I'm walking home from school. I should be fine. What I should be feeling is a glowing warmth, the joy that comes from an enjoyable vacation with friends. We of the E class just finished our vacation at Okinawa, I should not feel how I do. I should feel the routine disappointment of getting so close to finally assassinating Koro-Sensei, mixed with the comfort of hearing his praise for a job so nearly successful. Those are the feelings I should have.

But I can't find those feelings within me. I know they should be there, but I can't find them. All I can think of is what happened at the bar on Okinawa. I'm sure no one meant any harm by it, but that doesn't mean that no harm was done. Having that pile of clothes shoved at me, being forced to change in the middle of such a dangerous mission, it's all I can think about.

I keep hearing their jokes, Karma insisting I should just "cut it off". I keep seeing that one guy in the bar that kept hitting on me. I was so helpless. I shouldn't have felt that way, I'm a trained assassin. But no. I knew mentally that I was capable of defending myself, but I couldn't muster the courage. All my experience, my training, was all drained out of me as soon as I was forced into those clothes.

On one level I'm just ashamed of myself. Why should wearing the clothes of the other gender make me feel so vulnerable? I've seen so many women in my life that are so powerful, definitely more so than me. It was the girls I was supposed to protect who ended up protecting me in the bar.

But on the other hand, that is not who I am. I am not, and never will be a girl. It's funny how the clothes you wear inform your identity. It made me so uncomfortable. The skirt, always just one gust of wind away from total exposure. Being able to feel a room full of people staring at me. But not all of me. They look to the spots which will get them off. The chest, to see what I've got going on there. The exposed flesh of my thighs between where the skirts stops and the leggings start.

It's depressing to know that the most attractive version of me is the one I'll never want. Put me in a skirt, and the world adores me. Put me in a skirt, and my mom will tolerate me. When I'm a guy, no one notices or tries to care about me. When I'm a guy, my mom beats me down. I'm so stupid. The only way to make everyone else happy makes me unhappy. Why am I so selfish? Why can't I just get over myself? I'm worthless.

I'm nearly to my house before I notice the pain in my hands. I look at them, confused. They're cut up with nail marks. My fingers are bloody. Damn it. My mom can't see me like this. She'll worry or she'll hurt me. I don't want either of those to happen. I'll just keep my hands closed, wash them as soon as I get in. Then she won't find out, right? Right? It'll be fine, there's nothing to worry about, it's all fine.

I knock on the door. "Come in!" she calls. Like everything's fine, like we're the perfect family, like I'm not afraid every second I'm in that house. Then I come in. Like everything's fine. "Oh, Nagisa, look at you! You're all salty!" she says. "Yeah, I swam a lot at Okinawa." I reply. "Well, clean yourself up. I only want the best from you, dear." "Sure thing, mom." I head to the shower.

It's a daily routine. I get home from school, or wherever I've been out to on the weekends, and clean myself. I walk a fine line when I do. The water must be incredibly hot, for the best cleaning to occur, as she accepts nothing but the best from me. But she will not allow me to damage my "perfect" skin, so I can't scald myself with its heat. I have to clean myself thoroughly, meticulously. But I can't spend too long. She doesn't like to wait for the next part of our routine to begin.

I come out of the shower, and see what is always there when I'm done. A white towel, and white female undergarments. As invasive, and controlling as my mother is, at least she lets me wear something for this next part. I hate how well they fit my body. I call her, let her know that I'm ready. She comes in with shaving cream and a razor.

She doesn't let me shave. She wants to do that herself. The fact that my body grows hair is a reminder to her of the disappointment that I am, a male child. She opts to shave me herself, as a way of proving to herself that she's in control. Of herself, and of me.

She sits on a stool, impeccable posture, beckons me to sit on her lap. It's always embarrassing, to be forced into such a childish position, but I still obey. I elongate one leg so it rests on the bathtub, so all of it can be shaved.

She looks at my legs, then sighs with disappointment. "Nagisa, dear, they've gotten so stubbly." I avert my eyes, not wanting to look into hers. "Yeah, they have," I whisper. She clicks her tongue at me. "Ah well, Nagisa. What would you do without me?"

She goes to start spreading the shaving cream, and I manage to keep myself from flinching. The gentle touch she uses is deceptive. The first time we went through this, I couldn't keep myself still, and that… hadn't ended well for me. At the first sign of discomfort or resistance, she would dig her fingernails into my skin, and scream "Don't you want this? Won't you let your mother be happy?" Since then I've learned to keep better control of myself.

That said, I can't help my eyes from watering as I see the razor slide across my skin. It's a smooth painless shave, that's not the issue. I had actually gotten attached to the two-day's growth of hair. I know it's silly to get so emotional over leg hair, but to me it was proof of my masculinity, a sign of the y chromosome my mother would rather keep hidden.

She doesn't want to miss any spot. She shaves even the parts nobody but us will ever see. My stomach turns as she forces my legs apart, spreading them so she can get the razor all the way up my inner thighs. She only stops just at the point the fabric of the undergarments cover my skin.

She lays down the razor, and runs her hand across my face. "You didn't even shave your face at Okinawa? How slovenly." I bite my tongue to keep myself from arguing with her, she would have gotten mad at me if I had shaved then too. She would have accused me of taking matters into my own hands, and not letting her do what she wished.

I lean my head back, stretching my neck so she can get at all of it. After applying the cream, she starts shaving my face and neck. She cups my head in one arm, in a hold that would be reassuring, if it weren't for the memories which run through my mind of her using that same grip to pull on my hair to keep my head still. But still I keep my breathing even, despite the knowledge that she holds a bladed object, and she could at any moment decide she'd had enough of her disappointment of a child, and end me. But she doesn't. She never does. We finish this part of the routine with her spreading moisturizer over all the places she shaved me. All of them.

That's just the first part of our "grooming" session. She brushes my hair, she says, "Girls your age always look better with longer hair," and it takes all my strength not to respond "But I'm not a girl." She reveals some clothes, what could be considered a cute outfit. A pink dress, the colour obviously selected for the connection between pink and femininity. She helps me put it on. It's modest, going well past the knees. Despite how much it covers, I still feel naked.

She takes my face, holds it still with one hand. With the other she applies makeup. Nothing excessive: foundation, concealer, eyeliner, mascara. She's quick at it, too. It's mere moments before she turns me toward the mirror. I do not see myself reflected back at me. All I see is my mother and a beautiful girl. She is familiar, but seeing her makes me uncomfortable. My mother sighs. "Now, this is what the perfect family looks like." She says that every time.

And, like every time we go through this, she sets up the family camera on a timer, and the our picture is taken. I have always been camera shy, and being photographed in such a state has not helped that much. But still I keep myself from outward discomfort. I know the consequences if I don't.

She spends minutes inspecting me. She muses about how she wished I was biologically female, how that would be the final piece of our perfect lives. I never talk during this part. She's not interested in my thoughts or anything I have to say. If I said anything at all, it would just take her out of her vicarious living through me.

"This has been good, Nagisa. I look forward to the next time we can do this together." She smiles and goes to her room. She never helps clean me up. That would remove her from the immersion of her New Game Plus. It would hurt her to take apart the artwork she'd just finished creating. So I'm left on my own to remove the makeup, and get changed into my own clothes. The privacy is welcome, but being left alone in this state is anything but good for my psyche.

I cry as I change. No sobs or sound of any kind. Then she'd know something's wrong. Instead I just let the tears run down my face. I don't even wipe them off, I just let them fall. There's no one to see, and no one who cares. I'm left alone with my tears and my thoughts. As I always am.