Prologue

Lance curled up into a ball on his bed, crying into the soft quilt that his grandmother had given him for his birthday three years earlier, back when she was still talking to him.He sobbed into the pastel patchwork and punched at the pillow beside his head, until he heard a knock at his door.

"Honey, are you okay?" He choked back a sob.

"I'm fine, Mom. Just had a bad day at school." It hadn't been a lie, and he hadn't wanted her to come in and see him crying. He was a fucking seventeen year old boy, practically a man, and men did not cry.

He stood up, wiping away the last tears and looked at himself in the mirror. No wonder, they had beat him up. He looked like a girl. Even through the bruises and blood, he could tell that. Lance just wanted to scream his frustration out to the world, as he used his nimble fingers to push his cheeks in and flatten his hair into more masculine features, but gave up as another tear made it's way down his sore, red cheek.

It was impossible.