trigger warnings: menstruation, misogyny, sexualization of minors, sexual assault, violence against women, murder, body horror

The first time you are called a woman is the first time you bleed on your sheets. You are barely twelve, and your mother looks sad. Girlhood is too much of a sweet food to say goodbye to. You do not want to. You look at your bloodied sheets with contempt and hate. You wish you had hidden them, put them under your bed. You do not want to stop being a girl yet.

That weekend you are called a woman for a second time. Your father takes you out for ice cream. You bump into a colleague of his, a tall man with white hairs in his beard. He calls you a beautiful young woman, and that makes you sick. He jokes your father will have to fight boys so they leave you alone, and that makes you afraid. You do not want boys. Why would they not let you be? Your father seems sad too, just like your mother does.

That night, you look at yourself in your childhood bedroom mirror, and you realize your body does look different. You are terrified. When your sister became a woman, she got sad. She got bitter. She ate and slept less. She cried far more. You like your girlhood. You cry yourself to sleep that night in your sister’s arms. She promises that you do not have to say goodbye yet. Sadly, the world does not agree with her.

You do not know how many times you’ve been called a woman when a man on the street says he loves your legs. You’re thirteen, and do not understand the meaning of half of the words he says. You feel guilty for wearing shorts that day, even if the sun is blistering hot. You want to cover your body and your face. You run away. You don’t feel safe wearing your favorite t-shirt anymore.

You were on route to visit your aunt. When she sees you, you are afraid. You tell her what happened and she looks sad. She tells you that when she transitioned, she began to be harassed on the streets. You tell her you don’t understand why anyone would be so mean. She agrees, and tells you it’s not your fault he did that to you. You want to believe her, but shame hangs on like a bad sickness and you just stare at her. You tell your sister, and she gives you tips on how to stay safe. A week later, she buys you a keychain that can double up as a knuckle duster. It is your favorite color, purple, and shaped like a cat. She says you are not supposed to leave the house armed, but it is better to stay safe.

When you’re fifteen, you have learnt how to stay safe in the streets. You learn how to go home  quickly when it is dark. You and your friends share “i’m home, i’m safe” messages every time. Your mother no longer tells you to have fun, she tells you to stay safe. You learn to tell your friends with the rise of an eyebrow that you need them to intervene. You call each other when you walk home so at least someone is listening.

Sadly, at sixteen you learn that monsters are not just strangers. You trusted him. You knew him for a while, and yet he hurt you in ways you are not ready to vocalize. You truly liked him. You wonder if you are dramatic. You feel like a fool. When you tell your best friend, she tells you he is a nice boy, and he probably did not mean any harm. Maybe you should have made it more clear that you did not want this. You agree, even if you want to scream that saying no so many times, and only agreeing after he will not calm down, feels unfair. She asks you what it is like to be a full woman now. You hate it as much as you hate her at the moment.

A few weeks laters, you both decide to part ways. You do not feel comfortable around him. He wishes you were less cold. You hate him. You hate your friend. You hate yourself. You spend a week laying in bed. Not because you miss him. You are glad he is gone and he will not touch you again. You are just sad because you felt he took something away from you. You call your sister on the phone and admit why you broke up. She cries with you. She asks you if you want to tell anyone else. You tell her no, and you would swear she is relieved. She promises you that next time she comes over, she will take you shopping. She keeps her promise. You hate that she understands you so well. 

A year later, and she is gone. Her ex boyfriend kills her. You are seventeen. She was twenty-one. 

You go to her funeral, and everyone talks about how she was such a bright young girl. You wonder why, after years of hearing everyone call her a woman, now she is a girl again. Maybe because that way, she feels more innocent. You do not cry at her funeral, you feel too numb. It is not until a month later, when you learn she already was scared of her killer that you cry. You are angry. 

When you become eighteen, you realize you have not cried for a bit. You look at yourself in the mirror and realize that you have become a woman. And you hate the shape of it. You break the mirror.  You lay on your sister's bed as you cry yourself to sleep. Your parents are not home, they will not kick you out of their shrine. As you drift to sleep, you pray to anyone who will hear: Make me a monster instead.

You wake up screaming in pain, as your ribs burst out of place. You move your arms, but the joints crack loudly as the bone grows larger around what used to be your fingers.  Your nails break, and fall into the bed, a bloody pulp. Instead, the bone grows into red-tainted claws.  Eventually, your legs crack too, and they bend in and out.

You know you have bled your sister’s bed, but you are in too much pain to worry your parents will be upset. You turn around as blood pools in your mouth and your shoulders crack, bones protruding into sharp objects. Your mouth breaks open, muscle tearing and impeding you to speak. You feel your teeth grow in an instant. 

You want to call your sister's name, but you are truly in pain. Your vision is blurry. You are terrified. Still, you are also excited. Adrenaline shoots through your body as you feel your muscles harden.

Eventually, you know you are done with the change. You look at yourself in your sister’s mirror. You do not recognize yourself, and you love that. You do not see a woman in the mirror anymore, and for the first time in years, it feels you with girl-like glee. You are a monster, and you feel free.

When you are eighteen, you decide to go hunting for the first time.