He Is Not Himself

I was six years old when I first understood: I am not like the others. Not in the way parents whisper, "You're special, sweetheart." No. Not like that at all. I was different. Broken. Wrong. I learned this from the way my fists clenched when the old women in our courtyard cooed, "What a pretty little girl!" Little girl. I AM A BOY. Why couldn't they see? — What's your name, beauty? — a woman in a floral headscarf asked, pinching my cheek. — Denis, — my mother answered. She smiled. Looked away. She heard it too. She knew. But she said nothing. Everyone said nothing. I stood there, feeling blood rush to my cheeks. Inside, something hot and sticky and angry was rising. I wasn't a girl. I didn't have pigtails. I didn't wear dresses. But I had blond hair, blue eyes, and lashes so long any girl would envy them. That was my curse. My beauty. My cage. The Day It All Began We were moving into a new apartment. A tiny town, forgotten by God. A place where everyone knew everyone. Where any difference was shameful. My father was a welder. Hands covered in calluses, shoulders like concrete slabs. He knew how to be silent — could go three days without speaking. My mother was an accountant. Quiet, strict, thrifty. She could stretch a kopek until it cried. My older sister painted her nails bright red and looked at me like I was an annoying cockroach. She didn't care. She never cared. By evening, everyone was tired of me. My mother waved me away. My sister hissed when I accidentally stepped on her precious doll. Even my father grunted: — Go outside. Get some air. I walked out. Sat on a bench by the entrance. In my pocket, I clutched a small stone, squeezing it until it bit into my palm. And then I saw HER. A girl with a stuffed bunny pressed to her chest. Light hair, neat bangs, that certain look — as if she saw everything and nothing at once. I recognized her. Kindergarten. Same group. We had sat at the same table. I remembered her laugh — bright as a bell. I remembered how she had defended me from the boys who pulled my hair. She didn't remember. But I did. My heart skipped a beat. Then another. Warmth spread inside me — strange, unfamiliar, almost painful. I walked up to her. — What's your name? — I asked. — Irina, — she answered. Irina. No. Wrong. Another name blazed in my head — bright, insistent, foreign. It burned my lips before I could stop it. — You're Lena, — I said. She frowned. — No, I'm Irina. — You're Lena, — I repeated. I didn't know why I was arguing. Didn't know where that name came from. But something inside me whispered: Remember. Lena. She will change your life. The girl stamped her foot. Her eyes glistened with hurt. — You're stupid! — she shouted, and ran. The front door slammed — heavy, final. I stood alone in the yard. Clutching my stupid stone in my pocket. My heart pounded so hard I thought my ribs would crack. "i***t," I cursed myself. "Her name is Irina. You got it wrong." But I didn't believe myself. Because somewhere deep — in a place I couldn't name — I already knew: that girl wasn't Irina. I had confused them. Just not that day. Later. Years later. I didn't know it yet, but the name "Lena" would burn my lips for years. That the dance I hadn't even learned yet would shatter me into pieces. But it would happen. It would happen. The Yard Dogs The next day, I apologized. Irina forgave me. We started playing together. She was loud, noisy, with perpetually scraped knees. I was quiet, obedient, proper. From the outside, we looked like ordinary children. I didn't know this friendship would last for years. That Irina would become my first "girlfriend" — the one I chose because it was right, because it was normal, because it was what everyone wanted. And Lena… Lena would dance with me. In the dark. By candlelight. Her fingers would trace my neck, and I would forget how to breathe. But that came later. For now, the boys in the yard teased me: — Womanizer! Look, the womanizer is coming! With his girlfriends! I didn't know what the word meant. But I saw their smirks. Felt my face burn. Clenched my fists until my knuckles cracked. I wanted to answer. Wanted to scream. Wanted to hit someone. But I was silent. Because in my family, men didn't cry or complain. They endured. And then Irina stepped in. She stood between me and the bullies. Small, furious, eyes blazing — a witch at the Sabbath. — And you're MANIZERS! — she shouted. — The lowest scum in this yard! The only thing you know how to do is pick on kids smaller than you! The boys exchanged glances. They didn't know what "manizer" meant. Neither did I. But it sounded insulting. Really insulting. They slunk away. Muttered something under their breath, but they left. I looked at Irina. My heart pounded somewhere in my throat. "She protected me," I thought. "She's special. Maybe… maybe I love her?" I didn't know what love was. I was only six. But I had seen people kiss in movies. I knew that boys and girls were supposed to be together. It was right. It was normal. I wanted to be normal. I wanted so badly to be normal. So I told myself: "Yes. I love Irina." But inside — in that place I was afraid to look — another voice whispered: "You're lying. You've always been lying. You'll lie your whole life." I covered my ears. I didn't want to hear it. But it never stopped. Never. What Comes Next I didn't know that in a few years, dancing would enter my life. That Lena would become my partner. That our rumba would make adults whisper, "They look like they're having s*x on the dance floor." I didn't know that I would cry at night, staring at the ceiling, unable to explain why. I didn't know that one day I would look at an older boy in the school hallway and my heart would beat faster than from any girl's touch. I didn't know that I would hate myself for it. Pray to a God I didn't believe in. Beg: "Make me normal. Please. I don't want to be like this." But God wouldn't answer. He never answered. For now — I was just a boy with a girl's face. Who fell in love with the wrong person. Who already, at six years old, felt like he was walking the wrong path. I would put that stone on the shelf. In my new room. In my new apartment. In my new life. As a reminder. Of the day it all began. Of who I would lose. Of who I would never become.