//------------------------------// // Special Occasion [Slice of Life; OC; Trans Themes] // Story: Scenes From A Hat // by The Hat Man //------------------------------// “Oh, this is lovely!” the salesmare cooed as she glanced at the blue dress. “And is this for a special occasion?” “Oh, no,” the yellow mare in front of her replied with a nervous chuckle. “Just a little tea party. I-is it too much, you think?” “Maybe a bit fancy… but no, it’s fine. And if it suits you, well, isn’t that what matters?” “If it suits me…” the yellow mare murmured, trailing off as her eyes took on a faraway look. “Ma’am?” the salesmare asked. And when that got no response, again: “Ma’am?” The yellow mare gave a start and looked behind her before stiffening up and then turning back to the salesmare. “Oh, yes, sorry!” she laughed. “Er, do you take Equestrian Express?” “Stop crying!” She’d heard that from the earliest years she could remember. Amid the haze of foggy, half-formed memories, she remembered that bellowed command from her father as if he were right there, standing over her, his long shadow engulfing her in the evening sun. “Stop crying!” he shouted again as she clenched her teeth and stood, trying to will the tears to go back. It was just a stumble on the dirt road outside their home that sent her skidding and skinned her knees, but she’d cried as any foal would have.  She’d have given anything for her mother to sweep her up and comfort her, but instead it had been her father who was there, and the only salve offered for her bloody knees was his deafening shout: “Suck it up, boy! Be a stallion about it! Colts don’t cry! Fillies cry!” And it was only when she stifled her sobs that he finally cracked a smile, patted her on the back, and said, “There, that’s my boy. Now, let’s get you some bandages, kiddo.” She looked herself over in the mirror. The blue dress and a wide-brimmed straw hat adorned her and she felt a thrill of elation, momentarily feeling like she’d committed some daring daylight robbery and were reveling in her ill-gotten gains. She gave a shriek of surprise when she heard a loud knock at the door. He’s here! He knows! I have to— She paused. No, she told herself. That’s impossible now. Her heartbeat slowed, and she called out, “Who is it?” “Maintenance!” the stallion on the other side of the door said. “You called about the leaky faucet, ma’am?” “Oh, of course!” she chuckled, and let the maintenance pony into her apartment. “Thank you, ma’am,” he said, walking by her. Then he paused. “Oh, that’s a nice dress, ma’am!” he said with a smile. “Er, sorry if that’s—” “Oh, no, that’s… actually, that’s nice of you to say!” He smiled back. “Well, let me go fix that faucet. Bathroom, right? It won’t take more than a few minutes.” She watched him go and then turned back to her reflection. Ever-so-gradually, she’d come to take it as her own. It had taken magic and copious injections of changeling-produced concoctions, but she’d endured the pain and disorientation to get there. And yet, the dress and reflection both brought the memory back… “What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” Any answer she could have given was silenced with a stinging slap across her face. “A skirt? A skirt?!” her father shouted. “I figured you were hiding something under your bed, thinking my ladykiller boy has smuggled a girly mag in or something… and it’s this frilly thing?!” “Dad, no, it’s just… I was… holding on to it for a friend!” “DON’T YOU LIE TO ME!” he bellowed, his voice loud enough to shake the walls of their little house. Another hoof across the face, and she sucked in a breath and refused to show any tears, just as she’d learned to do for years now. “What mare would trust a stallion with a skirt? And don’t tell me it’s your marefriend… she’d give you something else if she were giving you a memento!” And she didn’t bother to deny it. Instead, she stood there, rocksteady, letting him go on with his tirade. Behind him, she caught her reflection in the mirror. The same mirror where, just hours before, she’d danced and twirled as the skirt billowed and flared in sync with her movements. And now all that greeted her was her own reflection: tall, square jaw, buzzcut mane, the very picture of a burly, virile stallion in the prime of his teenage years. And she hated it. Hated it for the illusion it was. Hated it for the prison it had become. And, most of all, hated it for the lie her father insisted had to be the truth. She hopped off the trolley car and trotted into the park. Just up the path was a group of friends, new acquaintances she’d met in the city. She’d only known them a few months, and only one knew about who she’d been before she’d moved there. She froze as she saw them in the distance under the gazebo. A momentary dread hit her. It’’s not right. I can’t. I’m… this isn’t real. I’m just an imposter. Dad was right, Dad was right, I need to apologize and— She stopped herself, shutting her eyes and taking a deep breath. Her father was dead. He’d died a year ago, and he’d died without ever knowing who his daughter was. He died without ever seeing the illusion for what it was. And so help her, she’d cried at his passing, freely and without restraint, knowing now that he couldn’t yell at her to stop. She’d loved the bastard just the same, even after all he’d done to her, but it was just one of a lot of complex feelings she’d had to deal with throughout her life. She sucked in a deep breath and went onward, trotting up to the gazebo where her friends had prepared a table with tea, cakes, and cucumber sandwiches. A chorus of lilting, feminine hellos greeted her, and she gave one back. “My, what a lovely outfit!” said one of them. “Though you needn’t have bothered. You should have saved it for a special occasion!” She smiled back. “Who says it isn’t?” she asked with a wink.