McCormick's greatest weakness is going off the tangents of God's teachings-"

Without warning, my eyes widened, and I clenched a fist, elevated by fleeting levels of riveting *fury*. I stood taller, everything in my face *stone-cold*.

Father had entered *personal territory*. He didn't *know* Varien the way *I did*, and he was making assumptions based off *the Torah*. As Mom stated, he was *twisting* a basic commandment and *using it* against me.

To keep me in line. This girl doesn't *follow* straight lines.

That urge to rebel, that *rage*, drove me to defy gravity once more.

"**Excuse you**!" I spat, shocking him enough to make him nearly spill his coffee. "He isn't like those *idols* in the **Torah**! Varien's **awesome**. Can't you **see** what's in front of you, dad? Varien isn't *evil*. He's been a *huge influence* on me, and I **won't** let you **rip that away**!"

Mom hadn't spoken yet, but she had gotten up, her blue eyes darting to the spitfire me and back at Father, who's stupor amalgamated with disbelief... and *umbrage*.

"**Winterlyn McCormick**, I find that behavior of yours to be-"

And finally, Mom made her move and snatched Father's arm, startling him, and he shuffled his feet, reluctantly meeting the stormy seas of her eyes.

"Edwin, what in Pineshadow's name is **wrong with you**!? *Varien* is a *real person*. Winterlyn's *allowed* to have idols; you can't strip her bare of that right!"

"The Torah said-" Father tried to counter, but Mom *shushed him*.

*Promptly*.

"Uh! Torah this, Torah that! *Edwin*, Winterlyn liking Varien is *normal*. She's young. She can have idols! Haven't you not seen the smile on that face? The passion she gets playing that album of Varien's on the CD player? The ramblings?"

"Yes, I have... I just want to protect her, Lorelei! There are so many bad influences, it's just..."

Mom grew tired, and to me, I thought she had aged by twenty years. She sighed, coughed, and tenderly rubbed Father's cheek.

"You are *not* protecting Winterlyn by *falsifying* the Torah's commandments. Yahweh would not approve of this. Neither would Abraham and Moses. Them aside, you will **not** be punishing Winterlyn for having an idol. I think Varien's rather *neat*."

I squealed, and Mom, momentarily facing me, gave a thumbs-up.

My admiration and respect of her shot up through the roof. Of course, Father ruined the sentimental moment.

"It doesn't mean Varien could-"

"Not happening, Edwin. Sit down, will you?"

Young me had enough and bolted to my bedroom, where I closed the door, changed into my pajamas, and put on *Ancient & Arcane* again, using the fast-forward feature to skip to *Hypnotique*, which I felt in the mood for.

I laid back on my bed and my pillows, gazing up at the ceiling and casting my hand up, imagining that I was sifting through the stars.

A second later, Charlotte Haining started to perform the vocals in her deep, regal voice.

Chanting starts to overcome my mind

Whispering, begging me to find

(Whispering)

I lapsed into my thoughts.

*Why* was Father so bent on using the Torah to "protect" me? He wasn't even *protecting me*, just spewing *words* at me, demeaning, cantankerous, and uncoordinated. He was trying to press me into the confines of a cage, and I wanted to fly free and do what my heart *yearned* for.

Everything was polluted. I could hardly stare at a commandment without thinking of Father. *To know there is a God*. Yes, Yahweh, I *freaking get that*. But he's *not there*.

I didn't believe in Yahweh anymore. I didn't love him. I didn't care if I santacifeid or *whatever the hell the word is* or swore in his name. I didn't want to emulate his ways which were restrictive and made worse by Father's constrictive recitings.

A clear answer, undefined

(An answer undefined)

Father's recitings were the Torah, but *worse*, so worse that I'm sure other people at synagogue would laugh at us if they found out what Father had gotten up to in his spare time.

It was *embarrassing* to be Jewish and have a father ripping out sacred supposedly-holy pages and putting them on your supper plate for dinner, providing it as your sole source of food and education. Whenever I stared at my Torah and the beautiful ice-blue of my name on the front, I'd put it somewhere I could find it, but not notice it at first glance. I was putting dissonance between the holiest book in all of holy books, something Father would give me the Van Gogh treatment for doing, but I didn't give a *shrimp*.

In prayer sessions, Father urged us to think of Yahweh, who guided us, and Abraham, who'd made sure his religion hadn't blown to pieces, and Moses, who led slaves to freedom, to remember their sacrifices, ideals, and so on.

An unexplained desire to run to you

A demand, a hunger I won't lose

(A hunger I won't lose)

I prayed... for *someone else* to watch over me. Yahweh didn't exist to me. Neither did Abraham. Neither did Moses.

If they were real, they would have come after Father's head with clubs already for his roughly-stitched-together-inauthentic-Torah messages.

Staring at that *book*, that *thing* that Father used to bind me to the floor, was giving me *literal pain*.

I didn't *want* to be Jewish if Father kept picking the most unwise of battles, exhausting the remaining energy in Mom, screaming at me for moving a *finger*, for messing up *once*, making us pray to people I didn't believe in.

This was *not* protection. This was *humilation*. I dreaded going to synagogue, knowing that the homilies were *nothing* but empty, hollow sessions now, and I was an outsider - I lacked everyone's connection to the religion we were united under.

An enticing yearning for you

For you

Related

I wished I could go back to my innocent youth and believe that the holy place was a gigantic Cinnabon, and that I'd get unlimited cinnamon rolls and sweet drinks.

I didn't want to be bogged down and prevented from achieving the goals I wanted.

I wanted to follow the trail Varien was leaving behind for her younger fans.

What was the *point* in being Jewish if it *only killed me inside*?

I returned to reality briefly, immersing myself in the first drop of *Hypnotique* and bopping my head along to the hop of the track. The ceiling dwindled and gave way to the swirly blue and black hues of the night sky, the stars dotting it above, and I imagined my body hovering above the air, lifted by the mountain wind.

Shutting my eyes, my face was tickled with the sultry lights of the stars, earning a guffaw from me, and my heart propelled me forward.

Here, up with the stars and the Varien song corresponding with my deepest longings - personal freedom and escape from religion - I felt like a vagabond.

A nighttime vagrant, who has a home in reality, but in her dreams, she runs to the beat of her own drum, refuting anyone who tries to fetter her to the ground with chains linked with mistrust.

I believed in the stars. The comfort they brought, the light they provided when all was night. They gifted me *solace*. *Jubilation*. *Answers*. The stars were my company.

*They* listened. The stars up there were spirits, spirits of animals, like foxes, and bears, and birds, and I held out my hand, inviting them to come play.

From my invite, they could not bear to say no, and they frolicked in a circle around me.

So show me, the nights I dream about

Enchant me, let my illusions out

I saw the glittery stardust of pawprints and bird talons imprinted in the ground beneath, the stars sifting their way through the alabaster blue streaks.

It was a dance of love, a dance of light, a dance of passion, a dance of *free rein*.

Where Father's hampering claws of verglas couldn't claim me and drag me down to the land of the living.

The animals, composed of the finest stars, were *real* to me. Real beings I could believe in.

Deities.

Like *gods*.

Calling out to me through tainted eyes

Consuming every power in sight

(Consuming every power)

I'd been so invested in my spiritual fantasy animals that I'd forgotten about *Hypnotique*, and Charlotte Haining hammered her silvery vocals *perfectly*.

The skies changed, and the area around me transitioned into clay buildings, night terraces, yellow brick, and stone roads.

*Spain*.

It was a calm summer night in Spain, and there was a breeze - my ears receiving the blessing of Charlotte Haining's vocals.

A presence, a being I ignite

I ignite

Check out

*Hypnotique* had *ignited* something in me. A pulse, growing stronger, and stronger.

There was something I *wanted*, and I needed its *significance*. I didn't know what it was, but it was a *feeling*.

I kept visualizing. And visualizing.

When Hypnotique ended and transitioned to *Firefly*, I teleported myself to an open moor, the sky still blighted by night, but there was light in the form of green fireflies, chanting their song and soaring into the air.

I levitated, like them. My guard raised, mind open, wind slicing my cheekbones. Only wordless, I was true.

Made mental note of that last line.

Then came *Kamisama*, and into Japan I went, relaxed with the sound of rushing water under a bridge, the breeze of the snowy mountains, and the bittersweetness of blurred reality.

And last came the track I had been searching for answers over - *Ghost Spores*.

Laura Brehm did her work, but this time, instead of having no base and no clue to piece the lore together, I dreamed myself into a thick forest.

I heard the chimes of the song. The *aaah* of Laura's voice.

(Aaah ahh)

An entity *whizzed* by me suddenly, cool air slamming into my backside, but I stood my ground, staring into the shadowy depths of the forest.

The tree canopies seemingly closed in above me.

Then I saw the faintest of orange lights, vibrant, a slight incandescent pink hue to them, trail on the ground.

On instinct, I knew what I had to do.

Track in hot pursuit.

I fall in the dark

As I'm filled with the energy

Rising in me, I am watching from above

The trail of flame led me deeper into knotted terrain, the canopies so dense I could no longer see the night sky, and I grew fearful. Were these flames leading me into a trap?

Heartstrings got tugged, and I pushed myself into going forward. This bizarre yanking wasn't going to cease, not until I discovered the ends of these flames.

In a way, I started to get *faster*, as if I had earned perks for staying on the trail. My body felt lighter, and a part of me felt... *detached*. I felt *infinite*, and the fear dissolved.

My body as I dream (above my body as I dream)

I was zipping through the forest at the speed of light now, footsteps ever so lightweight.

The flames *shrunk*, and I gasped.

*No! I've ran so far, I can't stop! Please don't burn out!*

I cannot recall the clear space in my mind

I have filled it with fire

Panting, I ran into my legs itched and my arms were flailing.

I had came to the end. The last of the flames fizzled out.

And the lies I had once believed

(All the lies reveal themselves to me)

I was alone, in an empty clearing that was periless. I swallowed, shielding myself in case a ravenous creature prepared to make me a entertaining late night snack.

But out of nowhere, the pink-tinted orange flames reappeared and made a semi-circle around me. They rose higher, and higher, and their tongues lapped at my skin. I yelped, expecting to be burnt to a crisp and black powder...

...but the flames didn't *burn*. They didn't leave a mark on my pale skin. They didn't *scar* me.

They tapped me lightly, as if trying to tell me something. To *convince* me of something.

I hadn't understood, because my head went lopsided, baffled.

Why was I here, and what did these flames want from me?

They needed to demonstrate their point, so they twirled in front of me and formed a wall. Laura Brehm went on beautifully, the smooth, faintly raspy tone stoking the flames.

I remember when I saw you from across the room

The music elevated in me as I made my way to you

*Made my way to you*.

Hold on... *hold on*. I had an idea. A notion as to why I had been brought here.

The flickering forks concurred with me and began to take shape whilst my thoughts overtook me. I went on thinking, making the ends meet.

Everything I have done led me to this

Time would move in a circle to prove it

*Everything I have done?* I wondered.

My actions led me to here, but what *specifically*?

As if they knew the answer, the flames moved for a final time and composed themselves to form an orange little girl with long, fluffy hair, her eyes a glittery pink.

That girl was familiar, so familiar a chill went down my spine.

*That was me*.

I was staring at an image of myself, same age, but just made of fire. Sparks flicked off her body, forming a trail that went off in the direction back into the woods.

Her body was transparent, also - I saw right through.

What was this oracle trying to tell me? What made me *come here*?

Eternal return

Will the ghosts I leave behind help me

To find you again?

*Bam*. The oracle was searing, a cauterization, to a part of me torn open, roughed by orders and rules, that I didn't notice.

*Everything* made sense now. I knew the meaning of *Ghost Spores*. What I felt was *right*.

*Ghost Spores* was about finding *consolation*, something long lost and a memory. It was a deep dive into the past, what hurt and what brought joy. The quest to find that connection through the fragments of what was broken.

The shards that lit the path ahead.

*Spores* of the ghost, the lost entity one sought to find. Someone we loved, now just a figment of our imagination.

Or the best version of ourselves - who we *truly* wanted to be.

Where have we gone?

Will I wake into a better place?

Take me to my home

And once we found that link, that missing piece, that *ghost*, we'd awaken in a better place.

*Home*.

*Healed*. *Transformed*.

The music gently tuned out, leaving me with my thoughts.

I was staring right back at myself. The beautiful young girl I had wanted to be, free, smiling, burdenless, peacefully innocent.

She was lucky to have had that life. Innocence was a sacred thing, and I didn't have it.

Not after one of my uncles tried to serve me alcohol.

Not after I learned of the horrors committed in the world over decades.

Not after I learned that people like me were despised for our mere existence.

Not after Father took my religion and my teachings of it, flipped it upside down, boiled it raw, broke it, twisted it, and forced it down my throat.

Not after Father used my gender to force me onto the path I didn't want to choose.

It made me feel hollow and whittled out. I didn't want to be forced into believing a God who was so incorporeal and fake, into holy people who were just wisps of a fable, into homilies which exhausted me and were *humiliating*.

I didn't want to be another face. I didn't want to be just another girl who did all the things people *expected me* to do.

The source of *solace*, of wisdom, of *teaching* I had *turned to* was *Varien*.

I lapped up every single one of her interviews, her opening up about being transgender and what gave her music so much profundity, what made her strive to challenge humanity to make music, *impactful* music, *persuasive*, *visually pleasing*, *heavenly* music.

*Godly music*.

In a trice, I no longer willed myself to listen to my Jewish heritage. Or my teachings. Or *anything* in the Torah; that book that was a hindrance, not an arcane text.

What was truly *arcane* was *Varien*. *Her music*.

*Varien* had been there when the pressure was stressing me, convuluting everything I had been raised by and taught.

Her music brought me to worlds unseen.

Varien was my idol, my *savior*, and the *reason* I was a lesbian. She showed me the path ahead, encouraged me to think outside the *box*.

To *splinter* the box Father wrapped me in.

Guess what, Father? I *wasn't* going to be the girl you *expected*. I was going to be *me*.

I should've chosen this path the second he manipulated the Torah.

I should've changed the second he started to snap at me for no wrongdoings. To snap at me unfairly, to treat me disgracefully, to keep me on *his* path.

He didn't let me have control. I was going to get it back.

This vision, this *dream* I was having, had shown me that whatever I believed in, whatever I chose to pledge my loyalty to, was in *my hands*. Not Father's.

Yahweh wasn't my God.

I knew someone else who had God powers. I knew someone with as much influence as him. *She* was real.

She was the *best* of both worlds.

She was *beautiful*.

She was *wise*.

She was *audacious*.

She was unafraid of the *world*.

She had passion in every song she produced. She had a story to tell.

She had steered me to my home. My *destiny*.

My god was *Nikki Kaeler*.

My god was *Varien*.

Confidently, I renounced my ties to Judaism, then and there, and the flames *roared* with sizzling approval, the vestige of me dispersing into orange spores that rested in a circle around my feet.

The tree canopies parted, and the stars greeted me from above, shining *brighter* than ever before.

Yes. I felt it, the satisfaction, the adrenaline, the *success*.

The chains around me fell as I enclasped the *change*, as it *crashed* into me full force, as I ascended into the sky.

The ghost spores had *transformed me*.

Just like that, the dream was over, and I was back in my bed, in my room. *Ghost Spores* had ended, making the CD player go silent.

Silence was okay. Mom or Father hadn't barged in on me, which was a good thing.

Because I had another secret, an alarmingly big one that sat on my shelf of secrets, locked up in my mind, anchored down and padlocked.

I had been raised in a Jewish family, but I was no follower of Judaism.

I didn't believe in the Holy Three.

I wasn't the young child I once was.

My new God was, to many, a musician.

In fact, it wasn't just Varien, but the stars in the sky. They were little *deities*, reminding me of *Kamisama* and its theming.

From now on, my faith was in *myself* to decide what was right. I wouldn't listen to Father or the Torah. I wouldn't follow words written on old pages, rules that limited what I could and couldn't do.

Could I start a riot? Definitely not.

But I was going to make *my mark my way*, Father's stubborn overprotective outbursts be damned, and faux-persona through synagogue.

Through fake listening, fake obedience, and fake skims of the Torah, my efforts rewarded me with a holy gift: autonomy.

Only wordless was I true.

More months passed by. Seriously, time gets faster with every new year, and past memories were tinged with fuzz of yesteryear. Time is a mystery that I won't ever solve or wrap my head around.

What was a springtime of splashy flowers and greenery transitioned to a hot summer, to sweet strawberry ice cream and days where the sunset wouldn't end without a fight, to when the fireflies and birds would stay up extra late to intermingle in the tall grass.

Summer transformed into fall, and the trees browned, and yellowed, and oranged, and reddened. Leaves fell, swayed gently in the wind, and piles formed on lawns. Coffee and hot chocolate flew off the hands of overworked baristas and store shelves.

Temperatures fell. Hibernation and migration began.

Then it was my favorite season, and the one that birthed my name - winter. Trees were barren, and leafless brown sporks (what else can I use besides "forks" and "tongues?") poked at the pale, cloudless baby-blue sky.

The leaves had faded, and the grounds of Pineshadow were blanketed in thick white snow.

Mom was hunkering down in the house with some hot chocolate - disease season had kicked into high gear. As always, we were being extra careful to avoid getting her sick; her stamina had been drained with the squabbles with Father, and she had been working to conserve her energy in preparation for the blunt of the cold season.

It was a *cold*, *bitter* December, and it had been nonstop snowing for days. Father was repugnated at the concept of having to clear the driveway and sidewalk of skin-numbing white bounties.

While Mom lasered in on staying warm and illness-free in the midst of *yet another* lupus flare-up, and while Father was a cranky, snippy middle-aged man waging war against the snow, I had my own battles to win.

Since departing active Jewish worshipping and teachings, I had undergone a transformation on the inside. The younger me was shy, submissive, and listened to all command. A McCormick was not disloyal, and most assuredly not rebellious.

You *did* as you were *told*.

Older me, almost nine, was *wayward*, stride unable to be ruptured. I didn't let anyone boss me around, my best interests no longer in a questionable, centuries-old book, or dictated by Father and what he desired.

I had unspoken autonomy, searched for and brought to light, and was in the power to deliberate on what *I* wanted.

The new headspace was appreciated, and the lack of repression and religion was like a trip to Hawaii, hours spent nicely toasting under the sun with a mocktail.

But something was *missing*.

I felt as if something was *off*. Something I was *lacking*. I'd ponder over it for a few days before I went into the bathroom, meeting my twin reflection in the glass.

My hair was fluffy, long, and curling into my eyes again.

Jeez, I needed a haircut for sure. I was surprised Father hadn't pointed it out and asked our stylist near the mall to cut the bangs and the ends.

It was that simple.

However, *simple* felt *outdated* on my tongue. Imagine opening a cabinet to find food, only to grab moldy bread and a can of beans filled with mothballs.

Gross, isn't it? My hair wasn't *gross*, but I wanted to do something *unalike*.

I wanted it to *stand out*. In a way, it reminded me of the young girl I was once a few years ago, slurping up that tight instruction and conformity that limited me.

It reminded me of memories of the past. Memories I wanted to forget, to leave behind as spores for someone else to keep on their travels.

I recalled commandment sixty-eight: *to not shave your hair at the temples*.

Father had tweaked the wording for his own benefit: *to not cut your hair short*.

As a lady, it was pertinent my hair stayed long and untamed - Father and many others said I looked very pretty with long hair.

That was old news to me. Times were changing. A new hairstyle would suit me better.

Some hairstyle like *Varien's*.

My heart knocked up against my ribcage, favoring that idea.

Alright, time to consult with the mulish, overdemanding nutcase that was Father.

"Dad, my hair's getting long. Can I get a haircut?" I asked.

Father, who was staring outside at the snowfall, ripped his face off of the glass and looked down on me, analyzing my hair and nodding. "Yes, you may... that hair *is* going past your shoulder blades. I'll schedule an appointment."

"Can I get a new hairstyle?" I questioned curiously, words ending in a little beg.

Father's brows went up. When the norm wasn't the norm, he wasn't one to immediately comprehend it.

"Why? Your current one fits you, Winterlyn."

"I'm getting older, dad. I want to try something new."

To Father, this remark was a red flag, and he stiffened, chestnut eyes hardening.

"Winterlyn, if this is another way of you attempting to ask to cut your hair short, *no*. You'd be very disloyal to your ancestors. A woman's hair is meant to be *long*."

"But Varien-"

"Varien is a *male*. Not a *female*. Males have short hair. Females have long hair. Don't jumble things up and befuddle yourself." Ugh, my urge to slap Father and scream at him that Varien was transgender! That would get me in trouble, though, and I kept silent.

"I like his hair..." I whined.

"*Enough*, Winterlyn," Father chastised. "I'll make an appointment after it stops snowing."

The snows didn't stop coming.

I'd keep asking Father again for short hair, my *dream* of rocking that Varien style, but he'd always scold me for trying to swerve away from the Torah.

As if I still cared about it.

Despite my thousands of vexations, mental urges to go off on Father for regurgitating the Torah in an unhealthy matter, they never left the chest hidden within me out of the nagging, yet rational fear that Father, who was intelligent besides contrary, would piece together my transgender and LGBT+ research, my infatuation with girls and Varien, and my newfound athiesm and rip the rug out from under my feet. Then toss me into the street to die.

I shudder reflecting on that.

Anyways, I had *enough* of Father's gatekeeping and decided to gain opinions *outside* the family on my hair, LGBT+ matters, and more. Placing trust in others was a difficult process, and familiar faces can be *hard* to lend trust to. You never know who's lurking behind toothy smiles and shining eyes.

At synagogue, under my mask of still practicing Judaism, the first two I consulted with were the Preslies. On a banquet evening (held monthly and full of food, mostly bread), I trotted up to them, and they were quick to observe my tiny form.

"Hi, Winterlyn!" Remi said, waving and holding a glass of water. "How's your evening, darling?"

"It's great," I responded. "I needed time away from my parents."

"Edwin annoying you again?" Beasley asked, and I nodded.

"I want to cut my hair short... but he says it isn't like a Jewish lady to have short hair and yells at me when I prompt him," I admitted. "Is it really that wrong for me to want that?"

The Preslies looked at each other before shaking their heads, in disapproval of the sentiment, much to my shock.

"Oh, is Edwin *seriously* giving you a hard time over your hair? No! It's perfectly okay to have short hair, Winterlyn. The elderly may have their... *digressions* because they read *everything* in the Torah. But who's to prohibit you from expressing yourself?"

I jumped for sheer happiness, squealing, and a few looked at me; their displeasure wasn't going to bother me.

Father was *wrong*. It wasn't *illegal* for a woman to have short hair! The Preslies *saw* me for who I was aiming to be, and I *deeply* appreciated that.

"Oh, thank you! I've always been worried... can I tell you something? Please don't tell dad about this..."

"Sure! What is it?" Beasley inquired.

"I... really like people who are LGBT+," I confessed, nervously staring at the ground and dragging my short boots on the carpet. I was heating up, concerned that this admission of mine was going to *severely* backfire on me.

The Preslies nodded, easing my pressure. Still, I felt inclined to lie a *bit* just to keep my tracks covered.

"I'm not gay or anything. I'm just an ally. Is that... *also* okay? I'm not sure how dad would feel, especially... because my favorite music artist is... transgender."

The cinder blocks on my chest were retracted, and anxiously, I inhaled, scanning the Preslies' faces for any malicious intent, any intent to snitch on me to Father.

Did I make a *mistake* opening up?

I was proven false.

"Are you referring to Varien?" Remi asked, and I gasped.

"You know her????"

"I do! She's *breathtaking*! Me and Beasley don't listen to her, but we support her transition. It's lovely so many kids look up to her."

"I look up to her too!"

"What *wonderful* news!" Beasley exclaimed, and my eyes were watering from happy tears. "And Winterlyn, if your father's being a pain in the rear to you over Judaism, *ignore him*. Edwin thinks he knows best about everything, but he doesn't. Jews can be conservative, they can be neutral, or purely... uh, what's the word?"

"Accepting," Remi finished.

"Right! Thank you, dear."

The happy tears poured down my face.

"Thank you so much! This makes me feel a *ton* more comfortable."

"Anytime!" Remi said.

I celebrated my win with the Preslies by exchanging warm bread rolls.

After moving away from the Preslies, I laid my eyes on the other person at Harmony Hollow who could answer my plights. He led us through homilies and and homilies and exhausting days, but Rabbi Kealer was always one to talk when not giving a homily.

"Rabbi Kealer!" I called out to him, small in the presence of his hat and robes. "Can I ask you about some things?"

"Good evening, Winterlyn! I sure can. Ask away!"

Swiftly, I explained how I was an LGBT+ ally (leaving the lesbian part out as I had done with the Preslies) and wanted short hair, prompting the rabbi on his thoughts.

"You're not wrong to feel the way you do. Keep in mind, much of the Torah was written *long* ago in the hands of different people. It's not as strict as it appears... but it's okay to not *follow* every teaching. You chase what your heart wants."

"Do you like LGBT+ people?" I casually inquired.

Rabbi Kealer nodded. "Indeed. People back in the day used to prohibit same-sex relationships. Tradition! These days, we're all more open, and there's little to no homophobia in Judaism now..."

I felt a light kick to the gut with his words, suddenly remembering *cursed*, *sickening* words in the Torah.

Commandment one hundred fifty-seven. *Not to have homosexual relations*.

A guy couldn't love a guy, a girl couldn't love a girl.

It made me boil with hate of that book. I didn't agree with half of it. A lot of the commandments didn't make sense. And there was some straight up bullcrap I wasn't going to give two shrimps about.

"I can't believe my predecessors would put a fence between love," I muttered, my tone having a hint of bitterness, which Rabbi Kealer sensed.

"The ways of the old are not the ways of today. Your heart is your guide, Winterlyn. Follow it, not the beliefs of your ancestors."

"I will," I promised. I was already doing that anyway, being the proud athiest I was. I had gotten my reprieve.

I *was* allowed to have short hair.

I *was* allowed to love women the way I did. Love was *love*.

Going off the word of the Preslies and Rabbi Kealer, I *could* wear masculine clothing.

I *could* be more like a man. A *tomboy*.

I could *eat* whatever I wanted without restriction or food being yanked away from me.

*Nothing* was holding me back except for Father, but I was *skilled* at deceiving him. He'd been duped by his rebellious, favorite little girl.

So, I began to make my *plan*. Father wasn't going to stop me from getting the haircut of *my choice*, and *I* wasn't going to stop seeking it out.

My hairstyle preference wasn't made yet. There were so many styles, and I didn't want to just copy Varien, or Father would naturally get suspicious and everything would unravel from there.

I had cover, though. Hanukkah.

One of the holiest Jewish days of the year. Orange candlelight flickering on the menorah, hymms of the family, the exchange of gifts, the batches of dinners made.

It was coming up, and my family was preparing, polishing up the Menorah...

*Oooh yes*. I grinned. Grinned like the Grinch preparing to ruin Christmas (which was also coming up, and Mom was very excited as per usual).

Winterlyn had her plan, and she had her shot.

I wasn't going to let that shot be seized.

I *knew* just the person to go to to get my hair cut, and I wouldn't give a *damn* about opposing Father, defying him, and giving him gray hairs with my antics. So what? I was expressing myself the way I wanted to, and I was going to do it *for the rest of my life*.

There was just one *eensy-weensy* problem.

*Figuring out a hairstyle is as hard as sighting a fox in the woods*.

So many short hair styles were *beautiful*. *Endlessly* dazzling. Too many of them flashed across my vision, and the conundrum in me spiraled.

What was a young girl to do with all these choices? It was *impossible* to pick one...

...until suddenly, it was possible, all thanks to a name *many* of you will find familiar.

On December 13th, in the middle of Hanukkah week, I was sitting on the sofa watching afternoon television, and the celebrity gossip was blaring on the TV.

Oh well, boring content. Time to change the channel.

Yet, just as I grabbed the remote...

"The internet is in *shambles* right now. Can you believe every social media site has exploded over *one hairstyle*?" the man on TV stated, holding a microphone in front of a fountain. "Never underestimate the power of Rihanna. Fans alike are going *berserk* over the singer's half-shaved head after photos were shared on Tumblr, just a mere week before the release of her latest studio album, *Unapologetic*!"

*Not* time to change the channel. I slammed the remote back down and leaned forward, staring at the *definition* of beauty, the *embodiment* of beauty.

Rihanna.

Her name wasn't foreign to me at all; she was *beyond* a superstar in the music industry, and her name was heard all around the world. She dropped *banger* upon *banger* of songs, and now, she was up to her *seventh* studio album, Unapologetic.

Rihanna's natural beauty was *not the main point here*, as my sights shifted to the pictures shared on Tumblr.

My jaw dropped to the *floor*.

The news reporter didn't lie when he said Rihanna shaved her head. *Half* of her left side was shaved off, gone, while the right side was long and hung off the side of her head, gracefully trailing to her shoulder blade. She had her famous, *proud*, beautiful sheen.

*That was attractive*.

Not exactly short or resembling Varien... but still *everything*.

That was *everything* I wanted.

Thank you, Rihanna. You've proven countless times that beauty is an unrivaled force in nature. And you've kicked the norm to the curb to be *you*.

I vowed to do the same.

A day later, when Father was outside doing Hanukkah shopping, I approached Mom, who was tidying up in the bedroom.

"Mom? Can we talk?" I asked.

"Sure, honey! Come sit down on the bed," she instructed, patting the bedsheets, and I obliged. She joined me.

"What's up?"

"I want to cut my hair shorter," I revealed.

Mom drummed her hands on her lap, facing the wall. "Your father dislikes it when you request that," she pointed out quietly, and I gritted my teeth, turning to her with pointed ice-blue eyes.

"Mom, I don't *care* what he thinks anymore. I'm allowed to make some decisions by myself, without his interference. He noses too much into my business, and I want to have at least *some* say in what I do. I've wanted short hair for a long time... it's time for a *change*."

Taken aback by my wisdom, Mom pulled me in for a side-hug. "Smart girl. Edwin can't see past his own flaws sometimes. Are you sure this is what you *want*, though?" she asked, rubbing my shoulder, and I felt her love.

Intense. Reassuring. Telling me that she'd support any decision I made.

"Yeah, I am," I affirmed. "I want to listen to what my heart wants. Been searching for a long time."

That was all it took to persuade Mom, who hugged me and planted a gentle kiss on my forehead, then held my hands.

"Okay, baby. I'll help you. I can't guarantee your father is going to *fully* approve of this... but I'd be a dumb mother to stop you from embracing change."

She led me into the bathroom, grabbing a shaver and some scissors from the cabinet. "What hairstyle would you like, Winterlyn?"

"Rihanna's, please."

Mom's eyes stretched wide. That definitely surprised her.

"You saw *that* Rihanna cut and how the internet's in a whole firestorm over it?"

"She's so pretty."

"I agree with you," Mom answered, the last words spoken between us before she got to work, knowing *precisely* what she had to give me.

An hour later, the deed was done, and all of the clumps of shaved and cut sandy-brown hair that sunk to the cold tile of the bathroom had been discarded in the trash.

"Okay, Winterlyn," Mom said, "are you ready?"

"*More* than ready," I asserted.

"Turn around, baby. I think you'll like what you'll see."

Hopping off the countertop, I turned, and the mirror stared back at me.

I met my twin.

She smiled, internally *erupting* with eternal rejoicing.

The left side of my head had been shaved, no messy, long hair left behind, and all that was left was the scalp. My left ear was *clearly* visible compared to being hidden.

On my right, I had long, sandy-brown hair flowing, hiding my other ear. But it was less tangled and straightened out.

"How's that?" Mom questioned.

"*Perfect*!" I cheered, proud that my plan to approach Mom had paid off. I *looked* like the *me* I had *yearned for*.

I was the perfect mix of masculine and feminine.

I wasn't identical to Rihanna or Varien. I was *still me*.

*Me*, but with a *transformation*.

My breath was taken away, but hugging Mom, I showered her thanks for hearing me out and doing the task that Father despised with a burning passion.

Suddenly, I heard the door open and close. Father had come back from his trip to Haggen, and Mom whispered for me to stay in the hall. She ran out to the living room.

"Edwin! Winterlyn has a present for you, come and see!"

"Hanukkah present?" he inquired.

"That's for you to see." I appreciated her being vague. Father was going to be in for a *treat*.

He was probably going to act like he had been poisoned. So be it. He couldn't undo the change I brought upon myself.

Father's footsteps sounded in the hallway. "What's this gift Winterlyn wants to give me, Lorelei?"

"She's going to show you. Come out, Winterlyn!"

And proudly as a horse in a parade, wearing crimson and scarlet, I stepped out, flicking my remaining strands of hair at him and smiling.

The look on his face was *priceless*.

He was *horrified*.

"**WHAT**???" he demanded, running up to me, shaking my cheeks and rubbing the cleanly-shaved side of my head, panicked. I nearly wanted to laugh at him for being so overdramatic.

"Winterlyn??? ***What happened*** to your hair??? Why... **why**?"

"You wouldn't let me cut it, so I took matters into *my own hands*," I proudly admitted, not stuttering a single time, my stare unwavering.

Father was going *nuclear*, astounded, mortified, and *mutinous* at the same time. I knew I was pushing his buttons and playing risk and reward with him.

I knew he was volatile. I stood there calmly, Mom not far behind.

His face white, he shook me again, yelling, "Winterlyn! You *aren't supposed* to cut your hair at the temples!!"

Oh hey, he remembered a commandment correctly!

"Your hair is **supposed to be long**..."

"Some hair isn't meant to be long," I retorted, sticking out my tongue at him.

It was one day before we lit the menorah. We were in the middle of Hanukkah week.

I had just middle fingered Father without the middle finger itself.

*He was pissed*.

"**Winterlyn**!" he snapped, on the verge of using my full name, but I didn't flinch, built of guts and steel from what Varien (and now Rihanna) had taught me. "**We are in the middle of Hannukah**! A *hallowed holiday*. You're *acting* petty and immature! Yahweh is going to *curse us* for this!"

I almost laughed, devious I was. Yahweh wasn't my God, sorry. God is Varien.

But things didn't stay a laughing matter for long. Father gripped my shoulder, *hard*.

*Ow*.

"I **expect far better** of you than *this*, Winterlyn McCormick. You *blatantly violated* a commandment in the *Torah*, the scriptures **you actively study**! You could be *shunned* for this! You could *taint* our whole imagery with this! You should-"

Sorry to burst your bubble, Father, but I don't speak Torah, and yes, I violated it because *I don't believe in this nonsense*. And so? I'm a McCormick, but I'm a human. All humans are different. No one's alike.

Also, Father... you forgot Mom was on my side.

"**Edwin**, cut it out!" she spat, stepping in between me and him. "Winterlyn's new style is a blessing *for* Hanukkah. It's what Yahweh would have desired. No fighting, only peace, giving, and understanding. No person is confined to expectations, and Winterlyn is free to represent herself how she wishes to."

Father wasn't backing down yet, even in the face of Mom. "She *can't* shave her head! You *know* that, Lorelei!"

Mom rolled her eyes, and I silently clapped.

"I believe you misread the Torah in key places, Edwin, because we women *do* have autonomy. Besides, Winterlyn isn't *bald*; look at that long hair on the other side of her head! If Rihanna can have this hairstyle, *my daughter* can too."

She winked at me.

Father opened and closed his mouth, processing these developments. Clearly Rihanna being the basis behind my new hair came as a huge shock to him.

I was totally shocked I tell you! Totally shocked!

Finally, Father sighed and surrendered, knowing this was a battle he'd lose. You'd only get so far fighting via the Torah.

"Fine. I suppose that if it's a blessing from Yahweh, she'll keep it. I... will need to get used to it."

That was that, and Father shut up about the *unapologetic* new transformation I had been through. On the last day of Hanukkah, we brought the menorah out and put it on the table.

This year, I had finally grown trusted enough with fire to light it, and Father guided me along, holding my hand steadily.

The moment wasn't missed by Mom, as she snapped a photo with the Polaroid, and it joined the other photos on the kitchen wire.

People say to live every day like it's your last, and although I had abandoned the ways of Judaism, the memory of lighting the menorah and having myself be accepted by a strict Father and a doting Mom...

...was to be cherished for the rest of my life.

Unbeknownst to me, darkness was waiting just around the corner, ready to claim its first victim.

Change starts small, like the evolution of the butterfly. From a caterpillar crawling along, to hanging in a chrysallis off a leaf, and them emerging, *colorful* and *striking*.

Change is not easy to fight for. It can be hard to grasp. To understand. To *evolve*.

Transformations can be small, like finding a new song or a new artist to like, or big, like identifying as queer or wanting to change your appearance.

I openly embraced change, researched myself, discovered my love of women, of dreaming, of finding my own gods, of loving myself and basing my judgment off the wants and needs of my heart. Not basing off what others thought of me. Looking at you, Father.

I became more of the person I desired to be, tossing the norm out and creating my own world. It was because of Mom's compassionate spirit, Rihanna's unlimited beauty and outspoken personality, bold and unapologetic, and Varien's unique, one-of-a-kind sounds and story that I was *me*.

I was me, experimenting on myself to see what fit and what did not. I found new interests. I found a new god. I had ditched what had been thorns gnawing into my legs.

And it was all thanks to my idol, my mother, a popular musician, and people at synagogue that I had my own *transformation*.

However, with the good change came the *bad change*.

I was unprepared for the next few months of my life.

When the darkness emerged and claimed its first victim, ripping her away from me.

Everything I knew was upended all over again.

## Cast

* **Mae Whitman** as Winter
	+ **Hala Finley** as young Winter
* **Jim Pirri** as Edwin
* **Cozi Zuehlsdorff** as Lorelei
* **Susanne Blakeslee** as Mrs. Broadwillow
* **Lauren Graham** as Remi
* **Richard White** as Beasley
* **Xochitl Gomez** as Abigail
* **Kari Wahlgren** as Barnes & Noble employee
* **Adrien Brody** as Rabbi Kealer
* **Dee Bradley Baker** as news reporter

## Songs

* Varien - *The Ancient & Arcane*
* Varien - *Snowlight* (snippet)
* Varien (ft. Veela) - *Supercell* (snippet)
* Varien - *Transmissions from Lemuria* (snippet)
* Varien (ft. Charlotte Haining) - *Hypnotique* (snippets)
* Varien - *Firefly* (snippets)
* Varien (ft. Miyoki) - *Kamisama* (snippets)
* Varien (ft. Laura Brehm) - *Ghost Spores* (snippets)

## Trivia

* *Transformations* is named after the third episode of *High Guardian Spice* and a song, also of the same name, by Rameses B.
* What Winter quotes at the beginning of the chapter is the Varien song *The Ancient & Arcane*, the title track to his debut longplay of the same name.
	+ All of the longplay's songs are featured in this chapter, most notably when Winter plays a brief snippet of them when discussing *The Ancient & Arcane*. This makes *The Ancient & Arcane* the first album to have all of its songs featured in any *Evie and Mya* media.
	+ The title track is heard in full when Winter first discovers the album, whilst *Hypnotique*, *Firefly*, *Kamisama*, and *Ghost Spores* play for a much longer duration when Winter visualizes herself in another world to escape from her father's pressure.
* The poster for the chapter is inspired by *The Ancient & Arcane* and *Hypnotique*. Winter also being illustrated with hummingbird wings is meant to showcase her transition into being queer, tying into them being colored like the lesbian flag.
* It is revealed that:
	+ Winter actively studied Judaism with the help of her mother and father.
	+ Winter's father was very avid about Judaism and was primarily the one to teach Winter its facets.
	+ Winter has ancestors on the paternal side of her family that survived the Holocaust, and maternal family members who died in it. Discussing the genocide was hard for her and at times made her feel sick or upset.
	+ Winter was still forbidden from going into the Piney Woods after the events of *Birth of Snowlight*.
	+ Winter developed interests in an array of things, including tree-climbing and photography, that stressed out her father.
	+ Winter's shoulders will itch if her stress levels are high.
	+ Winter got into heavy conflict with her father over Judaism and following its standards; Edwin was deeply rooted in conservative beliefs and thought that his daughter should grow up within the lines to marry and carry on the family legacy, excusing his actions with the claim that he was protecting her. He also barred her from wearing masculine clothing, cutting her hair shorter than her shoulders, engaging in activities considered to be reckless or gothic, partaking in slander against anyone, and scolding her for many offenses she found minor or ridiculous. Winter despised this behavior, as did her mother, who frequently fought Edwin over his biases, only adding to Winter's ire.
		- Because of the infighting and restriction, Winter slowly distanced herself from Judaism, failing to believe in what made it holy. Eventually, she became a full athiest who refused to obey the Torah, pertending she still did to appease her father.
	+ Winter's first instance of her hot temper flaring (also known as "going *Jumpsuit*"), was when her father tried to scold her for her complaining about a boy who caused her to trip and get a cut knee.
	+ Winter had friends in synagogue: Beasley and Remi Preslie, a married couple familiar with her parents, and Abigail Sanchez, a bright-spirited Sephardic Jew that moved to Pineshadow from Kennewick. However, Abigail would drift away from Winter a few months later, finding friends that better reflected her interests.
	+ Winter first discovered Varien when his album, *The Ancient & Arcane*, was advertised at her local Barnes & Noble. She became hooked on his discography not long after, with her favorite song of his being *Snowlight*.
		- Because of Varien and his story of coming out as trans, Winter became more motivated to explore her own body and even briefly questioned if she was transgender herself.
	+ For a short period, Winter thought she was transgender, doing extensive research on trans subjects and the LGBTQ+ community. She later developed a strong interest in women, not men, and dreamed of affectionate dances with an unidentified girl, eventually helping her realize that she was a lesbian.
	+ Lars attended Small Pine Elementary with Winter and was popular in the school, though Winter didn't find anything of interest in him.
	+ Winter got the inspiration for shaving her hair from Rihanna when the singer's *Unapologetic* side-shave went viral all over the internet, especially on Tumblr. Her father was stunned by her deviation from standards, but was convinced to accept it as a Hanukkah blessing.
		- While it is not mentioned in the chapter, Winter gets her hair cut on her ninth birthday.
* Winter's comment about "kung fu fighting" is a reference to the song of the same name by Carl Douglas.
* The "certain friend" and accomplices Winter refers to are Mya and then both her and Evie.
* Throughout the chapter, Winter refers to several key items used in the 2000s, such as Blackberry phones and MySpace, a social media platform later killed by sites such as Facebook and Twitter.
* When discussing *The Force*, Winter alludes to chef Gordon Ramsay being in the song, even referencing the "idiot sandwich" meme.
* The timeline of Varien coming out as transgender is meant to mirror real life as much as possible; the article that Winter reads is fictional, but corresponds to a now-deleted 2020 video of Varien's where he announced that he was transgender and would use feminine pronouns. Prior, he used masculine pronouns and a different name that Winter glosses over in the chapter. Varien has since switched back to masculine pronouns, which will be addressed in a later chapter.
* Although Winter does not exactly confirm that she is gender non-conforming in the chapter, she does imply it numerous times.
* The scenes where Winter interacts with a young girl in her age in her dreams were inspired by the Laura Brehm and Nikonn song *Wonder*, notably the underwater scenes that were referenced from the *Wonder* music video. Av tweeted that Brehm and her underwater partner were very "sapphic-coded," which Brehm herself liked, implying that the underwater sequences were meant to be LGBTQ+ representation.
	+ In addition, the girl Winter swims with is noted to have a similar appearance to Laura Brehm, though Av says that it was merely a coincidence and was not intended to be a younger version of Brehm.
* When Winter is discussing negative opinions, she references the famous Wendy Williams line "Denial is a river in Egypt, your husband is gay!"
* The news reporter that speaks in front a fountain is a reference to Mario Lopez doing reporting for *Extra* in front of the Universal Studios globe fountain.