High school had been rough. It is for everyone, even the people who deny it. Who we are after we graduate is based, in part, on who we were during. Some people change entirely, others stay the exact same. We learn the basics of human nature there. It’s like one big, stupid social experiment that no one takes the notes on, doesn’t change the parameters, and expects that we’ll learn.

What’s the quote? The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a new result? It’s something like that.

Like I said, high school was tough. It’s worse when you’re realizing that who everyone wants you to be, and who you are, is very different. More so when who you are is incredibly unaccepted. Small towns suck. Some are good, some are way more open­minded. Mine wasn’t. Isn’t. I’m not sure still which one to use. See, I realized after freshman year that I didn’t just like girls. I was spending as much time with whatever girl I was dating at the time, as I was enjoying the boys sports teams. I spent a lot of that year being broken up with, then mocked relentlessly. I almost always had bruises, and slurs that were slung at me were how everyone knew who I was. A frantic night of searching on my cell phone gave me the answer. At least, then, I knew why I felt that way, even if no one else in my town apparently did. I took that simple word, held it in my chest, and clung to it as hope. Bisexual. Such a simple thing, but it was my lifeline. I knew I wasn’t alone.

It took until senior year for me to build up the guts to search why I never felt at ease in my own body. I always felt sick looking in the mirror. I chalked it up to bad haircuts, to depression and anxiety. At least those I knew I could cover up moderately well. I found my answer, the reason why I felt wrong. I read someone else’s words, echoing the emotions I couldn’t speak. I knew I wasn’t what everyone said I was, they had said. And it felt like my body was siding with them. Siding with what everyone else said was truth, when only I really knew the answer.

I started planning, in secret, every night that year. Deleting every bit of phone history I could, leaving nothing to be a trail behind it. I told no one, not even Julia, my best friend. I had known as far back as I could remember. Maybe it was kindergarden, it could have been preschool. Either way, I couldn’t remember when we had met, but it didn’t matter. She was everything to me. My best friend, my one­time crush before she made it very clear she wasn’t interested in that with anyone, my confidant. She promised me that she’d always be there. But that was still a heavy secret that I didn’t feel ready to tell anyone.

After graduation, everything changed out of nowhere. Julia, moved away suddenly. No warning or anything. One day, her family’s down the street, the next? They’re gone. The house was empty, no one saw anything moved out. It’s like we blinked in unison and then...nothing. It hurt. I thought she would tell me if anything like that would happen. I buried those sorrows in my graduation gift, a 2 week long trip down to Disney. 2 weeks to be myself, and explore ideas about myself in private. I leapt at the chance, and kept hoping that she’d be there when I got back. She wasn’t.

Still, before my trip, I made sure to write out all my requisite thank­you cards for my graduation gifts, including the only truly heartfelt message out of all of them, to my godparents. They were rarely in my life, and then to give me such an intense gift...I didn’t know how to respond other than by promising them that I would do anything in return for it. Being eager and 18, I figured it wouldn’t be anything too much.

About a year after my trip, I found an apartment that was just barely in my price range, that I could afford with my savings, and my graduation money, if I let it stretch. A part­time job in the next city over, a mere busride away, and I could afford the basics. It was also easier than trying to find something in town, where there were only ever summer jobs, and judging looks.

The following summer, I started transitioning, properly. I grew my hair out, I tried make­up. I picked out more feminine outfits, trying to figure out what I liked. I had to do all my shopping in the city, rather than my town. Too many people with too much judgement ready to lash off their tongues. I balanced wearing jeans and t­shirts around town, trying to not feel too sick at how I looked, and packing things that I felt more comfortable in for work and nights out in the city. Even then, I had to be careful of where I went.

The last thing I did, was stop answering to my given name. Cody never truly felt like my name, and the further I got away from my high school self, the less it felt like anyone was calling me. I sat down, spent two days looking and thinking. I finally settled on what felt right to me, and the nicknames that felt right to hear.

My parents weren’t really okay with it. I’ll give him credit, my dad tried, but gave up after a month. He told me that “it just was wrong” and that I had gotten the idea after working in the city. I didn’t dare correct him. My mom just stopped talking to me. Straight up refused to. That hurt worse than Julia leaving. They were my family, weren’t they supposed to be there for me? I’m sure that if I had any siblings, they would have been turned against me too. Instead, I rarely got to talk with my dad over the phone. Those days I had to make sure I wasn’t doing anything for the next 24 hours. The whole conversation would start out friendly enough, but soon turn to trying to convince me I just didn’t know what I was talking about. The inevitable dysphoria would just send me down into panic and depression, and on the worst days where I could hear my mom screaming in the background about how I was disgusting, I had to deal with suicidal thoughts.

When I told my boss that I’d like a different name­tag, he smiled. Frank was a good guy. Middle­aged, maybe little more than a decade older than me. He was balding slowly, and just as slowly gaining weight, something he thanked his recent marriage for. Best of all, he understood, never questioned it, and gave me a new name­tag before I even started my shift that day. Any of my co­workers who refused or started giving me trouble were written up for harassment. He wouldn’t tolerate anything that could make the rest of us uncomfortable for existing. Frank was even the one who gave me the nickname that stuck hardest. Izzy.

All of this sounds pretty mundane, if not the usual ‘girl goes on an adventure’ story, right? So, here’s the thing.

Everyone in stories always say, be careful of making deals with faeries. They’ll find loopholes, you need to be precise with your wording. Be careful of thanking them, or showing it was a gesture worth reciprocation. Be wary of their ways. It’s in nearly every story mentioning fae creatures or elves. It goes back centuries. Of course, I didn’t know that. I wasn’t much for reading.

But you know what no one says? No one ever tells you don’t thank your relatives.

That’s how I ended up being dragged into another world, and nearly died.

All over a damned thank you card.