A floral dress is a death wish
A Short Story.
Part One.
Why the fuck did it have to be a floral print? I'm so fucking stupid! Fuck.
Of all the dresses I could have tried first—I'm so fucked. As soon as the dress caught my eye, I should have guessed it would catch theirs too. Why did I think I would get away with this? Now, I'm going to be stuck in this…oh, god, forever? How long does it take for cotton to rot? How long does it take for bodies to rot? Maybe I'll go before the dress does. Maybe. Hopefully, actually.
I wish I could see where this boat was going, but I can't. The bow is almost vertical, charging towards the sky. Behind its silhouette, there's a flicker on the horizon—it's faint and I can't tell if it's just the moonlight bouncing off the black waves, or if there is something out there.
Over the deep growl of the boat’s engine and the hiss of the wind, I can hear a wave crash and turn to look over my shoulder. There's another girl in the boat. I swear there were two.
I'm going to die out here, aren't I? I'm so…fucking…stupid.
It's hard to see, and I didn't turn my head long, but I can tell the girl is beautiful. I don't even think she looks trans. Would that be weird to say? I guess this whole thing is a little weird. She's wearing animal print, a romper maybe, or a real slutty dress, I can't really tell; but with her coat on, it looks fucking great, stealth—fuck, why didn't I have a better coat. Would I have been caught as easily in cheetah, leopard, or whatever animal that is? She looks sort of like a hooker—you can say that again now, you know. Ever since the collapse of, well, everything. Since the trandemic. Social justice just doesn’t exist anymore. There is no political. No justice. It's all about survival now. Actually, for the hookers, I think it always was.
She looks peaceful, which surprises me. Should I be at peace too? No. I shouldn't even be here. I'm not even trans. I'm just stupid. Totally fucking stupid. Fuck.
At least half an hour passed and I could now see the silhouette of land and hints of small fires, torches maybe, spread sparsely across the island. So, it's true. It's real.
The loud, constant, whining of the boat's motor was helping me dull my thoughts for the last hour, so, when the man cuts the engine, I'm overwhelmed by a new physical awareness. The hull of the little boat taps lightly onto the water's surface as we glide toward the dock. The man in the boat doesn't even tie it off. He just gestures at us, we disembark, and he's already pulling the cord on the engine. In seconds, he's a black spot in the distance, and the sound of the boat starts to blend seamlessly back into a mix of ocean noise and wind.
I should probably feel scared, or something. But, I don't.
