𓆦Unspoken Rebellion𓆦

Dakota woke up to the sound of a knock at his door. It wasn't tentative or concerned—it was a sharp, impatient rap, the kind that demanded attention.

"Get up. Church," his mother's voice filtered through the door, curt and detached.

He groaned, his body still heavy with exhaustion from the night before. His head throbbed faintly, a reminder of the few sips of beer he'd taken and the overwhelming noise of the party. For a moment, he considered staying in bed, refusing to face another day of false smiles and unspoken judgment. But he knew better.

His father would break down the door before he let him skip church.

Dragging himself out of bed, Dakota shuffled to the small closet in his room. His hand lingered on the hem of the soft sweater and slightly baggy jeans Aimee had given him. They still smelled faintly of her lavender detergent, a comfort amidst the chaos. He wanted to wear them again, to feel like himself in a way that the skirts and blouses his parents insisted on never allowed.

But he already knew what his parents would say.

"God's will," he muttered bitterly, pulling out a plain white dress instead. It was modest, with long sleeves and a high neckline—exactly what his father would approve of. He hated it. The fabric clung in all the wrong ways, emphasizing a body he wished he didn't have, a body that felt like a lie.

As he stood in front of the mirror, tying his hair back into a loose ponytail, he avoided his own reflection. The person staring back at him wasn't real. It was a mask, a costume meant to appease his parents and their narrow worldview.

When he finally made his way downstairs, his parents were waiting. His father sat at the dining table, a cup of coffee in one hand and his Bible in the other. His mother stood by the door, adjusting the pearls around her neck.

"You're late," his father said without looking up.

"Sorry," Dakota mumbled, keeping his head down.

"Sit," his father commanded, gesturing to the empty chair across from him.

Dakota obeyed, folding his hands in his lap as his father set the Bible down and fixed him with a piercing glare.

"You embarrassed this family last night," his father began, his voice low and measured. "Coming home smelling like sin, like you'd been rolling around with the devil himself. Is that the kind of example you want to set? Is that the kind of daughter you want to be?"

Dakota didn't respond. He stared at the wood grain of the table, his nails digging into his palms.

"Answer me," his father barked.

"No," Dakota said quietly.

"No," his father repeated mockingly. "Then explain yourself. Why did you think it was acceptable to act like some common whore? Because that's what you're becoming, Manon. A disgrace."

"Charles," his mother said softly, but he ignored her.

"I raised you better than this," his father continued, his voice rising. "I taught you the difference between right and wrong. But you? You spit on everything this family stands for. On everything God stands for."

Dakota clenched his fists, the words bubbling up before he could stop them. "Maybe God doesn't stand for anything."

The room went silent. His mother gasped, her hand flying to her mouth, but his father's face twisted into a mask of fury.

"What did you just say?" he hissed.

Dakota stood, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. "I said maybe God doesn't stand for anything. Maybe all of this—church, the Bible, your rules—it's all just a way for you to control me. Maybe it's not real."

His father surged to his feet, his hand raised, but his mother grabbed his arm. "Charles, stop! Not here, not now."

Dakota didn't wait to see what would happen next. He turned and bolted for the door, his heart pounding as he stepped out into the cool morning air. He didn't know where he was going, only that he needed to get away.

As he walked down the street, the oppressive weight of his parents' expectations began to lift, replaced by a flicker of defiance. He thought about the party, about the way Rodrick had looked at him, called him "he" without even realizing it.

For once, someone had seen him—not the version of himself his parents wanted, but the person he truly was.

---

Dakota walked briskly, his shoes clapping against the pavement, the sound a dull echo in the quiet of the Sunday morning. The air smelled fresh, clean, like the promise of something better than the suffocating house he had left behind. He didn't have a destination in mind, but he didn't care. Anywhere was better than the pews of that church, better than the sharp edge of his father's voice or the guilt-laden looks of his mother.

He shoved his hands into the deep, shapeless pockets of the hated dress, trying to keep his head down as cars occasionally rolled by. He felt the weight of every glance, whether imagined or real..

Dakota shoved his hands deeper into the pockets of his dress, trying to ignore the stares he imagined from every passing car. The loose ponytail his mother had insisted on bounced against his neck, a physical reminder of how trapped he felt in his own skin. The morning breeze brushed against his legs, making him shiver. He felt exposed, the stupid church dress making him feel more like a fraud than usual.

He had no plan, no idea where to go, but the thought of walking back home made his stomach twist. Skipping church was a sin, his father would say—another addition to the list of offenses that seemed to grow longer with each passing day. But Dakota didn't care. Not today.

He wandered through streets that slowly grew quieter, more suburban, the houses spaced further apart. He didn't know how far he'd gone until he spotted a small park tucked between two streets. It wasn't much—just a swing set, a pair of benches, and a scraggly tree—but it was empty.

With a heavy sigh, Dakota slumped onto one of the benches. The damp wood soaked through the fabric of his dress, but he didn't move. He tilted his head back, looking up at the gray sky.

For a moment, he let himself imagine what life could be like if he didn't have to pretend. If he could wake up and throw on clothes that didn't make him feel like a stranger in his own body. If he didn't have to hear "Manon" spat at him like a curse.

He thought of Rodrick, of the way he had called him "he" at the party without hesitation. It wasn't even intentional—Rodrick didn't know—but it had felt... right.

Dakota's lips curled into a faint smile, a small, fleeting rebellion against the weight pressing down on him. For a few hours, the party had been a glimpse of freedom, of something he couldn't quite name but desperately wanted.

The smile faded as the sound of footsteps pulled him back to reality.

"Hey," came a voice from behind him, startling him. He turned to see a guy around his age, dressed in sweatpants and a hoodie, jogging in place as he caught his breath.

"Sorry, didn't mean to scare you," the guy said, grinning. "I just... you okay? You look like you've been crying or something."

Dakota stiffened, wiping at his face even though he wasn't sure if there were tears there. "I'm fine."

The guy nodded, though his gaze lingered for a moment, curious. "Well, if you're waiting for someone, you might wanna get under the tree. Looks like it's about to rain."

Dakota blinked and looked up. The sky had darkened considerably, heavy clouds rolling in. "Thanks," he muttered.

The guy jogged off, leaving Dakota alone again. He didn't move, though. Let it rain, he thought. Maybe it'll wash all of this away.

And then, as if on cue, the first drops started to fall.

---

An hour later, Dakota found himself soaked to the bone and shivering as he walked aimlessly through the streets. The rain hadn't stopped, and his dress clung uncomfortably to his skin. He ducked into a small convenience store, the fluorescent lights humming softly as he stepped inside.

The clerk gave him a quick glance but said nothing as Dakota wandered toward the back, pretending to browse the shelves. He wasn't really looking for anything, just stalling, buying time before he had to face whatever waited for him at home.

As he stood there, staring blankly at a row of candy bars, the sound of the door opening caught his attention.

"Mano- Dakota?"

His heart sank at the familiar voice. He turned slowly, dread pooling in his stomach.

Aimee stood there, her expression a mix of surprise and concern. She was dressed casually, her hair pulled into a messy bun, and she held a small umbrella dripping with rainwater.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, stepping closer. "And—oh my god, you're soaked!"

Dakota shrugged, his voice flat. "Just... needed to get out."

Aimee frowned, reaching out to touch his arm. "Out of what? What happened?"

"Nothing," he said quickly, pulling away. "It's fine."

But Aimee wasn't buying it. She glanced down at his dress, her frown deepening. "Did your dad say something again?"

He didn't answer, but the way he looked away was answer enough.

"Dakota," she said softly, her voice filled with something between anger and pity. "You don't deserve this. You know that, right?"

He swallowed hard, his throat tightening. "I just... I can't do this anymore, Aimee."

She hesitated for a moment, then nodded. "Okay. Let's get out of here. You can come to my place for a bit. My parents are out for the day."

For the first time that morning, relief washed over him. He nodded, following her out into the rain, the warmth of her presence like a shield against the storm.

----

A/N: I'm so sad I hate everything I hate my bf I hate school 🙁 I HATE MY TEACHERS RAHHH ☹️