With a Vengeance

by Freydís Moon

But funerals were for the living and Kye wasn’t sure they counted as alive anymore.

Somehow, speaking aloud to an absent manifestation felt less lonesome than denying its existence entirely.

“What, like stoppin’ by the cook-out after church? Sure, uh huh. Would’ve been perfect. ‘Hey, Mamá, it’s me. Yeah, still doin’ the transsexual thing. Believe it or not, we actually don’t call it that anymore. Sure, yeah, I’ll fuck right off.’”

Home is a carried thing. Given and taken.

You gave; I took.

“Fuck you.” “Watch your mouth.”

“Unless you’re serious.”

“Yeah, and what if life’s the trap?” “God, who are you, My Chemical Romance? Christ, Kye, that’s dramatic.”

“You just tried to chew off my arm and now you’re playing doctor,” they snapped. “You needed an intervention.”

“All that rage? It tastes like Mary Magdalene’s fresh fuckin’ pussy—”

“Fuck you.” Kye’s entire body burned. “You’re obviously trying to.”

You wanted God; you got me.”

“I don’t want everything.” They shied away from his claws. “I want power.” “Power is everything,”

Your dysphoria was killing you, and I happen to prefer you alive.

They wanted to sleep for a year, run a mile, eat greasy food, sit in a lukewarm shower, fuck a stranger.

“Living is a lonely thing,”

Because you’re resilient despite what the world tried to make of you.

Boss babe material.

“If you ever call me boss babe again, I’ll exorcise your fuckboy ass right out of—”

“You’re the one who chose hedonism, baby. I would’ve been happy with a bedtime prayer.”

“I want to be praised; you want to be punished. Nothing to be ashamed of.”

You’re not as mean as you want me to believe. Neither are you.

“There’s nothing you can do to fix me. You get that, right?” He craned toward them, asking to be kissed. “And I bet you think that makes you special.”

“We’re magical fuckbuddies,”

“What the hell would you call it?” He crossed the room in a puff of smoke and placed his lips close to their ear. “The start of a really sexy cult.”

“You think self-deprecation gives you thick skin, huh? It’s pathetic, Kye.

For as long as Kye could remember, they’d never believed in their own desirability.

Ritual is an ancient thing. I doubt they like the term ritual. I doubt they like the truth. Period.

“I didn’t need a Satanic coupon, Eli.”

“What crawled up your ass and turned you into Mother fuckin’ Theresa—”

“Should’ve known you’d be possessive.” “I’m literally possessing you. What’d you expect? Dinner and a show?” “Dinner would be nice.”

“Rub your unholy braincells together and don’t be fuckin’ dense.”

“I mean, I’m not your father, but you can call me daddy,”