Scorch

(A young person, warm, nervous energy. This is KES. Maybe we don’t identify them as the audience congregate.)

(Perhaps the audience form a circle, of which KES is part.)

(For some time we are KES’s mirror as KES unselfconsciously examines the reflected body.)

(As KES imitates the body language of audience-members-as-reflection.)

(As KES dances to music)

(maybe)

(camply)

(maybe)

(as we have all done alone.)

(Then:)

The suede waistcoat is my favourite.

Brown suede.

Um.

I have a waistcoat with elephants stitched on it too.

And I have a silky waistcoat.

With cats on it.

Maybe mice.

Not sure.

I am a ‘deb-bon-air eight-year-old’ Granda says.

I have a bouncy-ball collection.

I’m shaping up to be a real ah, ‘heartbreaker’ Granda says.

He called the self-service machine in Tescos ‘young lady’ though, so…

(Brightly.) I have lots of waistcoats. I love them.

(Thinks.)

Try weeing standing up.

Yeah. Wee standing up.

I have a brother and boy cousins, so um, think it’s cos I haven’t tried.

I’m wearing cords. Stand at the toilet. Confident. Then this stain, down my favourite blue corduroys. Hide them in the rockery.

Wonder what Mum thinks when she digs them up.

‘That is not a carrot,’ probably.

Uhm.

Wake up and boobs. You know? Like, no one asked me. Just pop up overnight. Like in Alien. The film? With Sigourney Weaver? Only out of my chest. Twice: (Demonstrates.) pft. Pft.

Want to give them back thank you bye.

I’m a boy. Then eleven. Then boobs.

High school’s okay. It’s okay. In high school I have the same friends. Climb trees, football, et cetera et cetera tomboy grow-out-of-it phase et cetera.

Try being girly.

Try to – Thirteen. Lipgloss. Quite excited. Free with a magazine about. Ponies or something. Try to – try to drop ‘boyfy’ into conversation.

‘Boyfy.’

Do people say ‘boyfy’? Or is it like when I tried to say ‘oke’ but it turns out it’s ‘O’–‘K’ as in the same as O –K–A–Y and you don’t say it ‘oke’ it’s not like a cool way of saying it, it just looks that way before anyone tells you it’s not.

‘Boyfy.’

(Maybe KES tries the lipgloss, then tries saying ‘boyfy’.)

‘Boyfy.’

Boyfy.

Boyfuh.

Boyfah.

Boyf.

Buh

(Until there is an absurd amount of lipgloss.)

(Until ‘boyfy’ sounds absurd.)

Try it. But. Feel daft. Pretending. I’m pretending. Get bored.

…

Bioshock. Minecraft. Black Ops. The Last of Us Assassins Creed HaloGrandTheftAuto WatchDogs

Gaming online. I am twelve, thirteen, fourteen.

Always choose the coolest avatar, always dudes. If not,
a mushroom. But usually dudes. Gaming stuff, made by dudes. All the characters are dudes. Never even think about it. Just, normal. You can be whatever you want.

(Sings enthusiastically.) Whatever whatever whatever you waaaaant.

BLEEP.

Her name equals bleep.

Never answer straight away, no one likes a keeno. Think you’re just waiting like some kind of nut, which we both are obviously. Bleep: ‘Hi yah.’ Jules calls it Player Ready Twitch haha. Jules is funny. She has a cool tattoo a line from Jurassic Park but it’s cool. She loves Leonard Cohen. And eyeliner. And gifs. We’re always laughing at stupid things. Little cry-y emoticon faces hahaha.

Okay.
Okay.
Okay.

(Full house lights. We are a support group.)

I’m trying to say it from the top.
Everything. Okay?
Okay.
Cool cool coooool. Just, channel someone cool. David Bowie or, Fiona Bruce.

She is pretty bloody cool.

Make eye contact with the circle.

We sit in a circle.

A circle is about trust.

A square, well a square is for fascists, obviously. A circle is
for trust.

Laugh HAHAHA not like a maniac, but enough so you all know I know it’s funny, me and my waistcoats. Some people take themselves too seriously. Life’s too awesome not to laugh, you know?

Look round the circle and you’re nodding.

You get it.

Feel another surge of. Of of – wonder if it’s cool to talk about how happy I am. Cos some of you guys are having a crappy time. You have to come here to talk about the crappy time you’re having. Wonder if I do belong here, cos I actually just want to share how happy I am.

I have a girl. Yeah.

And this circle needs a sprinkle of joy. And I want to be that sprinkler, said the bishop to the the thing.

My girl. Jules.

Er, I do wonder if liking girls means I am… un homo. But
I don’t know any real ones yet… just convince myself I’ll probably get a boyfriend one day, like, when I have to. I am quite convincing.

Oh, there’s this movie – watch it a zillion times – this guy dresses as a girl to get the girl. I love that movie. Flippin hilarious. Hi-lar-i-ous. This guy looks amazing. Scientific fact: men look AMAZING in make-up.

I don’t get why, but I’m a bit obsessed with that movie.

I think… I think I watch movies different.

Like. I watch movies through the dude’s point of view.

Thought everyone did.

Like, everyone thinks I fancy Ryan Gosling. I want to be him. Duh. I want to be Ryan. And sometimes the girl. And sometimes Ryan. And sometimes – (Overwhelmed.) Wah stroke! Ryan is completely hot. He’d rock an elephant waistcoat.

Me and Jules’ve been messaging for years. Up till crazy o’clock messaging. About Laser Eyes. Laser Eyes her fascist mum. About like, how Jules hopes she’ll be the first one to go to college and. And she thinks I’m a guy.

And I don’t correct her. Don’t correct her cos I am Kes.

Kes, like the kid on the front of that Ken Loach film. I love that picture. Haven’t seen the film, it’s old but. The kid smiling and the bird? Love it. Love my name. Kes. Everything’s – Think about a name like… ‘Jonny’. But that’s just, crap.

(Maybe text appears.)

‘U R SUCH A SWEET GUY’

(KES thinks. Not for too long. Then – )

Smiley face.

‘WISH I COULD HANG OUT WIV U’

Emoticon emoticon emoticon no exclamation marks.

Exclamation marks are needy.

‘HOT’

New Profile. MALE. FIFA. Snowboarding. JJ Abrams. People Like what I Like. Feeds totally different – different ads, different colours. Cool. I Like that they Like that I Like what they Like! Jake in school created an account where he was a Chair our teachers sit in and all his updates were like: ‘agh stop your bum is squashing me!!!’ Funniest thing EVER we all nearly died.

Jake the Chair Ha.

Jake was a Chair.

Bleep.

Jules wants to Skype.

word.

Oh my wordy word.

We only ever texted.

Bellytwist, flying over hills superfast in the car something dilating heart a balloon inflating head hanging out window blasting go faster ‘yes okay ten o’clock okay?’

K, cool.

Welded to seat. Anticipation-locked Z-shaped at laptop barricade bedroom no I DON’T want lasagne Mum I’m BUSY.

You know –

all those funny movies where the guy goes to crazy lengths to prove how much he loves the girl, like pretend to be a priest or professional dancer or hypnotise her and eventually, even when he comes clean, the girl is just so moved and happy he loves her she’s just like: ‘alright!’ and they just kiss and the credits go up?

(Maybe canned laughter.)

Pinching things from Dad. From my brother.

Shirt.

Bart Simpson boxers – so much funner than girls’ stuff – stash them in my laundry box

heart like dut-dut dut-dutDUT-DUT DUT-DUT

model myself on cool guys. Not like, some crap guy in a fleece.

(Maybe KES strikes a few poses.)

Been collecting Topman models. Gangstas. Dandys. Normalcore. Metro-boys. Everyone thinks it’s a crush-book, but it’s actually my reference document.

I’m testing out holding a wallet, like lads do.

In my more modest dreams Bill Murray and Justin Bieber bop me on the shoulder in a dude way and I say something showbizzy like: ‘HEY, WATCH IT, BRO!’

Take photos. Look at myself.

Do I look flat in this?

My body. Outline. I look.

Cool.

Perfect.

Player One Ready.

Practise how I stand. (Does so.)

Sit. (Does so.)

Voice. Read on a forum you shouldn’t overdo it. Sound like Aslan or something.

(KES is emerging before our eyes.)

Hang out on forums as Kes. Like. Tumblr. Cute Boys Who Are Girls. Photostream. Like like like search like like like bookmark like like.

People like me. There’re people like me on there.

Tonnes. In Portland. Milton Keynes. Belfast.*

Heart burning like darkest Mordor – surely these are weirdos? I’m not like them, right? Right? I’m not weird. They’re the lost, the curious, the, the Great British Bake Off fans, everyone needs somewhere to go, somewhere to think in capitals

Me too.

Step through. Portals to the World the World for Kes nothing impossible NOTHING you can’t stick a cat on and turn into a snazzy gif – no longer lumpish I’m a careless queen, a cad, lead in a crazy romcom, fingers shredding up the keyboard she’s LOLing till her sides split I’m WINning –

Don’t tell anyone, obviously.

Like the movie I watched over and over. Just know, I can’t. Yet.

We only ever texted till now.

We Skype.

(Maybe we hear the call tone.)

(It goes on for some time before KES has the courage to answer.)

(A rush. Some moments here.)

(Maybe we see the first step towards KES.)

‘Hi.’

Wait for her to – …

but. She doesn’t. We just. Hang out.

Happiness. Aching, constant, consuming – on here it’s. More real than real life. I’m honest on here. I’m being honest. This is important. This is it.

We Skype again.

Lie next to her face on my iPad in bed. Just. Laughing. Hanging. Just. Never felt so…

Friend.
Like.
Follow.

Jake was a bloody Chair it doesn’t mean –

Wow.

Jules wants to meet up.

(Swallows hard.)

(Deep breath.)

Two train rides. Think I might spontaneously human combust.

I’m doing this I’m doing this don’t think just just just

just

Her arm’s in a sling. Barely speak. Terrified. She’s so sweet. Think I’m gonna throw up it’s amazing. We quote Terminator 2. I know all Edward Furlong’s lines because I AM him.

(Edward Furlong’s actual voice.) ‘Mom, we need to be a little more constructive here, okay?’

Bop her in the face with my genius.

Hold hands.

Skin so soft.

I love her hand.

This is happening.

Her actual real hand in mine. Looks right in my actual real eyes. I look in hers.

We are like Paul McKenna.

In a mirror.

Can see me in her eyes. Tiny Keses in her lovely magic eyes.

She sees Kes.

She sees me.

…

Next time, strap down them pesky boobs. Bit sore, switch to
a sports bra. Urg. Just want to squash them away. But, there they are. Just – wear baggy clothes. Scared she won’t like me if I look too. Yuck. Feminine. Packing is when you put something down there, to feel, to feel like, comfy. You can get anything on the internet. (Thinks.) Baby lemurs in a bumbag, I don’t know. Work in Asda, forty quid for a chest-binder is okay.

Don’t go to great lengths.

But I’m passing.

She says I’m cute. I’m cute. ARGH. Eat two Toffee Crisps in celebration. Cannot believe it. I’m like those cartoons where their brain is literally made up of mini birds and hearts and biscuits and things. I mean kissing is like WOW. Just lying around in each other’s arms: WOW. We just fit. Her – everything – just – WOW.

I mean, there are so many moments I think SHIT she is going to SAY something. Or, think, I need to say something. Especially at the start.

But.

Moments come and go.

Months come and go.

Her sixteenth.

We talk in… code. We argue in code. Want to talk about it but. Scared.

Guess, she knows, or. Prefers not asking. An understanding. You know?

Stay over sometimes.

Talk about running away to New York together, where the hipsters are. Make so many plans. Cos she knows, like I do, something’s gonna have to give. But, not yet.

Never asks why I only go in the disabled loo. (There’s so many men in men’s loos.)

Why I never take my hat off.

But I reckon, we’re both in Narnia together. That’s half the thing.

Laser Eyes, her mother, does not like me. Laser Eyes is a blast of ice, always flick flick flicking through her Avon brochures.

We. We uh. Sleep together. Amazing.

I – She

We are. We –

Worry a bit. Hurt her a bit, I think. She says go easy, and I do. Neither of us totally know what we’re doing, but she you know, comes. I don’t, cos it’s for her. Want to be the perfect boyfriend. Tell her how gorgeous she is. Make her come. Make sure everything is ready. Pick the one that has the best reviews. Says it’s soft. Soft and realistic to touch, like a real ahm, cock, the website says. Or, more specifically, Joan from Kent: (Uptight.) ‘very pleasant.’

Don’t know if we’d have gone this far only… we… we both are.

In love. She says she loves me. So. It’s…

you don’t use the. Thing. They’re not actually for that. The ones for packing, not… they’re not strap-ons, not to use. Reckon you graduate to that.

Read somewhere it doesn’t matter how you um, do it – as long as you are respectful, right?

Cringe, talk about getting married and stuff. Oh my goodness. Nuts.

Soulmates.

Circle’s nodding, listening. First time I’m saying any of this. Out loud. To you. Now. Voluntarily. My voice, my. Makes it real. Feel drunk, even though I don’t really drink. Tell the, the – what? The group. Whhoooosh. Feels AMAZING – to talk about it. Want to feel this free every day. Like being online but in a real room with mediocre instant coffee! Want to kiss kiss SNOG everyone in the circle, not in a sexy way, just. Drunk on freedom. I’m Kes. Birds spring from my heart feel I feel alive. Feel real. Thick with weight and confidence radiates from my centre I have shoulders
I could cave a door in to help an old lady I’d be charming and helpful and I wanna walk with my pack between my legs my eyes squinting in the sun just like James flipping Franco and no one will ask ‘what are you?’ I’m just a dude.

(Quickly.) Maybe not trans. Don’t know.

Haven’t worked it out yet.

Don’t know.

But a cute boi. B-O-I. Boi. That’s queer slang for cute girls that look like boys.

I’m trying to improve my queer slang. I mean it’s important actually, cos male-to-female trans people are the butt of a lot of lazy jokes. But transdudes are like, anti-comedy. This is crucial info. Transvestites: funny. Men who want to be women: funny. Women who are dudes:

not funny, apparently.

In the movies they get depressed or stalky or kill themselves in burning houses.

Wonder why it is. People are weird.

In the circle there’s a shy girl with a bad wig.

(Aside to whoever is next to them.) This bad, blonde wig. She’ll never pass. She’ll never pass with that flippin wig. Mate. Want to tell him – tone it down. Looks shit. But – that’d be a mean. Don’t want to be mean. So I don’t. Say she looks sweet. And, she does, really. She’s all like: ‘Emmylou is da bomb, chicken.’

(Emmylou’s the wig)

Jules messages, says I lied to her,

which,

I don’t think I did,

lie,

but she won’t answer my calls.

Not picking up.

Sends the odd message, but.

(Puzzled, hurt silence.)

It’s cool.

Hurts. Miss her. Miss us.

But.

Don’t know – kind of like being heartbroken. Once I stop crying. Least I get someone to be heartbroken about. Not everyone gets that. Still feel lucky. And just think: I’m not on the outside any more. I’m in life. I’m Ryan Gosling in Drive but minus the homicidal stampy scene that literally made me choke on a Malteser.

Trying to get over Jules. It sucks but I feel. Feel –

(Maybe now, an impossibly accomplished movement sequence: this is how it feels to be fully bodily present and realised.)

Come to the meet-up group a second time. Read about T. Testosterone. But don’t know. I’m just curious. Maybe cos I feel more, more – confident. Know how perfect it can feel.

If I transition maybe I can rock up on Jules’ doorstep and offer her everything I can’t offer her now. I can be her boyfriend. And we could be together. AND GET A CAT.

But but but it’s another level and, it kinda I dunno it kinda
s-s-scares me.

(Back in the group.)

The group properly sits up. This is what they love. Who gives
a toot about lezzers? Boooooring. This is way better. And I’m ready to talk now. I’ve come to this group. Crapping myself but I found this group, LGBTQABCDEFG and this is a group where we start by letting the group know if we are she, he, they

BLOWS MY MIND.

‘They. Prefer not to define.’

(KES’s head implodes.) Click.

Universe falls into place. He, she, they. And loads of words
I don’t even understand –

I can never concentrate in school but I’m learning loads here –

And we nod and use the right pronoun and I, I exist in the circle. Breathe, sit up in your seat, crack jokes, look people in the eyeballs.

And you shouldn’t say tranny actually. Cos it’s hurtful.

You can buy T online.

(KES is coherent and technicolour, electric with discovery.)

Max, this skinny dude in the circle next to a boy in completely gay loafers has been on hormones for months and you can totally see. He. Looks. Awesome. I’d never want to be one of those stacked dudes, but Max just looks solid. Great shoulders, and I don’t know if he binds or what, but he looks like he’s already had top surgery.

Can’t stop looking at his body. His jaw.

T makes your boobs shrink. Your face more angular. Your voice drops. You lose fat off your hips and get more muscley. First thing I’d do is buzz off my hair. Short back and sides. Slick into a smart side parting. Sharp. Phwoar!

But shut up, shut up brain, getting carried away. Don’t really know if I would. Just tucked my hair into a hat with Jules. Miss Jules. Would I miss my hair?

Like it long sometimes.

Don’t tell anyone. Don’t tell anyone that before I go home, I stop in a public toilet. Stuff my hat in my bag. Change. Don’t feel trapped, just…

not there yet. Or something. Growing into it. Carry it around like it’ll explode over some unsuspecting teacher when I’m in Normal Life Mode – buying shoes / eating McCoys / at Asda. Hide – go home someone else. Fraud. Some strange chick who wears a bridesmaid dress to her cousin’s wedding.

I’m trying to find the opposite of lying. Um. The truth, I suppose. I know I don’t say it right but don’t know how… don’t know how I can do it right yet.

The circle listen to Lara, a really pretty, hilarious transwoman. Lara’s talking about disclosure and stealth and stuff. I feel lucky. Lara’s saying she finally loves herself, and now she’s ready to be loved. Now she’s ready to allow herself to be loved. Damn right. Cos she’s gorgeous and everything.

I have an ex.

I’ve loved.

I’m normal.

(A mobile ringtone. KES, curious.)

Seven missed calls from Mum.

(A gear change.)

Get home. Drop my bag in the hall. They’re sitting at the kitchen table. Go ‘Hola, chicas.’

Mum’s crying. What? Dad won’t look at me.

What is it?

Stomach cold.

Where’ve you been?

Just out.

Piece of paper on the table.

(A miniature kitchen table appears, upon which is a ludicrous bomb.)

There’s a piece of paper between them. There’s a piece of paper and it has my name on it.

Not Kes. The other name.

Don’t really know what a court summons is.

Don’t really know what legal aid is.

Still don’t really understand, don’t understand a lot of things. I’m not the brightest spark at school. I’m a stupid moron obviously. And now obviously I’m not going back to school till this is over. The one thing I know is I loved Jules. And I want it to be over.

Kind of think it’ll be like the movies. In the movie it’d all be over and there’d be tears but they’ll hug me and say

(Recorded movie voice.) ‘we love you just the way you are’

‘we want you to be happy.’

‘It’s the twenty-first century.’ We love you.

And. I think they do. I think they do still love me.

But it isn’t. It isn’t. Okay.

It isn’t like the movies.

A girl can’t be charged with raping another girl. FYI.

Nope.

Legal-aid man clicks his pen, repeats himself. Not really actually looking at me.

Clicky pen. Click. Click-click. Don’t say much. Can’t. Can’t. Don’t know. How to

I know, once the jury hears my story, once they ask Jules what really happened, without listening to old Laser Eyes, I know they’ll see I’ve been the perfect boyfriend, respectful. That I love Jules. And she loved me, I mean she posted all the time about it. She chased me. This is messy I own up to that. I get that. That’s not cool. And I am sorry. I’m sorry Jules is upset. But the language. The words. Feel. Alien. Weird as the lipgloss when
I was thirteen.

Glues my mouth shut.

‘Sexual assault by penetration.’

Sexual assault by p–

And fraud. Fraud. That’s what Al Capone does, or mafiosos. (Mafioso voice.) ‘Fraud.’

Fraud. Fraaaauuuuuuuddd fraud. Fraud.

Fraud. Fraud. Fraud. Fraud.

Fraud.

Fra –

(Maybe KES invites us to say it too.)

But. It’s not a joke. They’re saying I um. Deceived Jules, by pretending to be a man to have um, sex with her.

Tricked her into it.

Ab–

abused her. Abuse.

Keep saying to them, ask Jules. Maybe she is angry, but she’ll tell you. I’m still Kes. I am Kes. I’m more Kes than not.
I wasn’t ‘pretending’.

Even now, talking to you – I know how it must sound.

(KES glitches and disintegrates. The music heard when KES was fullest plays again only backward, warped.)

(KES’s movements are now involuntary, compulsive.)

(Maybe KES ends up across the floor or upside down or in
a bin.)

Dad waves his fag in the air to shoo it all away. Hear him in the kitchen, on the phone: (Dad.) ‘Run this by me again. So you could be a fucking – a rapist, or have a record for GBH, or a wife, or be sterile, or have fucking HIV even – but you don’t have to “disclose” that?’

Blobs of body parts. Heart hanging outside my body, punchbag. I’m pretty gross, right? Solicitor staring at me: what are you? Sorry. Mouth’s glued shut. She says – what are you?

‘Are you a Homosexual or are you Gender Disordered?’

Um. My body is this weird black hole I drag round? I got Cs in English I’m not good at words.

‘Dysphoria?’ What? I wasn’t but…

Aliens. I’m none of those things. I’m seventeen. I don’t know.
I don’t know. I see Kes in the mirror. Kes is real. I’m. I’m. I’m.

Maybe I am an alien?

(Maybe we hear a ghostly Ripley in Aliens: ‘Get away from her, you bitch!’)

Dad asks why.

Asked myself that over and over.

My brother just patted me on the shoulder today. Just shatter, into liquid sadness across the lino. But he just sits here, with me. They’re alright, my family. Just. Scared. They don’t know there are hipsters and b-o-i boi’s out there.

It’s okay, cos the people at the court will know.

Some of the group, I know you see what’s happening in the press. Only came once or twice, but you try to contact me. Send me that box of Milk Tray by Royal Mail.

Weird, but really thoughtful. Thank you.

But Kes is dead for now. Kes is evidence, exhibit A and B and C in separate plastic bags.

Scrambled. Lose my, my… Eyeballs on me. Stuck to me.
I know what they’re – they’re thinking – they’re thinking about – (Small.) about my private. Most private. My invisible, soft parts, rebuilt into an alien.

(Maybe, around now, we become aware of sensational tabloid headlines screaming into our consciousness.)

Papers make a big deal of the ‘paraphernalia’ Laser Eyes found in my stupid backpack.

‘Paraphernalia.’

A cock and a sports bra.

They make me sound like a terrorist.

Mum and Dad’re broke, trying to pay for everything –

Laser Eyes says Jules will never trust again.

God.

I’ve written apologies, to Jules, to Mum, Dad – sorry. Sorry.
I I don’t know why I. Don’t know but I’m so sorry and I’m guilty –

(Agear change.)

Solicitor blinks.

Dad nods.

Guilty.

(Realisation.) I’m guilty. I am guilty.

I did those things. I did them.

(A sob seizes KES.)P-plead guilty.

(Small.) It was fingers and tongues. It wasn’t what people think HUMILIATION UGH the papers say she said I hurt her? Is she okay? Plead guilty, just get it over with. A cross-examination would kill me dead. They’d be like: do you have anything to say? And I’d be like: no, I’m actually dead.

(Maybe KES takes off a shoe and puts it to an ear.)

(Hands the other to an audience – Lara.)

Lara calls.

She’s like, ‘What, are we meant to fill out a questionnaire before any kind of intimacy now? Any time I go into a bar or on a date I have to out myself? Really? Otherwise we might end up in prison?’

I don’t know Lara.

‘Imagine I’m a racist, and you convince me you’re not Indian, and then I learn that’s not just a cool suntan, you are Indian, did you rape me?’

Wh– I don’t know.

‘Gender fraud? This is just homophobia, Kessy.’

I don’t know.

‘What about if I sleep with a woman (God forbid) and then I’m like “Hiyaa I’m an undercover cop?”They do that all the time! So that’s fraud.’

I don’t know, Lara. I just want it over. Lara? Thanks for calling.

Press call me a lesbian. A lot.

Am I?

Probably.

Calculating lesbian. Predatory lesbian. Ugly. Masquerading. Dangerous. Callous lesbian.

Probably.

At court, try to look normal. Coat from New Look. Only makes things worse. Like I am even more deceitful for not at least having the decency to look butch. Think – cos I look like a girl, the idea I slept with a girl like a boy scares them.

Get that now.

Judge says. I took away Jules’ freedom to choose sex with a man.

(Slowly, finding the sense of it.) Took away her freedom. To choose sex with a man.

Groomed her.

I – I didn’t realise, sir. I didn’t realise that’s what I was doing. And I’m sorry for hurting her and I’ll take the punishment. Plead guilty. It’ll just be over, right?

Three and a half years.

Prison.

My name on the sex offender’s register.

There was kid killed a gay guy the other day and he got three and a half years for murder.

Am I as evil as him?

(Blackout.)

(From somewhere, a voice.)

(It could be live. It could be recorded. It could roam the room.)

You want to gouge your sex off.
You want to cut your head off.
You want to make love to someone who loves you want to never touch another human in case you are dangerous in case you hurt them want to get fucked by a guy just so you can say you have and maybe it would make you more normal

Want to be normal and don’t want to be normal

Didn’t feel like an alien before. Felt like Sigourney or maybe Bishop but the world has told you in no uncertain terms that you are the thing that blasted out of the guy’s stomach that you are not what. You are not. You are not.

Nought. A gap. A hole. An error.

You eat up your peripheries you are no longer aware of them smoothly one by one until you are an unidentifiable entity and when you were blank you felt free.

But you are still here. Still here. Still you. Still the same.

You’re not flesh you’re a voice.

Online you were most human. You are neither. You are many.

Maybe you are an alien.

Maybe you are Vimto.

Maybe you are a hat.

Maybe you are a chair.

Maybe you are a soundbyte.

Maybe you are existing in a separate but simultaneous world like when you were born you came out of a portal that was surprisingly embedded in your mother’s vagina and you slithered into a slightly different world that looks like our world but out of sync – ever so slightly underneath, subterranean or slightly beside everyone else who agree on things and say all together ‘isn’t that nice?’ or ‘isn’t this important?’ and your mouth says ‘yes yes’ but you feel nothing and you search for others like you and you collect them and they do not put their eyeballs on you and think of untender sexual scenarios

And they are out there

And we are okay

(Some moments.)

(KES emerges into view again.)

Prison is prison.

It’s not like Orange is the New Black, I’m sad to report. Much cry-ier. (Though we do all love that show, obviously.)

You don’t get to speed off on a motorbike, people don’t think you’re a charming heartbreaker. It’s scary for people who write headlines or become judges to think a girl would want to do those dude things.

I fucked up. Massive.

Won’t go into the dark stuff about prison and stuff. No one likes a sad lesbian story, remember.

Let’s skip that bit, okay? Yeah?

(KES checks it is okay with us.)

We appeal.

The appeal is successful. Press don’t go so mad for that story.

Six months in prison. The conviction isn’t overturned. But the sentence is. My heart starts to beat again. Dut-dut, dut-dut,
dut-dut hello heart. Home. Bed. Doesn’t fit me. Nothing kinda. Fits. The dog, he puts his dog-nose on me.

Don’t feel evil.

Don’t feel much. I’m on happy pills. Consider giving the dog one, but think better of it.

Eventually Dad makes a joke about me being the new Doctor Who, and I think maybe one day it might be okay again. Then the guy at the garage calls me a paedophile.

Comme ci comme ça.

Come back to the meet-up group.

(KES faces us.)

Doughnuts and Vimto at the break. Ha. Look down into my Vimto.

Didn’t realise I could break laws. Hurt people. Hurt Jules. Least now I can put it in words. Want to help other people do that.

Lara’s in the middle of complaining they should provide coconut water, suddenly hugs the air out of me – ‘Cheer up, Kessy.’

No one’s called me that in – . Not sure if I am. Kes.

Got a message from Jules.

Through her gamer avatar. She’s finishing uni. Says she’s confused, maybe bi. Says she’s messed up. That um. I did that. Doesn’t want me to contact her.

(Soft.) I know. I’m so. Sorry.

You nod. You listen.

I’m not naive any more. I’m older. I have words. There are more words now. In prison I was sent books. ‘Gender binary.’ ‘Gender non-binary.’ ‘Agender.’ I did those things. But they have played me like an avatar in someone else’s game, the difficulty level on its highest setting so I’m telling it all to you myself so at least you might see me. I’m an okay human, I think. And so are you for listening. Can’t speak for others, only myself. Flew close to a star. Dazzled myself. Fell backwards, scorched. Kes circled back to earth. People spoke loudly at me. The judge had grey hair and fresh flowers. My heart became a pixellated map, unable to pick out road signs let alone drop a pin so you could come and find me. It’ll be a careful return.

Cos it’s just as likely you are all aliens, and I am the earthling. There’s just more of you.

Hands lifting me, taking the weight.

Life’s too awesome not to – I’m, you know, really flippin –

(Some moments.)

Just so glad you guys are here. So.

Thanks.

Yeah, god, that’s the short version, sorry!

Thanks.

My body bends like a bow, arrow pointed to the sun, exploding atoms

(End.)