My bones, warped and twisted, form a tight embrace about my organs. In just a matter of few bitter years I have managed to achieve something miraculous, something ethereal. My ribcage has contracted and tightened, each delicate rib-bone inter-lacing and interlocking into a neatly woven cage. When I run my fingers over the bumps I can feel where they have ground over each other, like impatient teeth, before coming to rest in this strange new formation.

In the midst of so much horrible flesh, so much repulsion – I at least have this. I have something beautiful and remarkable and this transformation stands testament to just how much I can do. I can change what God has set in place, without a knife, without pills. I can become something smooth, with jutting hips and, what else could you call it? – A bust! I have an hourglass figure. I am a Victorian ideal of womanhood.

My nipples are still flat and small. Dark little circles that barely rise from the surface of my chest, like ugly pimples. The recession of my ribcage has pushed up at my pectoral muscles but there is no roundness, no plumpness that one associates with breasts. I grab at the flesh and push it upwards, staring madly into the glass. I do not know what I can do about this, how I might further change my body to warp itself. I have no answers for that – yet.

My waist though – my waist! That is a thing of perfection! I am now slight enough that I can, if I strain, touch the tips of my long fingers around my stomach, spanning it entirely. I have to squeeze but I am not a stranger to squeezing.

I love the area in which my waist descends into my hips making them seem wide and voluptuous. I like to press my hands on my hips, holding my hipbones tight and stroke at the pale skin. This is a pretty area of my body, before the wrinkles of my penis and scrotum begin, sagging and discoloured like an old woman's skin.

My dick is like some worm from a science fiction film with its narrow hooded head and many folds of hideous skin. It hangs limp, or else writhes, growing red and sweaty – both hideous states that make my skin crawl. At the edge of this chicken-gizzard flesh are shallow scars where, when younger, I used to run a knife's edge. I tried to build my courage. I thought if I could only be brave enough then I could bring the knife up – to cut away this ugly tangle of nerves.

I could not dare though. It hurt when I pressed the knife into the underside of my testis, it hurt enough when I pulled and stretched out my foreskin, hoping to give myself a hasty circumcision. My body revolted against this. I could not do it.

I cannot undo what God has sewn into my body – the long stretch of delicate veins and nerves that thread straight into my soul. If I am ever to know pleasure then it would be through this awful organ. I must reform, not mutilate.

I wrap tight bandages about my groin, pressing the flesh close and tight in-upon itself. This sensation is one that I have come to associate with relief. I am happy when everything is pressed close to my body and I have the smooth shape of a ken-doll. It is nothing more that the slightest of bumps when I pull on my underwear.

I pull on my baggy jeans, the ones that hide my lower body completely and tighten the belt at my waist. Then, with a sigh, I began to strap myself back into my corset. I move with the motion of the laces flexing, adjusting with the tight constriction until I feel pleasantly swaddled. The bones push at my innards, whispering, 'go deeper, be smoother…' I know my body will obey.

My torso is that of a Disney princess when I look in the mirror once more – but my shoulders are wide and gangly. My bleached white hair hangs over my cheeks, down to my collarbones but my face is not round and pert like the pretty cartoon heroines. My face is long, not mannish, thank God, but boyish. I will never look as though I am composed of sugar, spice and estrogen but I am content enough.

I can only admire the pretty part of my body for a little while before pulling on the layers – the padding that hides my clever body modification. I wrap bandages about my tiny waist, then add the over-sized undershirt and then my thick black jumper. I am transformed once more – into the anonymous Goth boy. I am nothing remarkable – just the strange kid with funny hair and pursed lips.

xxxx

The swimming instructor accepts my note, as per usual. The gym teachers have accepted my absence from exercise with considerable good grace. My mother, the doctor, has given them enough cause to believe that my weakness is legitimate. When I practice my shallow breathing so frequently, searching for the air at the top of my lungs, no one doubts that there is something the matter with me.

I eat my pop-tart lunch from the bench and watch the other boys swim. I like to evaluate their bodies, to consider the harsh lines of their hips or the smoothness of whatever curves they possess. They are not like me so they are not, by nature, ugly in their maleness. Many boys are unpleasantly hairy however and Mathew Townsend is bulging and round. He takes a long time to finish every lap. The other boys have strip past him twice before he touches the wall.

He is fat and he hates his body. I can see that, as someone who has hated their body for years. He feels too unhappy to change it however, he doesn't think he can change. Perhaps he doesn't think its worth it – he will never be 'cute' like Luke or Jonah. The girls will never rate him as their dearest crush. He has pimples across his nose and thick, ginger eyelashes. His eyes are beady too and he wheezes a little all the time.

I feel sorry for him. I don't understand why God would make a person so badly, giving him all the worst flaws. He could maybe dye his hair and lose weight, he might even be able to banish his spots – but his eyelashes will always be pale ginger and his head will always be round and white and flaky at the scalp.

If I were him I wouldn't believe I could change myself. I think I would give up. There is no up-side at all – he is not even that clever or creative or funny or interesting. He is a failure of skin and he knows it. I always want to be nice to him but when he was last sat next to me in class his wet wheezing made my nerves bristle and I could only grit my teeth. I wanted to put my hand up, just like I had seen Luke do in the first year of high-school and proclaim,

'Miss, can you please move me away from Mathew – he's grunting like a pig and drooling on my book?' Everyone turned around to look and saw not only had some slobber escaped from Mathews hissing lips to land on the neat workbook – but also some dandruff from Mathew's flaky scalp.

I think the best thing to do is leave Mathew alone. I leave everyone alone anyway and everyone leaves me alone – that's what's been best for me. I can daydream about what it's like to be a Victorian woman with a miniscule waist and frilly dress and white gloves that cover the whole of my tiny hands. I will blush and raise my fingers to my face when a gentlemen speaks to me – and he will be a gentleman. He will speak quietly and respectfully.

To him I am something precious, something adorable. I am a china doll brought to life and filled with only the sweetest emotions and best intentions of humanity. He will handle me gently and un-pin my hair when he makes love to me. He will kiss me on the lips and the throat and then my small pink breasts. I will breath in and out from beneath my corset, my bosoms heaving, and that is when he shall give into his passions…

xxxx

I did not hear the boy creeping up, wetly, behind me. I didn't notice the other boys making faces, laughing, and watching from the water. I was deep in my favourite fantasies then – quite suddenly – I was plunging down into the water. I opened my mouth instinctively and water gushed in though my throat and even when I pulled my head up, paddling desperately, I couldn't find the air! I couldn't breathe. I gasped and gurgled and suddenly there was swelling, throbbing sensation in my chest. I was suffocating and, frightened and faint, I sunk back down into the water.

When I came round again I could hear a man screaming at the top of his lungs, hysterically. His words seemed to come to me from far away, distorted and strange. He was saying things like, 'crazy, stupid,' and 'could have killed – did you want to kill him?' I began to, slowly regain my senses and lurched up, spluttering. Water spilled out from my mouth and I felt ashamed by it. I thought of Mathew drooling on the textbooks in class – I was the ugly boy with water dribbling down his chin.

'Take it easy,' I heard the deep voice hiss, suddenly his focus upon me. I recognized the swim instructor. The poor man had taken on more than he could deal with today. I have always been accepted as the strange kid on the sidelines before. I was the ghost from another time. I didn't bother anyone and no one ever bothered much with me. Today though some impulse had taken hold, some fascination, and someone must have dared someone else to do something.

I breathed shakily, wondering if this was all really real – whether I had actually just come close to drowning. I was beginning to feel scared as the fingers of death had brushed against my skin and were still lingering there. Then I realized something terrible, something absolutely appalling was happening – someone's hands were pressing down on my chest!

I could feel them, pressing down hard through the layers of clothes and bandages, manipulating my lungs. I could see, above me, the bewildered face of Jonah. He looked frightened and confused, glancing upwards now and again at the swim instructor. I could feel his nails digging in, scratching at the bones of my corset.

'Coach,' he said, uneasily, with his hoarse little boy's voice, 'there's something wrong with him - ' I felt my heart thudding frantically beating against my taut ribcage like the wings of a bird. I tried to sit up and push the handsome, popular boy away but my head was as heavy as lead.

The words, 'there's something wrong with him' echoed over and over. It was painful to listen to but I wasn't sure whether it was a sound only within my head or whether the other boys were truly parroting it, muttering and moaning the words.

'Move him over,' I heard the man say and felt the sensation of being shifted slightly. Beneath the cold water in which I was drenched I was hot. I was sweating with fear and shame. I mouthed the word, 'no,' silently, desperately. I felt layers of material being pulled back, the thick wadding of my bandages being exposed and clawed at.

'Fuck,' hissed someone through their teeth, a whisper that carried no venom. It sounded quite pure in its shock, in its horror. The swim instructor had recoiled, uncertain and confused being confronted by the neat lines of my boned corset. His thirty-something face was contorted in embarrassment. I knew that, to him, the sight of my corset looked like obscene lingerie.

The tight knot of my stomach was being slowly drawn out, brought under the eyes of a circle of teenage boys. Their faces blurred before my eyes but I could still see their utter disbelief. They looked pale and aghast. I could feel my chest convulsing and breathed harder and harder desperately trying to wriggle away.

It was no use. I shuddered as I felt a firm hand pulling and ripping at the delicate laces. I closed my eyes and fell back against the wet tiles.

xxxx

I was naked. The room was white and clean but I was naked and everything smelt of chlorine and teenage boys. My first instinct was to gag, cough and draw my bare legs up to my chest. I felt sore and couldn't stop shuddering.

I thought I was alone but, when I heard a small sound opposite me – someone clearing their throat – I saw Jonah sitting on the opposite bench. He was still wearing his swim trunks and had a soft fluffy towel wrapped over his shoulders. He looked pale and ducked his head down when I rested my eyes upon him.

'Coach's just gone…' he said, quietly, jerking his head towards the door, 'he told me to look after you…'

I felt sick. I had never been naked in front of another human being in my life. I couldn't bear to see Jonah's eyes roving all over my naked body, seeing all my abnormalities and imperfections. I wanted to die.

'I'm fine,' I hissed, between my teeth, 'I'm fine, just go – ' Jonah didn't move though, just sat still on the bench, staring at me. He licked his lips, his eyes trying to look through the gap between my legs at my twisted ribcage.

'How could you do that?' he asked in a shocked whisper, he raised one hand to point a finger at my waist, 'how could you do that yourself?' I shook my head, fiercely.

'Just leave me alone,' I whimpered, 'it's my body…' I looked away from him for a long time. I thought he would leave but he didn't, instead he moved closer.

'Doesn't it hurt?' he asked, incuriously. It seemed as though the very thought of my twisted ribcage pained him. 'Your stomach…'

'It's fine,' I snapped, my voice catching a little in my throat, 'it's what I want!' I could hear his steady breathing so close to me. He had sat down close next to me, curling his legs under the wet bench.

'Why though?' he asked, 'is it…do you want to be…thin…?'

'I'm not anorexic,' I hissed at him, bringing up my head to stare at the other boy. I couldn't believe that I was having this conversation with Jonah Harris – the boy with the smooth blonde hair and the bright blue eyes. He's a teen dream boy, perfect in every way. I don't understand why he cares what I do to my body. Perhaps, though, it is only a morbid curiosity.

'I just want to look more like…' I tried to explain, shuddering and leaning back against the cold tiles, 'like…a…girl…' Jonah's eyes widened as he stared at me and his lips grew taut.

'You…' he began slowly, blinking fast, 'you want to be a girl?' He smiled nervously and fixed his eyes on his own hands. When I looked down I noticed that his nails were bitten right down and now, as he fidgeted, he picked at the cuticles. I had never realised that he was a biter.

'No,' I whispered softly, afraid to be sharing this secret part of myself, 'no…not really…I don't think I can ever really become a girl. I just…don't like the way my body is now…I want to change it…'

Jonah was silent for a while. I didn't want to look at his face, it seemed too painful a task to look into his handsome features. I stared at his fingers instead, watching him twist them about in his lap – picking at the bits of chewed skin.

'No one ever thought you were like that …' he said slowly, 'I mean…some people said you were weird…' I watched him dig his longest nail under the loose skin of his cuticle, pulling it away. 'They're all so freaked out now…'

I didn't want to think about that. I didn't want to imagine them all talking about me, discussing my abnormality. I couldn't bear to remember the expressions on their faces when my clothes had been torn away and my body completely exposed.

'Just shut up,' I hissed, 'just leave me alone – can't you?' My voice sounded weak and it echoed, eerily, in the empty locker room. I was still shivering and Jonah noticed. He rose, slowly, from his place on the bench and, grabbing a towel, moved over to me.

'Here,' he said, nervously, 'get something else over you…' I tried to move away, pressing myself against the wall, but he wrapped the towel about my shoulders quickly, tucking the ends underneath my bare arms. I flinched as his fingers brushed against my skin.

'Don't touch me,' I whispered, 'please…' I thought it had only been an accidental touch but, even after Jonah had applied the towel, he lingered close to me. I didn't look at him but I heard him breathing.

'Can't I…see…' he whispered back, suddenly. There was a lilt in his voice, an eagerness that alarmed me. I felt the tips of his fingers moving, irrepressibly towards my ribcage. 'I just want to…really see…'

My mouth felt too dry for me to speak but I shook my head, swiftly and made a feeble attempt to push Jonah away. My hands pressed limply against his chest and I shuddered but I was far too weak to force the boy away.

'I just want to feel the bones,' he whispered, 'like…like a doctor…' My mother is a doctor, I know what doctors are like. Jonah Harris is not a doctor. I shook my head again, desperately. I was afraid that I might cry. I think that my discomfort must have shown in my face, my skin felt so hot and raw, because Jonah moved away and sighed.

'What if…' he began, after a while, in a very quiet voice, 'I told you my secret…' I blinked fast and hard. I couldn't believe that Jonah Harris had any secrets, certainly not like mine. He was perfectly normal, an atypical teenage boy in every area except, perhaps in terms of his looks. He seemed quite intent though.

When I looked through my lashes at him I saw that his face was flushed and he had resumed picking at his nails, compulsively.

'What?' I asked, in a gentle hiss. Jonah hesitated for a moment and then moved to sit on the bench beside me and, slowly, rolled up his swimming trunks. I had never noticed before but I realized that Jonah's trunks were a little longer than usual, and a little tighter. I stared, intently as he peeled them up to his thighs.

The skin on Jonah's legs was, for the most part, a perfect creamy-white hue. There were some fair blonde hairs here and there, not as many or as thickly dispersed as the ones on his muscular calves but enough to show his masculinity. Right at the tops of his thighs though, as far back as the lycra shorts would stretch, there were some rough, pale scars.

'What is that…?' I breathed, frowning uncertainly at Jonah, 'is it from…some accident..?' I didn't think that it compared to my contorted ribcage yet there was something about the shape and number of the scars that unnerved me.

'No…' Jonah said, quietly, 'I used to cut…' His voice lowered to a whisper as he confessed to me, 'not for years now…but It used to make me feel better…about myself…'

I felt an ache in the pit of my stomach. I would never have guessed that this boy, this perfect boy could have ever felt dissatisfied with himself, dissatisfied with his body. I reached-out instinctively to touch the scars and I found them completely smooth, completely healed-over. I wasn't thinking about anything except the strange smoothness of those scars as I stroked my fingers, curiously, over them. Jonah brought me back to my senses though.

'So…' he whispered, 'can I…touch your ribs…?' I felt my fingers go numb and cold and sat very still upon the bench. I was afraid but I nodded, slowly. I felt as though I had no choice, not now that I had touched and stroked the scarred skin of Jonah's thighs. I watched as he took a deep breath and slipped his hands underneath my layers of towels.

His hands groped about my abdomen clumsily, clutching at my protruding ribs, encircling my tiny stomach. I felt hot and tense at the sensation of his fingers probing my flesh and bones. After a time I felt him fingers curl inward at the centre of my chest.

'I'd like to pull them apart again,' he murmured, 'they're so tight…' I gave a hollow sound that was the barest imitation a laugh, it rattled around uneasily at the back of my throat.

'You can't,' I said in a groan, 'this is…how it is…' He sighed softly and then - to my disbelief - he lowered his head to kiss softly at my tight skin!

I sat paralysed while he pressed his lips, again and again, to the tight confines of my ribcage and my miniscule flat stomach. It was the strangest sensation of my entire life. It was uncanny enough that I would be exposed in front of another boy like this, my twisted bones on display, let alone that a boy like Jonah Harris would be compelled not only to touch – but to kiss at my mutilated body.

'What are you doing…?' I whispered, in a hiss. I could feel myself going red and soon enough I was beginning to shudder again, though this time not from the cold. 'Kissing it better…?!'

Jonah was beginning to look flushed now himself, his face going very red but he managed to smile up at me, shyly. He shrugged awkwardly and pushed his fair hair out of his eyes . I wasn't sure what else to say so I sat, silently, until the noise of the door opening startled both of us.

Jonah jumped away from me, rushing to pull down his shorts and hide his scars. The coach came in, his face severe, and in besides him was a tall, fair woman. I, too, hastily, tried to cover myself up with my towels, though it was no good. The woman insisted that she let her examine me and I burned with shame as he prodded me all over.

'We've called your mother,' said the coach in a quiet, serious voice. I could tell that he was disgusted with me and he didn't want to deal with me and my bizarre issues any further. I nodded mutely, the ache deep in my bones starting all over again.

'What have you done to yourself…?' whispered the young woman as she shook her head, pityingly, 'what have you done to yourself…'