I’m in the playroom. The playroom that hosts our laundry and toys; the playroom where he broke brother’s rib. Our escape. Where I found my tumor. The tumor that would turn me in on myself, the tumor that would confirm my nightmare. Fearful of makeup, shaving, and men. Rejecting anything avowing who I was. I’m looking in the bathroom mirror; the one he used. The bathroom that’s closed in; the one we hid in for storms. I cover parts of my face piece by piece, attempting to reveal the boy who wasn’t there. Awkward, but no boy. My fantasies. Little girls dream of castles and knights, I dreamt of transparency.